UNKNOWN LOCATION
A war unfolded as men in different armors clashed. The smell of blood and the screams of anguish filled the battleground as they slaughtered one another.
The armor of these warriors resembled medieval chainmail—nearly seamless, offering little vulnerability.
If not for their differing designs and insignia, they would have been nearly impossible to distinguish from one another.
Among the clashing soldiers, several shadows moved with uncanny grace across the battlefield. They were ill-armed for war, wearing almost no armor at all.
Yet they moved with precision, as if they had fought through a thousand battles.
They attacked indiscriminately. If not for their small numbers, they might have been mistaken for a third faction from another territory.
Three of them fought, their movements fluid, as though this wasn't the first time they'd stood side by side in bloodshed.
Their bodies and clothes were smeared with gore. One of them led the charge—a large man with black skin, wielding a massive war axe.
Behind him moved two women—one armed with short knives, the other with a bow and arrow.
Though their clothing resembled that of barbarians, their tactics were too precise—too strategic—to be dismissed as such.
Arrck.
The woman with the short knives threw one with lethal accuracy, burying it in the head of a helmetless soldier. She flowed forward without pause, retrieving her blade as the archer loosed arrow after arrow with unerring speed—nearly one every two seconds.
Her cover allowed the knife-wielder to dive back into the fray.
Grunt.
The black-skinned man swung his axe valiantly, cleaving multiple enemies in one sweep. Though their armor was tough to pierce, it did little to dampen the force of his crushing blows.
He followed up by smashing the fallen without mercy, ignoring their blood-curdling screams.
Before he could raise his head, an arrow pierced his left shoulder.
With a grunt, he yanked it out and examined it, ignoring the bleeding wound. He looked around, alert, searching for the source—but before he could find it, another soldier charged, forcing him back into the chaos.
The battlefield was utter madness. Horses, panicked by the carnage, trampled soldiers beneath their hooves. Their unfortunate riders were dragged through the mud, mangled and broken.
The slaughter raged until noon, the sun glaring down on a field of corpses.
****************************************************************************
Only one figure remained standing—the woman with the bow. She dragged her feet, her gait stiff and crooked. A closer look revealed her body's symmetry was off—bones cracked audibly as they snapped back into place.
Her clothes were torn and bloodied, her skin filthy as if she'd crawled from a grave.
She paused, finishing her regeneration.
"Bloody hell," she muttered under her breath as she stretched. She turned to glance behind her, spotting a dead horse lying in the mud. She frowned. "Did they train their horses to do that?"
Wheeze.
A sharp breath broke the silence as a corpse sat up.
The archer spun, eyes locked onto her resurrected comrade.
"Took you long enough, Andromache," she said with a crooked smile, walking over to her now-recovered friend.
She extended a hand. Andromache took it, using the support to stand.
She surveyed the battlefield calmly. "I guess we're done here. Where's Lykon?"
"He should be around here—probably stuck under a pile of bodies," the archer replied nonchalantly, retrieving arrows from fallen soldiers.
"There's a lot of good stuff here. Are you sure it's wise to leave it all with the dead?" she called out as Andromache walked toward the far end of the field.
"What did you say, Quynh?" Andromache asked, clearly not hearing her.
"I said—"
Cough, cough.
A loud cough cut her off.
The women tensed, instantly alert. They rushed toward the source of the sound, struggling to pinpoint it among the sea of corpses—but they already had a good idea of who it might be.
With haste, they turned over body after body, until they found him beneath a heap—Lykon.
He lay there, blood leaking from his mouth, a sword skewering him through the abdomen. He wheezed violently, each breath ragged and pained.
Both women frowned.
Andromache quickly pulled the sword out. With Quynh's help, she dragged him to a dead tree on the edge of the field.
"Lykon, are you okay?" she asked, her voice filled with worry.
"His wounds aren't healing," Quynh said, inspecting the stab wound and the gashes covering his body.
Lykon was growing pale.
"What's happening? He should have started healing by now! Why isn't he healing?!" Quynh asked, panic rising in her voice.
