"Am I… in hell?" he thought, panic twisting his stomach. This can't be real…" His mind raced, trying to make sense of what happened around him.
He staggered to his feet, his boots sliding on blood and ash. Around him, the battlefield groaned and he could hear distant screams and moans. Smoke swirled in the air, stinging his eyes, and sparks rained from the sky.
Then he noticed what he was wearing. A dark blue uniform, covered with soot and torn at the seams, with a blazing sun crossed by two swords on the chest. A short blade hung at his waist, stained and chipped, like it had already been through battle.
But what really shocked him wasn't the uniform or the weapon. It was his legs. They held him steady. For the first time in years, he stood on both legs without crutches and feeling no pain nor weakness. He froze, staring at himself, unable to understand.
A voice carried through the smoke behind him.
"There is a! Survivor here!"
Finn spun around, stumbling on the corpses beneath his boots. From the haze of battle, horsemen charged forward, their banners trailing ash and soot. About ten of them, armored and battle-worn, pulled their steeds to a halt. Their eyes widened at the sight of him.
"A survivor?" one muttered in disbelief. "Impossible… they were all wiped out."
The leader, a broad man with a scar running across his cheek, dismounted and strode toward Finn. His gaze was sharp, assessing, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
"Name and rank!" he yelled, his voice sharp enough to slice through the noise. For a moment, Finn only stared, the words sounding strange in his ears. His mouth opened, but nothing came.
The leader frowned, then gave a short nod as if answering his own thought. "Shock. After what you've seen, it's no wonder."
He stepped closer, his tone firm but carrying a trace of respect. "We did well to come and check. he's injured. Badly. He won't last if he stays here. It's already a miracle he can stand on his legs."
Finn looked down and, for the first time, saw the gashes along his side, blood soaking through the torn cloth. His head spun.
"Get him to the medics," the leader ordered his men.
One of the horsemen trotted closer, a lean rider who extended a gloved hand to Finn. "Come on," he said, his tone urgent but controlled. Finn hesitated, his body weak and trembling, but the rider reached down, hauled him up, and settled him behind the saddle. The horse shifted beneath them, powerful and restless, but the rider kept him steady with one hand while gripping the reins with the other.
Before Finn could speak, the sky lit up. Great fireballs arced overhead, roaring like falling stars before smashing into a distant walls with thunderous force. The ground shook beneath the blast, dust and stone raining down in the distance.
The leader cursed under his breath. "Crimson Flame Division," he barked. "They're clearing the enemy's walls!
He mounted his horse in one swift motion, raising his sword high. "All units, fall back! Now!"
The riders wheeled their horses, retreating in formation. Finn clung tightly to the man in front of him, his heart pounding as the night sky burned with fire.
His mind spun. Just moments ago, He was stabbed several times in his apartment by a stranger, the world going black when the latter left. And now… now he was riding through a battlefield, fully on his feet, injured but alive. His memories were too real and nothing could have erased that.
The horse beneath him moved steadily, and the rider guided them through the chaos like it was second nature. They passed broken lines of soldiers, trampled tents, and scattered supplies. Finn could see where the artillery had been stationed, the catapults and magical siege engines. Most of them were destroyed, burned down to ruins that still gave off fire and smoke.
The horse carried him past rows of tents and makeshift fortifications, over paths that separated the frontline from the rear. He had expected confusion and panic, but the army was organized, disciplined, like a single living organism.
The leader stopped with the rest of his squad, lifting his hand in a final signal. "Go," he told the rider. "Take him to the medics. I'll give the report."
The rider nodded and nudged the horse forward, carrying Finn through the last stretch alone. Soon, they reached the Healing Tents, a circle of white tents facing inward, the cloth snapping in the smoky wind. Inside each one, mage healers moved quickly between the wounded, their hands glowing as they closed wounds and eased pain.
The rider helped Finn down. "Leave the rest to them. You've made it through the worst," he said, giving Finn's shoulder a quick pat. Then he turned his horse and rode off, leaving Finn in the care of a healer.
The healer led Finn into one of the tents, crouched beside him, and ran his glowing hands over Finn's body, checking for damage. After a moment, the glow faded, and the man shook his head slightly.
"You don't have any serious injuries, just a few scratches," the mage healer said calmly. "Maybe they shouldn't have bothered bringing you here. few hours of rest, and you'll be fit to return to the front."
Finn blinked, stunned. He looked down at himself, half-expecting to see blood still pouring from his side. But the gashes and the torn flesh were gone. Only faint red lines remained, as if they were old scars. How was this possible? Moreover, how did he keep his lucidity after having lost so much blood?
Before he could answer, the healer stood and moved on to another patient, already forgetting him in the rush.
Finn barely had time to take in the rows of wounded and the soft light of the healing spells when a voice cut through the noise.
"Lioren?!"
He turned, confused. Surely, she was calling someone else. But there was no one near him.
"Lioren!" the voice called again, closer this time. A figure pushed past a group of healers and hurried toward him.
She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking the breath out of his chest. "Lioren! You're alive!"
Finn froze. The girl was stunning. Long silver hair that shimmered in the tent light, eyes like emerald fire, features so delicate they didn't seem real. But more than that, something about her tugged at the edge of his memory. He knew her. Somehow.
"When I heard the infantry was wiped out, I cried all the tears in my body." she said, pulling back just enough to look at him, "I thought you were gone. But you're here… thank the stars."
Finn opened his mouth, words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I... I think you've got the wrong person. I'm Finn."
The girl blinked, then laughed softly, shaking her head. "What are you talking about? It's me, Sylvara. And you... you're Lioren Thale. Maybe you hit your head, or maybe some spell still lingers on you. Don't worry, it'll fade with our care."
"No," Finn insisted. "You're wrong about me. I'm..."
At that moment, a healer passed behind Sylvara, carrying a polished bronze basin of water. Light caught its surface, and Finn's eyes flicked toward it. He froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't his.
Sharp jaw, tousled blue hair, striking violet eyes, but nothing like Finn Carter. Nothing like the boy who had spent years on crutches and wheelchair.
Finn stumbled back, his heart hammering. "No. No, that's not me. I'm Finn. Finn Carter. At worst… my followers call me PixelKnight!"
Sylvara tilted her head, frowning in confusion. "Followers? What are you talking about?" She gave a small smile, though her voice was gentle. "At best, you're your own biggest fan... With me of course."
Her words echoed in his ears, and suddenly, it all came back.
Except for the silver hair, he couldn't miss her face, now just inches from his. The light green eyes, the soft, sparkling lips…
He had seen her before… oh! in his dream.
Narbis.