The hill stretched upward, its emerald grass swaying in the whispering wind. Patches of darkened earth disrupted the sea of green, where the recent rain had softened the ground, leaving streaks of mud in its wake. 

Halfway up the hill, a man lay face down in the damp grass, unmoving. The rain had long ceased, yet the earth beneath him remained soft, clinging to his clothes in dark patches. No breath stirred the air around him, no twitch of muscle betrayed life.

Suddenly, the air split with the clash of swords, metal ringing against metal, followed by the raw, gut-wrenching cries of pain. The distant battlefield bled its sounds into the wind, carried up the hill like ghosts wailing in the fading light.

The sky had deepened into a dusky blue, the last traces of daylight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. Shadows stretched long over the land, swallowing the hilltop in creeping darkness.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, a deep voice rumbled, firm yet strained.

"When is the backup going to arrive?"

The words cut through the evening like a demand and a plea all at once, swallowed quickly by another agonized scream.

The distant clamor of battle stirred the young man. A faint twitch in his fingers, a slow, uneven breath—his first signs of life.

Edward.

The name drifted through his mind like an echo, distant and unclear. Awareness crept in slowly, like light filtering through dense fog.

Face down in the damp grass, he felt the cool earth pressing against his cheek, the scent of rain-soaked soil filling his lungs. His body was heavy, unresponsive, as if weighed down by something unseen. The chill of the evening air clung to his skin, mingling with the warmth of his own breath.

Another clash of steel rang through the air, followed by a scream. A deep voice rumbled something, but the words were swallowed by the chaos.

Irritation flickered through him, laced with confusion. Where was he?

With effort, he turned his head, the mud clinging to his skin as he tried to make sense of the chaos beyond the hill.

As Edward turned his head, his vision swam for a moment before sharpening. Then, he saw it.

A battlefield stretched before him.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of soldiers clashed in the fading light, their weapons flashing as steel met steel. The ground was torn and trampled, darkened with blood, bodies littering the chaos. The air rang with the clash of metal and the screams of the dying, a storm of violence unfolding beneath the evening sky.

Two opposing forces stood out.

One army fought beneath banners of deep red, a two-tailed dragon emblazoned upon them. The other surged forward in waves of blue, their sigil a snarling werewolf.

Edward's thoughts lagged behind his senses, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. The sight felt distant, unreal—yet something inside him whispered that it wasn't.

Even as the horrors of battle unfolded before him, Edward remained calm. It surprised him—shouldn't he feel fear? Panic? Yet his mind stayed sharp, his thoughts clear.

Lying there, frozen in fear would do nothing to keep him alive. He understood that much.

Survival demanded clarity, not hesitation. Pushing aside the rising unease, he forced himself to focus. The first step was to analyze the situation—to understand where he was, what was happening, and how to avoid becoming another lifeless body in the mud.

'I have to get on my back' - Edward thought.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to push himself up—only for a searing, mind-numbing pain to explode through him. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his vision swam. Something was wrong.

His left hand was gone.

Not crushed. Not mangled. Cut off.

The realization sent a cold shock through him. His arm ended in a jagged wound, the flesh severed cleanly as if by a blade. The pain hit in waves, radiating from the stump up to his shoulder, making every breath feel like fire in his lungs.

Sweat trickled down his face as his pulse pounded in his ears. He forced himself to look—what remained of his arm was wrapped in a crude, blood-soaked bandage, haphazardly tied and already loosening. The wound was still bleeding.

"Fuck! Shit!"

His mind screamed at him to panic, but he couldn't afford that.

'I have to stop the bleeding, or I'll be a corpse in no time'

Bracing himself, he pressed his remaining hand into the mud, muscles trembling as he forced his body to roll onto his back.

Lying on his back was just the first step. Now came the hard part—stopping the bleeding.

His breaths were ragged as he quickly examined himself and the ground around him. There was little to work with. The only thing that stood out was a discarded chest plate lying nearby, its surface dented and scratched. His gaze lingered on the emblem in the center—a two-tailed dragon.

His dragon.

It must have been his armor, but it was useless to him now.

Gritting his teeth, he turned his focus to his clothes. The fabric was torn, dirtied, and soaked in sweat, but it would have to do. With shaking fingers, he clawed at the fabric, ripping off a strip and wrapping it around the bleeding stump as tightly as he could. Pain burned through him, but he pulled harder, tying the makeshift bandage with every bit of strength he had left.

'At least something useful...' he thought bitterly.

With the last of his strength, Edward pushed himself upright, his body protesting with every movement. He sat there for a moment, breath heavy, trying to steady himself as he took in his surroundings.

The battle raged on below, but his focus locked onto the larger picture. From what little he could gather, the Dragon troops were storming the hill, pushing toward the castle. An annexation. That much was clear.

