Mud filled Roland's mouth.
Cold, thick, and tasting faintly of iron.
He coughed hard and rolled onto his side, dragging in a breath that burned his lungs. Somewhere nearby, something exploded into splinters. The ground shook. A scream cut through the air, sharp and close.
Roland forced his eyes open.
Grey sky.
Black smoke.
A battlefield stretching in every direction.
"…Right," he rasped.
Then the voice came.
Cold. Calm. Inevitable.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]
And that was it.
No instructions.
No objective.
No helpful explanation.
Roland let out a slow breath through his nose.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Sounds about right."
'First thing first, I need to check what aspect I got. Hopefully enough to deal with this mess.'
After trying to find a way to see his aspect for a few seconds, a rune appears in front of Roland.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Name: Roland
True Name: —
Rank: Aspirant
Soul Core: Dormant
Memories: —
Echoes: —
Attributes: [Witness], [Unfinished Story], [Hollow Stage]
Aspect:[Extra]
Aspect Description:
An extra is a nameless actor in someone else's story. Extras rarely lead. Extras rarely matter. Extras rarely decide how a story ends.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"That does not sound reassuring at all. Also is the spell literally calling me extra?", Roland complained.
Suddenly, a spear slammed into the mud beside his hand.
'...I need to get somewhere safer. Standing here makes me an active target. I'll check my attributes later'
Roland grabbed the spear instantly.
Because if the Spell wasn't going to tell him what to do…
Surviving was probably a good start.
The battlefield made no sense.
Two armies clashed across a churned plain littered with broken shields, burning wagons, and bodies already sinking into the mud. Banners hung torn and unreadable through the smoke. Horns sounded somewhere in the distance, low and furious.
Roland didn't even try to figure out which side he was on.
Didn't matter.
To both sides, he was just another target.
So he ran.
Not forward.
Not toward glory.
Sideways.
Toward the broken edges of the battlefield where fewer soldiers fought and more tried desperately not to.
A rider thundered past close enough that Roland felt the heat of the horse's breath. Somewhere ahead, a group of infantry slammed shields together in a roaring advance.
Roland ducked behind a mound of collapsed earth and kept moving. He understood what he needs to do for now.
Stay alive first. Understand later.
That was the only rule that mattered.
An arrow nearly proved the rule right.
It screamed past his head so close he felt the wind of it and slammed into the ground ahead with a vicious thunk.
Roland dropped flat instantly, heart hammering.
More arrows followed, rattling across the mud and broken stone.
"That's way too close to home," he muttered under his breath, already crawling. "Open ground is bad. Good to know."
He needed cover.
Now.
Through the drifting smoke, he spotted it — a shattered supply wagon half-tilted into a crater, one wheel snapped clean off, its wooden side riddled with blackened arrow holes.
Perfect.
Roland sprinted low, boots slipping in the mud, and dove behind it just as another volley hissed overhead. Shafts slammed into the wagon's wood with heavy cracks.
He pressed his back against the broken boards, forcing himself to breathe quietly.
"…Alright," he whispered. "Wagons are good. Wagons are friends. I really love wagons."
For a few precious seconds, nothing tried to kill him.
The battlefield roared somewhere beyond the smoke, but here, in the shadow of the wreckage, there was a tiny pocket of almost-safety.
Roland allowed himself exactly one slow breath.
Then a shadow fell across the wagon.
Roland's head snapped up.
A man stood there.
Not a charging warrior. Not some roaring berserker.
An injured soldier.
One arm hung useless at his side, blood soaking through the leather. His helmet was gone. His face was pale with exhaustion, eyes glassy but locked onto Roland with the desperate clarity of someone who knew this was his last chance.
In his good hand, he held a sword.
For half a heartbeat, neither moved.
Roland saw it instantly:
This wasn't a heroic duel.
This was two survivors who both understood only one of them was walking away.
The soldier moved first.
Not fast. Not skilled. Just committed.
He stepped forward and swung.
Roland barely shoved the wagon's splintered board up in time. The sword smashed through rotten wood, biting deep and sticking for a fraction of a second.
That fraction saved Roland's life.
He thrust the spear forward on pure instinct.
The tip punched into the man's stomach.
Not deep enough.
The soldier gasped — and kept coming.
His free hand grabbed the spear shaft, dragging himself forward, teeth clenched, sword wrenching loose from the broken plank.
Roland's boots slid in the mud as the man forced closer, eyes wide with the raw, animal terror of someone who refused to die first.
Roland shoved.
The soldier shoved back.
For a moment they were locked there, faces barely a foot apart, both shaking, both breathing hard, both absolutely certain that losing meant death.
No speeches.
No heroics.
Just survival.
Roland twisted the spear sideways and drove it in again with everything he had.
This time it went deep.
The soldier froze.
A wet breath left his lips.
Then the strength went out of his hands.
He sagged forward… and slid off the spear into the mud.
[You have slain a dormant human, name unknown.]
Silence filled the small space behind the wagon.
Roland stayed there, hands still locked on the shaft, chest heaving.
"…Yeah," he whispered hoarsely. "…not optional, huh."
The body began to crumble.
Not rot.
Not bleed.
Crumble.
Ash drifted upward, dissolving into the smoky battlefield air like it had never been there at all.
Roland stared at the empty mud where the man had fallen.
Then slowly looked up at the endless war still raging beyond the broken wagon.
"…Alright," he breathed quietly.
"If that's how this story's gonna be…"
Roland picked up the sword of the fallen soldier and tightened his grip on the spear.
"…guess I'd better learn fast."
Behind him, the battlefield roared on.
And Roland stepped out from the wagon's shadow back into the war.