He sat curled up on the ground, his frail armor barely covering his vital spots. His uniform was nothing more than a tattered, heavy brown coat—filthy and worn with age. His helmet, battered and dented beyond recognition, sat crookedly on his head as he clutched his rusted, poorly-made rifle in his arms.
His name was Helheim.
He was named after the Seventh Ruler, but the one who gave him that name was not his parents—it was the orphanage that raised him.
He was at the lowest rank of the human army, a child soldier thrown into the battlefield with only one fate—to die.
Now seventeen, he had been cast into war at the age of ten. The fact that he had survived this long was nothing short of a miracle.
At 160 centimeters tall, his malnourished frame was a product of the harsh conditions of infantry life in the Empire of Wain. Among the lower classes, heights ranged from 140 to 166 centimeters at most.
A young man, slightly shorter than him, stepped out of a room, his hand wrapped in bandages, part of his face covered in cloth. Despite his wounds, he smiled as he carried a bottle in his hand.
"Brother!... You're still alive!" the young man, Rob, said with relief.
Helheim slowly lifted his head, his tired eyes dull and heavy. But when he saw his friend, a faint smile formed on his lips.
"Unfortunately, I still am," Helheim muttered as he slowly stood, holding his rifle in his left hand.
Rob took a sip from the bottle before shaking Helheim's hand. "It's good to see a familiar face in this hell."
"Yeah... Me too, Rob. Me too."
The two embraced briefly before walking together, blending into the ranks of the short-statured infantry, their weapons crude and their armor cheap.
"So, Rob, which unit were you assigned to? I'm in the Fifth."
Rob took another sip before replying.
"Looks like we got lucky. We're in this hell together!" he laughed bitterly.
They walked until they reached the trenches, where they sat down, speaking with a warmth that defied the exhaustion eating away at their bodies, their wounds stinging from the cold air.
"So, Helheim... you think we'll survive today?" Rob asked, his voice laced with mockery.
"With zealots, heretics, and demons coming for us? Death would be a gift," Helheim chuckled darkly.
"You're right. Death is a mercy compared to being caught by a zealot or a demon-worshiper. I'd rather die than become part of their sick rituals," Rob replied with a grim smile.
A moment passed before Helheim nudged Rob and pointed at a figure ahead.
"Hey… Rob. Look over there."
Rob followed his gaze. A man stood in the distance—his pale, deformed body covered in pulsating growths, bound in heavy chains.
"Hmph… a Blessed of War Lord Herbes," Rob muttered, quietly stashing away his bottle into the small pouch at his waist.
"Well… that makes our victory in this battle a little more certain," Helheim declared with a twisted grin.
"Oh, Helheim… look over there!" Rob suddenly grabbed Helheim's head and turned it toward another man.
This one was different. Unlike the others, he was clad in full armor, his body completely hidden beneath thick plates. His eyes gleamed with a golden light. A long sword rested against his leg, and beside him sat a machine gun, its barrel worn from countless battles.
"Now that… that is something worth talking about. A Blessed of the Lion!" Rob said, his tone laced with awe.
"Wait, Rob… wasn't the Lion gone for nearly fifty years?"
"Yeah. No one has seen him in fifty-five years."
Fifty-five years…
Then this man must be old—yet he does not seem it. Perhaps this is the Lion's blessing.
Two of the Blessed were here—one from War, one from the Lion.
I joked earlier about preferring death over survival, but now… I really don't want to die.
This reinforcement… it unsettles me.
Four entire units merged into one, two Blessed among us—two of the strongest blessings known. Normally, receiving a ruler's blessing meant your odds of survival increased.
But a War Lord's Blessed?
That's different.
Those ones… they don't seem to know the difference between friend and foe.
And the other? He's too old. That alone makes me uneasy.
Maybe if I get the chance, I should run. Fake my death. No one would suspect a thing.
I exhaled sharply as the wailing of sirens filled the air—an ominous sound, announcing the demons' next siege.
Rob stood, gripping his rifle tightly. Soldiers scrambled into the trenches, their movements frantic, their breaths shallow.
And so, we waited—hearts pounding, hands trembling—knowing that death, once again, had come to greet us.