The blood had barely hit the mud when something strange happened.
A thought, no, a truth, settled into his mind, as if it had always been there. Like muscle memory from a dream he didn't remember having.
He knew things he shouldn't.
He knew this place wasn't like Earth, not just in landscape or violence, but in rules. He couldn't say how, but the knowledge was firm, undeniable.
If he died here…
It wouldn't be the end.
He would wake again. Somewhere nearby. A human fortification, an outpost, maybe, or a camp tucked within defensive walls. Safe enough. He could see it in his mind's eye without ever having seen it in person: wooden spikes, black banners, smoke curling into the sky.
And not just that. A map unfolded in his thoughts, not visual but almost felt, a sprawling land carved into jagged provinces and shifting frontlines. Two factions, neither good nor evil, just desperate, brutal, locked in an endless struggle for survival and supremacy.
This wasn't war for ideology or conquest.
This was war as a way of life. War as the only thing that existed.
The war. This war was eternal.
The knowledge was terrifying and somehow... freeing.
Around him, people screamed. Not soldiers. Not warriors. Just normal people like him dragged through a door they never asked for.
Some ran blindly into the fog, slipping in the mud, tripping over bodies.
Others stood frozen, eyes wide, mouths open, the world around them unfolding too fast to comprehend.
A woman near him sobbed uncontrollably. A teenager screamed out for their mom. A man dropped to his knees, hands over his head, whispering a prayer that wouldn't be heard here.
And him?
He didn't feel fear. Not in the same way.
It wasn't courage, he was certain of that. It was emptiness. It was the same emptiness he'd been dragging around for years, only now it had found something to latch onto. Something to shape itself into.
His heart pounded like it hadn't in years. Not from panic, but from purpose.
Maybe it was the knowledge that death wasn't final here.
Maybe it was that he had nothing to lose anyway.
Whatever it was, it pushed him to move.
He bent down, hands sinking into the mud, searching, until they clenched around the handle of a weapon.
If what he found could be called that. A jagged shard of metal, barely shaped like a blade. Rusted edges. Makeshift hilt wrapped in torn cloth. A killer's tool, not a soldier's.
In the other hand, a longer sword, curved and chipped along the edge. Heavy, ugly, but solid.
He rose to his feet and looked around.
Saw eyes of the other, terrified, lost, hopeless.
And he shouted.
"If it doesn't matter" he bellowed, voice cracking, lungs on fire, "then why not make the best of it?!"
No one answered.
He stood up, taking the blades out of the muck with him.
"WHY NOT FIGHT UNTIL WE CAN'T?!"
Something stirred in a few of them. A flicker of confusion. Of recognition. Of anger.
He didn't wait for them. He didn't wait for backup, or a strategy.
He charged.
Mud flew behind him as he sprinted toward the nearest giant. The creature turned, more amused than surprised, raising its cleaver high above its head.
The man didn't slow.
For the first time in years, maybe for the first time in his life, he wasn't wondering what came next.
The giant met his charge with a snarl and a downward swing, fast, impossibly fast.
He barely dodged. The blade roared past inches from his skull, dragging a gale of wind and mud in its wake.
He lunged forward, slashing with the short blade. It scraped harmlessly off thick skin, cutting only air and his pride. The giant backhanded him in response, a casual, brutal motion that lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing into the mud.
White-hot pain exploded in his ribs. One, maybe two, cracked.
He coughed and tasted blood.
The giant stalked forward, dragging its sword along the ground, sparks flying as metal kissed rock. It didn't speak. Didn't roar. It just smiled, wide, toothy, with a predator's patience.
He scrambled up, sword clutched tight, breathed coming short and sharp with pain in his ribs. Every nerve screamed, every instinct told him to run. But he didn't. Couldn't.
Not after the words he'd shouted. Not after seeing people hear them.
He stepped forward again.
They traded blows, if it could be called that. The giant was faster, stronger, trained. Every swing shook the ground. He barely blocked, dodged by instinct and desperation. One blow shattered his left forearm. Another opened a deep gash across his thigh.
He couldn't win this. He knew that.
But that knowledge didn't stop him.
Somewhere during the fray, he noticed them out of the corner of his eye, figures standing farther back, half-shrouded in fog. Giants, but larger. Older. Heavier with muscle and adorned with ornate armor and glowing tattoos.
They stood in a silent row, watching.
Spectators.
Not intervening. Just watching. Judging.
The ones doing the slaughter, like the one he was fighting, were leaner, less scarred. Young, by their race's standards. Earning blood. Earning place.
He was part of their test. Their trial by slaughter.
Another swing came, and he ducked, too slow. The blade tore across his back, cutting through cloth and skin. He screamed, dropped to one knee.
The giant loomed, blade raised for the killing blow.
He did the only thing he could.
He let go of the long sword. Shifted the jagged blade in his hand. As the sword came down, he surged forward and around, screaming, and drove the broken edge of metal into the giant's leg, deep into a soft spot behind the knee.
It roared. Staggered. And for the first time, it faltered.
He grabbed the long sword again and, through sheer adrenaline, pain, and fury, drove it up into the giant's gut with both hands.
The blade bit deep. The giant let out one final gasp of air.
They both collapsed, man and giant, one atop the other in a spray of hot blood and cold mud.
The man rolled free, coughing, shivering, vision wavering.
It was over.
He didn't know how long he laid there. Might've been seconds. Might've been minutes.
But eventually he turned his head, body aching, arm broken, ribs definitely cracked.
And what he saw made him forget the pain.
Across the field, what little of it he could still see through the settling mist and flying mud, others stood.
Not many. But some.
Seven in total.
Four men and three woman, each bruised, bloodied, barely holding themselves upright.
One held a splintered hammer. Another gripped a rebar pole bent from repeated impact. A third had two kitchen knives bound to their hands with cloth.
Some had teamed up, he saw a pair of twins and one man dragging a giant down like wolves swarming a bear. Others had gone alone, like him, wild-eyed and fueled by something deeper than fear.
They stood panting, smeared with blood and filth, weapons still gripped tight.
They weren't warriors. Not yet.
But they were alive.
And more importantly…They had fought like they wanted to stay that way.
Even knowing resurrection would bring them back—They fought like this moment mattered.
Maybe the war had already claimed their old lives.
But not their fire. Not yet.