The vessel capsized. With a groaning screech, its iron walls cracked. Water surged in with crushing weight. Darkness filled the cabin as icy seawater engulfed everything. Ethan fought desperately against the pressure, forcing his way toward the exit. Every movement felt impossible, as though the ocean itself clung to him, dragging him down. At last, with all his strength, he pushed open the iron door and squeezed through. The freezing water stung his face like knives, but he ignored it. Holding his breath, he swam upward toward the surface. Each stroke felt heavier, the water pressing harder against him. He swam, and swam… yet the surface never seemed closer. His lungs burned, breath fading.
At last, strength failed him. He surrendered, his body giving in to the waves. His final breath escaped in bubbles that floated upward. Ethan's eyes followed them. The seabed lay silent, shrouded in darkness stretching endlessly below. The wreck of the boat had vanished, only a distant shadow remained.
In that moment, Ethan felt not fear, but a strange peace. Panic was gone. He looked up once more. The surface seemed impossibly far away, like another world's sky. With his last strength, he stretched his hand upward.
"If only… I could see them once more… If only I could hear her voice again…"
With that aching thought piercing his heart, Ethan slowly closed his eyes, and his body sank deeper into the depths.
An endless dark void… no colors, no sounds. Only silence without end. Ethan, eyes closed, felt a crushing weight pressing down on his soul. His past mistakes, lost chances, and the people he had lost all came alive before him. Their faces appeared faintly in the darkness, then vanished again.
But then, suddenly, something pulled him with great force deeper into the abyss. It was as though tons of pressure were crushing his body. His breath grew short, his heart pounded. In his ears, a deep rumbling sounded. Then came strange noises from afar — cries of people, the clash of iron against iron…
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
And instantly, he felt a heavy weight on his body. Looking down, Ethan saw he was holding a long iron sword, worn from use, its edges nicked and scarred. Its hilt was wrapped in leather, his palm damp with sweat from gripping it. In his left hand he carried a thick shield — once shining, now scratched, its surface rusted. On his body was brown leather armor, reinforced at the shoulders with metal plates, still carrying the scent of battle. It was unfamiliar to him, yet it felt strangely real.
Ethan froze in shock. He still believed this was a dream — or perhaps the moment after death. But the smell of blood in his nose, the weight of the armor, and the strange hot wind around him sharpened his fear into awareness.
He looked around.
And his heart sank further.
He was on a medieval battlefield. The ground was thick with mud and blood. Fallen soldiers lay nearby, pierced through with spears. In the distance, shields clashed, swords rang, and the cries of men shook the air. Every strike tore through the sky with the ringing of steel.
The air stank of smoke and iron, blood and death.
Several soldiers rushed past him, their armor clattering, their boots splashing mud. Some had blood-streaked faces, others shouted with a mix of fear and fury. Overhead, black clouds covered the sky, and the sun cast only dim rays. It was as if the whole world breathed only for this battlefield.
Ethan nearly fainted. He had never seen such a sight, never smelled such a stench, never heard such wild chaos. Every tremor in his body reminded him this was no dream.
His panicked eyes darted everywhere — screams, the clash of steel, the cries of the dying. But he could not understand what was happening. How had he come here? What was this place? He tried to focus his thoughts, but his mind would not settle.
Suddenly, from ahead, a soldier with his face hidden by a steel helmet charged at him, sword raised. Ethan's eyes widened. He tried to move, but his legs were frozen. Yet, without realizing it, his body moved — he raised his shield, blocking the blow. The force knocked him backward into the mud.
As he fell, his heart raced faster. At that moment, another soldier rushed in, striking Ethan's attacker with his shield and knocking him to the ground. The man leaned over Ethan, shouting something. Ethan saw his lips moving, but he couldn't hear the words. His ears were filled with a hellish buzzing, like swarms of insects screaming inside his skull.
Then came the horror.
An arrow shot out of nowhere, piercing the soldier's helmet. It tore through his forehead. For a brief instant, the man's eyes met Ethan's — then he collapsed, his full weight crashing down onto him.
Hot blood splattered across Ethan's face. It smeared into his eyes, his mouth. Shaking, panicked, Ethan wiped at it. The blood was red, sticky, warm. This was no dream — it was real.
"No… no… this can't be happening…" Ethan struggled wildly, clawing to free himself from under the body. His breath grew rapid, his eyes wide with terror, and at last he screamed.
The battle raged on around him — the clash of swords, the snap of spears, the cries of men. But for Ethan, it was all the same: fear, horror, and the howl of a man trapped in an incomprehensible world.
By evening, the battle ended. Victorious soldiers pitched their tents, treated their wounded, cleaned their weapons. Some warmed themselves by fires, settling their nerves. When night fell, four soldiers gathered around a great bonfire. They cooked meat stew in an iron pot, talking in low voices. The air carried the smell of boiling broth, bitter smoke, and still, faintly, the iron-and-blood stench of the battlefield.
"What do you think the prince is planning?" asked one of them, a large, muscular soldier named Bert. His thick golden hair was tied back, his beard and mustache the same color and neatly kept. His voice carried weight and authority. "He turned against his own sister, against his own kingdom, and allied with Darsen, Aestvorn's ancient enemy. To the common folk he calls this 'a war for truth.' But what did he do first? Burn villages, enslave people. Who could trust him now?"
Across from him, a leaner soldier with short black hair, Mac, nodded.
"You're right, Bert. I've thought the same. He could have simply given up the throne. Instead, he chose war. At least the king never made him heir…"
"Careful, Mac!" warned another, bald-headed with gray eyes — Ed. "If the higher-ups hear you talking about the royal family like this, you'll lose your head."
Then, a man with messy hair, a ragged cloth over his shoulders — Rick — spoke in a low, heavy voice:
"No one up there cares anymore. They've already put a bounty on the prince's head."
"Rick's right," Bert continued. "They say he even stole the old king's sword."
"What sword? You're just chasing rumors, Bert," Mac scoffed. "We're here to fight battles, not gossip."
"Oh, listen to Mac!" laughed Ed. "You were the one talking about the king a moment ago."
"Don't provoke him, Ed," Bert said firmly. "Let's talk about the new recruit instead."
"You mean that boy?" Rick asked.
"Yes, him. I saw him during the battle," Bert said. "He was flailing in panic, screaming. I think it was his first war."
"Probably," Ed agreed. "But why assign him to our unit? I don't get it."
Mac lowered his voice, his tone serious:
"They say the commander found him during a raid on a village. Shadows had attacked it. Six of their bodies were found there… and they say that boy killed them all."
The group fell silent. Rick stared into the fire, whispering, his face uneasy:
"Shadows? But they haven't appeared in a long time…"
"I last heard of them a year ago," Bert said grimly. "If they're back, it's bad. War on one side, Shadows on the other… terrible."
"But I thought only the 'Winter Angels' could kill Shadows," Ed said doubtfully. "Could he be one of them?"
"I don't think so," Bert muttered, glancing at a corner near the tents.
There sat Ethan, silent, his face drawn with exhaustion and fear.