The battlefield was quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the hollow silence that lingers after screams have faded, after steel has clashed its last, after bodies collapse and never rise again. Smoke still clung to the air, ash drifting where banners once flew. A crow called somewhere in the distance, but Kazuya gave no reply.
He stood frozen, katana in hand, caught in a trance, unsure if the war had truly ended.
"The war is over!" the commanders shouted.
Kazuya had fought for The Verdict, a faction that claimed to bring order and protection to cities fractured by chaos. Their soldiers wore polished armor and marched with precision, convinced their discipline could restore the world.
Their enemies, The Shroud, struck from the shadows, fighting for freedom and truth. To The Verdict, they were rebels and traitors. To The Shroud, The Verdict were tyrants masking oppression with promises of peace.
The battle had lasted hours, but its cost was immense. Hundreds lay scattered across the field, blood soaking into the soil, bodies broken where they fell.
The Verdict had won. The Shroud scattered into the night. Another victory for "order."
But victory tasted bitter.
Kazuya stared at the red-stained edge of his blade. Around him, some soldiers cheered, others wept, while others sat in silence. One man sank to the ground and never rose again.
"It's over, huh?"
The words left Kazuya's lips in a whisper. He turned away. Medics rushed past him, tending to the wounded. He kept walking, passing rows of makeshift tents, until a commander intercepted him.
"You fought well, Kazuya. Magnificent." The man smiled proudly. "If you wish, I can make you squad leader. With your skill, you might even reach my rank one day."
Kazuya's face remained blank. He bowed, silent, and moved on.
At his tent, he found fellow soldiers laughing, drinking, celebrating.
"Look who finally showed up."
"Hey, Kazuya, we couldn't wait, so we started without you."
"Come join us."
Their voices were warm, but Kazuya waved them off.
"Thanks. Enjoy it without me."
He grabbed his bag and left, setting up a smaller, empty tent by himself. Beneath a sky too pale to comfort, he lay down and closed his eyes.
He dreamed of nothing.
When he woke, something was wrong.
The bed beneath him was stiff, unfamiliar. The cracked ceiling above him was strange, the air stale and dusty. He blinked, then looked at his hands, only to realize he had one arm.
Panic jolted him upright. Dizziness spun the world around him as he staggered toward a mirror that stood across the room. His reflection stared back: a man in his thirties, half his body wrapped in bandages, an arm missing from the shoulder.
Then the memories came.
Not his own, yet they poured into him all the same. Memories of growing up, of battles fought, of friends buried on the very field where Kazuya once stood against The Shroud.
He collapsed to his knees,
"Who… am I?" He breathed, like the words themselves were unfit to be heard.