"I don't know," Andromache replied, placing her palm gently on Lykon's cheek. His breath came faster now, shallower. Strength was draining from him.
"Lykon, can you hear me? You're going to be okay. Hold on—we'll get you help," she whispered, trying to keep him awake.
As if sensing his end, Lykon raised his trembling hand and placed it over hers. He tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth.
"Lyk…"
Whooommm.
A deafening sound echoed across the sky. A rift tore open among the clouds, lightning flashing wildly as the skies darkened.
Rain began to fall.
BOOM.
A shadow burst forth from the rift and crashed into the earth with such force that the ground quaked. Whatever it was moved too fast for mortal eyes to follow.
whoosh
The rift snapped shut.
But the rain continued.
Andromache, Quynh, and even the dying Lykon stared, frozen in shock.
Grunt.
A loud groan snapped the women back to reality. They turned to Lykon, who slowly began to sit up, dragging himself to lean against the dead tree.
To their amazement, his wounds were healing.
Color returned to his face as he took a deep breath, his body mending itself at last.
Before the women could speak ,darkness took all three of them.
They collapsed, one after the other.
------------------------------------------------------
suddenly
"Hah!" / "Ahh!"
They all gasped as one, eyes snapping open in shock. In unison, their heads turned toward the direction where the shadow had fallen.
The women rose quickly—Andromache helping Lykon to his feet. His wounds had vanished, his body fully healed.
Their recovery was unnatural. Among all who had fought and died on this blood-soaked field, only they still lived—not by chance, but because of an unholy gift: the ability to recover from wounds no mortal could survive.
They had suffered terrible injuries during the battle, but now, impossibly, they stood whole again.
With wary urgency, they advanced. Each step was cautious, their instincts screaming despite the silence.
Their path led to a vast crater carved into what had once been dense forest. Charred trees smoldered at the edges, bent and broken by the force of impact.
They gasped in unison.
In all their long years, they had never seen anything like this.
At the crater's center knelt a massive humanoid figure clad in ornate golden armor and a tattered red cape.
If not for the slow rise and fall of its chest, they might have mistaken it for a statue.
The air was heavy—charged. Every breath in the being's presence made their bodies tremble with an urge to kneel. The pressure of its existence pressed on their very souls.
"This is it," Lykon said in awe, staring at the kneeling giant. "This is what we saw."
He glanced at the ruined trees around them, scorched and snapped like twigs.
"Should we approa—" Andromache began, but her words were stolen by a sudden, violent gust of wind.
The rain turned into a storm.
Lightning ripped across the sky, slamming into the ground with terrifying randomness.
The trio scattered, scrambling for shelter as the heavens raged.
TZZZZZZT—ZAP!
Bolts of energy converged into a blinding column of plasma. Another rift tore open in the sky, a gaping wound of swirling void.
It reached down and began to pull the golden giant upward.
Before it was completely engulfed, the figure lifted its head.
Through its damaged helm, they saw a single eye—glowing red with impossible intensity.
They watched, breath held, as the colossus vanished into the storm.
Moments passed.
Then the sky calmed. The storm abated. Light returned to the world as though nothing had happened.
Snapped from their trance, the trio slowly approached the crater.
The being was gone.
In its place, embedded in the scorched earth, was a massive spear.
"You saw that too, right?" Lykon asked as he crouched beside the weapon, his voice unsteady. "Otherwise, I'd swear this was some fever dream before death."
The air was still hot, but instead of discomfort, a strange warmth soothed them.
" It was real. Look around us," Quynh replied, her voice hushed.
Grunt.
"Did we just witness a god?" Lykon asked, excitement overtaking his fear as he gripped the spear—only to find it unmovable.
Andromache remained silent.
Her thoughts were not on the weapon, nor the crater, nor even the storm.
She was consumed by the visions the being had shared with her—fragmented yet vivid, as if etched into her soul.
It was strange how the other two seemed unaffected... as if what they'd seen was entirely different.
'Maybe', she thought, 'they didn't see what I saw.'