Darkness surrounded him. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burnt flesh. The sky above was painted in shades of crimson and black, as if the heavens themselves wept for the dead. Zehroon stood in the middle of a battlefield, his body frozen, his hands trembling.
Before him, warriors clashed—swords meeting flesh, arrows piercing armor, screams echoing into the endless void. It was chaos, a world where only the strong survived.
And he?
He couldn't move.
His hands gripped a rusted sword, but it felt too heavy. His feet were buried in the blood-soaked mud, unable to take a step forward. Around him, men fell like lifeless dolls, crushed under the weight of those stronger than them.
Then, a shadow emerged.
Towering over him, clad in dark armor, glowing red eyes piercing through the smoke. The figure was faceless, yet its presence alone suffocated Zehroon.
"Pathetic."
The voice was deep, monstrous, filled with disgust.
"A weakling like you does not belong here."
The shadow raised a massive sword, the blade gleaming under the eerie light. Zehroon wanted to run, to scream, but his body refused to obey.
The sword came down—
SLASH!
Zehroon's eyes snapped open.
His body jerked upright, drenched in sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched his chest, his heart hammering like a war drum.
Just a dream.
But it felt so real.
He ran a hand through his silver hair, trying to shake off the lingering fear. But deep inside, he knew.
That nightmare? It wasn't just a dream.
It was a reminder.
A reminder that he was weak.
---
The morning sun barely peeked through the broken windows of the workers' quarters. Zehroon sat up on his rough straw bed, his muscles aching from yesterday's labor. The room was filled with other workers, some still sleeping, others already preparing for another long day.
"Oi, weakling, wake up!"
A sharp voice echoed, followed by the painful impact of a boot against his side. Zehroon gritted his teeth but said nothing.
A group of older workers laughed as one of them sneered, "Still dreaming about being a warrior, huh? Pathetic."
Another chimed in, "Look at him. So thin, so frail. I bet he wouldn't last a second in a real fight!"
Laughter filled the room.
Zehroon clenched his fists under the thin blanket. Every day was the same. The insults. The mockery. The humiliation.
But what hurt the most was that… they were right.
He was weak.
And in this world, weakness was a death sentence.
Without a word, he stood up and walked past them. There was no point in fighting back—not yet. Not until he had the strength to make them regret every single word.
But for now…
He had another long day of hard labor ahead.