The stench of blood clung to the air, thick and metallic, as if the battlefield itself refused to breathe.
Alex lay sprawled on the scarred earth, gasping. The world spun around him—not from pain, but exhaustion. His limbs trembled. His body ached. Blood—his and others'—soaked through his uniform, painting it a shade too dark to recognize.
Only one thing remained clear: the runes glowing like tattoos on his forearm. They displayed a number.
**31.**
Each rune marked a life taken. For drifters like Alex, the worth of a man's life was counted in kill points. One for a fellow drifter. More for someone stronger. Around him, corpses littered the ground like broken dolls—some missing limbs, others still clutching weapons. All silent now.
Alex staggered to his feet, barely able to stand, when he saw him—the tall boy with the black katana.
He moved like a shadow through firelight—lean, sharp, and utterly untouchable.
Not a drop of mana coated his blade. No elemental trickery. No glowing eyes or flaring aura.
Just pure, lethal precision.
Where others fought with brute strength, this boy danced.
A spin. A sidestep. A flick of the wrist.
Steel met flesh, and another enemy dropped, throat slit clean.
His movements were beautiful. Like poetry written in blood.
**Parzival.**
One of the last survivors of their squad. Same age as Alex. Same rank. Same fate.
But so different.
His skin was darkened by sun and soot. His jawline sharp enough to cut stone. Despite the chaos, his face remained calm—as if war was just another game. A faint smile played on his lips.
He moved toward Alex, silent. His katana flashed again, slicing down a soldier charging from Alex's blind spot.
He was covering him.
Alex grunted in acknowledgment—or maybe gratitude. Parzival didn't glance his way.
But both knew the truth:
They were alive by luck. Not skill. Not will. Just luck.
And luck was running out.
From amidst the corpses and smoke, an enemy Awakened locked eyes with Alex.
A squad commander. His armor gleamed with mana-forged plating. His hand crackled with raw force. His gaze turned cruel.
**Death was coming.**
Alex's blood froze. His muscles screamed. The sword in his hand felt heavier than stone.
There was no way two half-dead drifters—without techniques, without mana control—could defeat an Awakened.
But Alex had no choice.
He needed 50 kills to earn a basic breathing technique.
Only then could he awaken.
And an Awakened was worth twenty points.
For a war orphan with no future, this was his only path. The path of **accession.**
Parzival slid beside him, lowering into a stance. Calm. Ready. Silent.
But even he couldn't win this. Not with just a katana.
Alex felt the pressure of the commander's presence. Like a mountain falling on his chest. Breathing became a task.
"Hey," Parzival said quietly, barely a whisper. "You got one last burst left in you?"
Alex coughed blood, then chuckled bitterly. "Maybe half."
"Good. Then stall him," Parzival said. "I'll do the rest."
Alex blinked. Stall him?
**Was he insane?**
He was barely breathing, and Parzival wanted him to stall an Awakened?
But there was no time to argue.
The commander struck again—sword flashing, footsteps like thunder.
Alex dodged the first swing.
Barely.
The second sliced across his forearm.
The third grazed his cheek.
Pain roared through his nerves, but Alex forced himself to move.
He said stall. That's all I have to do.
He ducked under a wide arc and lunged low. The blow was blocked effortlessly. The commander barely looked at him.
**He was playing with him.**
Alex could feel Parzival circling—light, calculated steps. His katana dragging along the ground, singing with each movement. Occasionally, he struck from the blind spot. The commander barely avoided the hits.
Why isn't he attacking head-on?
Alex didn't understand.
But he couldn't afford to ask.
Every time his focus faltered, he paid the price.
This time, a kick slammed into his gut.
He was sent flying.
Air fled his lungs. Blood flooded his mouth.
Above him loomed the commander—sword crackling with mana.
**This is it.**
He could almost hear death laughing.
But something inside twisted.
He remembered the silence of his childhood. The hunger. The loneliness. The filth. And how the world never once showed mercy.
**Then why the hell should I give it the pleasure of taking me now?**
Alex spat blood, clenched his jaw, and forced himself up.
He roared and lunged, blade-first. The commander sidestepped easily.
Alex hit the ground again.
The commander chuckled.
"Stay down," he sneered.
But then—
A blur.
Parzival appeared, katana drawn, eyes cold and focused. This time, mana crackled along the black blade. A rare thing. Drifters couldn't usually infuse mana. Not unless they were close to awakening.
Parzival's strike was clean. Precise.
The blade arced toward the commander's exposed side.
It was over.
Or it should've been.
The commander reacted, but too late. Parzival's blade sank in—not fatal, but enough to leave an opening.It was enough for the finishing blow, Parzival was about to deliver it-
Then another blade pierced through the commander's chest.
Not Parzival's.
**Alex's.**
His sword trembled in his hands. The mana infusion was rough, unstable, amateur.
But it was enough.
The runes on Alex's arm shimmered. **51.**
He had earned the right to awaken.
Parzival stared.
Then, a crooked smile crept across his face. "You're interesting."
Alex scoffed. "You know I deserved that, right?"
Parzival was about to reply—
But the retreat siren echoed across the battlefield.
It was time to fall back.
And so, the first battle of Alex ended.
Alex, who would one day slit a god's throat.