The battlefield was silent.
Not the silence of peace—
but the silence of slaughter.
Ash and smoke veiled the corpses, drifting like a second death across the land. Broken banners snapped in the wind. Blood soaked the soil until even the worms drowned.
And then… he opened his eyes.
Storm-gray, lifeless yet unyielding. The eyes of a man who had died a thousand times and still refused to stay buried.
He rose from the grave of soldiers. His steps crunched on shattered helmets, severed limbs, cracked shields. He remembered nothing of this life—no name, no country, no home.
But he remembered the others.
Nine hundred and ninety-eight deaths.
Nine hundred and ninety-eight betrayals.
Nine hundred and ninety-eight lives stolen by the hand of fate.
Whispers carried on the wind like the voices of carrion crows:
"It's him…"
"The one who crawls back…"
"A curse that wears a man's skin…"
The villagers watching from the hills trembled. Even in their silence he could feel their hatred, as sharp as arrows driven through his chest. They despised him. They always had. They always would.
Above, the heavens mocked him. Beyond the clouds, the scratching of a quill marked every breath he took. The Scribe was writing, laughing as he chained him to eternity once more.
He clenched his blade until blood dripped from his palm. The hilt was worn, the edge chipped, yet when he lifted it, the sword burned brighter than the sun.
Not this time.
This life was the 999th. The last edge of the abyss. The step before oblivion.
He would not bow.
He would not bend.
He would not die to their story again.
The sword howled as he raised it against the sky. Ash fell around him like snow, painting the world in gray.
Hated by all. Defeated by none.
Thus began the 999th life of the man who could not die.