"General Macon George! The enemy is pressing on the northern flank. Just give the order!"
The roar of soldiers echoed across the valley. Banners snapped in the wind, blades gleamed in the dim light, and the air stank of blood and smoke. Thousands of men stood waiting, their eyes fixed on one man—their general.
Macon.
His breath hitched. His name. They were calling him General Macon. But that was impossible. He wasn't a general. He wasn't even a soldier. Yesterday, he was just… a nobody. A normal guy with nothing to his name except restless nights and half-finished dreams.
Yet here he stood, armor strapped across his chest, a sword heavy in his hand, with an army waiting for his command.
What is this? Where am I?
A man to his right—scarred, bloodied, loyal—bent down on one knee. "General, say the word and we'll cut them down."
Macon's throat felt dry. His mind screamed this isn't real, but the heat of the battlefield, the trembling ground beneath his boots, the iron taste of fear in the air—none of it felt like a dream.
"Attack," he heard himself say.
The valley exploded into chaos.
Swords clashed, arrows tore through the sky, men screamed and bled. The sound was deafening, the weight of the moment crushing. Macon swung his sword, clumsy but desperate, parrying a strike that should have killed him. The impact rattled his arms to the bone.
I don't know how to fight… so why do my hands move like this?
His body moved with practiced rhythm, as if it remembered a life his mind did not. Steel met steel, sparks flying, his lungs burning with the scent of iron and fire. He stumbled, rolled, drove his blade into an enemy's chest. The man fell, blood spilling onto the dirt.
Macon's heart thundered. I just killed someone… I just—
Pain.
A flash of silver. A blade pierced his chest from the side. His body froze, breath stolen, blood rushing hot down his ribs.
No… no, this can't—
"General Macon!" His soldiers' screams rang in his ears as his vision darkened, the battlefield melting into a blur.
And then—silence.
——
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Macon gasped, eyes snapping open.
No battlefield. No swords. Just white walls. Bright lights. The sterile sting of antiseptic. The sharp rhythm of a heart monitor at his side.
"Where… am I?" His voice cracked.
A nurse glanced up from a clipboard. "FMC Hospital. You collapsed, and your sister brought you here. You were bleeding."
"Bleeding?" His hand shot to his chest. Beneath the thin hospital gown, he felt a bandage wrapped tight, still damp where blood had seeped through.
"Yes." The nurse scribbled notes calmly, as if this were normal. "Your sister said you were sleepwalking and injured yourself. Thankfully, it wasn't too deep. We'll keep you for observation."
Sleepwalking? His mind reeled. He remembered the clash of swords, the weight of the armor, the pain of the blade sliding into his chest. That wasn't sleepwalking. That was real. It had to be real.
"Macon!"
His sister burst into the room, her face pale with worry. She gripped his hand tightly. "You scared me half to death. When I found you, you were bleeding. You wouldn't wake up no matter how much I shook you. They said it was shock from sleepwalking. Just… don't ever do that again."
He stared at her, at the genuine fear in her eyes. He wanted to tell her. To explain what he had seen, what he had felt. That it wasn't sleepwalking—it was something else, something beyond dreaming. That he had stood on a battlefield where men called him General. That he had felt a blade pierce his chest.
But the words stuck in his throat. Who would believe him?
The nurse adjusted the IV drip, her expression distant, professional. "We'll run some tests. Perhaps a neurological check. Nothing to worry about."
Nothing to worry about.
Macon's hand trembled as he touched the bandaged wound again. Beneath the gauze, his skin burned faintly, like fire still lingered in the flesh. No… it wasn't a dream. I was there. I felt it. This scar is proof.
His sister rubbed his hand gently, whispering, "It's okay now. You're safe."
Safe.
But Macon knew—he wasn't safe at all.