By the time the adrenaline and endorphins had fled from Caedrion's bloodstream, he was left bereft of breath.
It wasn't physical exhaustion that tried to suffocate him. Nor was it any wound of the body. Rather, he stared in disbelief at the scene in front of him.
Ash, smoke, and bodies. Lots of bodies.
Their putrid flesh churned his stomach as the toxic smell finally wafted through his nostrils.
A scent of decay… A scent both alien and intimate… A scent of death….
And he was the cause of it.
He was not a warrior, at least not fully.
His memories and beliefs were still largely influenced by that peaceful life in a world far more advanced than the one he had transmigrated to.
He had waged simulated battle a million times on a computer, through strategy games and shooters alike.