His thoughts barely had time to settle before a sharp shout cut through the chaos.

"You Emperial rat! Don't underestimate the power of our god! At least I'll take you to the afterlife with me!"

The voice came from his right. Edward turned his head just in time to see a figure—a tall, armored soldier—charging straight at him.

As realization struck, so did adrenaline.

Edward's pulse roared in his ears as his eyes locked onto a sword—half-buried in the mud, just a few steps away. Without thinking, he lunged toward it, fingers wrapping around the slick hilt just in time to tear it free.

Steel flashed.

The enemy's blade came down in a brutal arc, and Edward barely managed to raise his weapon, deflecting the strike at the last second. The impact sent a violent tremor through his arms, rattling his bones. His grip nearly faltered. His whole body shook, the sheer force behind the attack was overwhelming.

"Just give up, you bastard!" the soldier snarled, already raising his sword for another strike.

Edward gasped for air, his mind racing.

'At this scale, I'm just delaying the inevitable. I have to think—think of something.'

Then, instinct took over.

As the enemy braced for the next attack, Edward lunged forward, driving his left foot deep into the mud. A split-second later, he kicked hard, sending a spray of wet earth straight into the soldier's face.

The man recoiled, blinded for just an instant—but an instant was all Edward needed.

With a desperate surge of strength, he swung his sword. The blade met flesh, slicing clean through.

The soldier's head fell.

The body followed a moment later, collapsing into the mud with a sickening thud.

Edward stood there, panting, his heart hammering in his chest. The taste of blood and earth filled the air.

'I killed someone. I really did it.'

The thought echoed in Edward's mind, relentless and deafening. His breath came in sharp gasps, his fingers locked around the bloodied hilt of his sword.

Had he ever taken a life before? He couldn't remember. But deep inside, it felt like a no.

His stomach twisted. His body felt disconnected, as if watching itself from a distance. The battlefield, the blood, the weight of the moment—it all blurred together. He was sinking into his thoughts, drowning in them.

Then, footsteps.

Through the haze, he barely registered movement to his side. A soldier—gray-haired, clad in Dragon colors—was approaching. His face, lined with age and experience, bore no malice—only something unreadable, something between amusement and approval.

Edward tensed, but the old soldier simply grinned.

He had seen everything.

"Impressive strike for a brat."

Edward just stared at him, chest still rising and falling from the fight. The gray-haired soldier smirked, unfazed by the silence.

"First time on the battlefield, huh?"

Edward didn't answer. His mind was still racing, trying to read the man, to understand his intentions. Was he truly an ally? Or just another threat in disguise?

His eyes flicked to the soldier's armor—Dragon colors. The same as his own. That had to mean something… right?

The older man noticed the hesitation and let out a short chuckle. "Don't worry, I'm an ally, as you can see." His voice was rough but not unkind.

Then, after a brief pause, he asked, "What's your name, young man?"

"Edward."

It was the one thing Edward was sure of—the only piece of himself that remained clear in the fog of his mind. Everything else was a blur.

The gray-haired soldier—Richard, as Edward would soon learn—gave a slight nod, his gaze flicking toward Edward's severed arm before speaking.

"Don't worry. We've almost annexed the castle. You can rest for now."

There was no pity in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. As if losing a hand was just another reality of war.

Richard turned, ready to rejoin the battle, but Edward's voice stopped him.

"And what is your name, if I may ask?"

The old soldier glanced over his shoulder, a hint of amusement flashing in his tired eyes.

"You can call me Richard. Commander Richard."

With that, he strode away, back into the chaos.

***

What felt like an eternity passed before the battlefield finally fell silent. The screams had faded into the distance, swallowed by the night that now stretched endlessly across the sky.

Edward laid on his side, his body aching, his freshly tightened bandages damp with blood. He stared upward, watching the stars blink into existence, his mind grasping for anything—any memory before he had awoken in the middle of a battle.

Nothing came.

But his thoughts remained sharp. Analytical.

Even without his past, his instincts told him one thing—he was trained. The way he had held the sword, the way he had stayed calm in the face of death, the way he has slain an enemy, it all felt too natural. Too ingrained.

His best guess? Before losing his memory, he must have been a recruit in the Dragon army.

With a slow breath, Edward turned his gaze downhill. In the distance, through the dark haze of war, he saw villages—or what remained of them. Their forms barely stood against the horizon, burned down to the foundation, reduced to blackened husks.

Thick, heavy smoke still rose from the ruins, curling toward the stars.

A grim reminder of what this battle had left behind.

The night was quiet now, but Edward couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He sat up, scanning the darkened battlefield, but saw nothing beyond fallen bodies and smoldering ruins. Still, the sensation didn't fade.

Then, from the distant treeline, a shadow moved. Too large to be a soldier. Too fast to be human.

Edward's blood ran cold. What the hell was that?