The sky was burning.
Not with soft light, but with fire — the kind that devoured wood and flesh alike, swallowing hope whole. Flames clawed at the fortress walls, tongues of red and orange licking the stone as if it were kindling. Thick smoke curled through the air, heavy and choking, filling my lungs with bitter ash. I didn't cough. Weakness had no place here.
From the high ramparts, I watched my world collapse.
Siege engines thundered, sending cracked stones hurtling into the battlements. The walls groaned beneath the onslaught, fractures spiderwebbing through the ancient rock. Below me, soldiers screamed as they fell — some fighting with desperate ferocity, others breaking and fleeing like hunted prey. The air was thick with the scent of blood and fear, metallic and sharp.
"Fall back to the inner gate!" I ordered, my voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
No plea. No hope.
An order.
Captain Hoshi, his armor dented and face smeared with grime, turned sharply toward his men. "Move! Now! Don't let the bastards flank us!" His voice was hoarse but carried authority.
A young soldier hesitated near the parapet, eyes wide. "General, the eastern wall's collapsing—if we don't hold—"
"We hold or we die!" I snapped, locking eyes with him. "No retreat without orders."
His breath hitched, but he nodded, rallying to the command.
The soldiers obeyed, some dragging wounded comrades with them, others retreating under the heavy rain of arrows. They followed because I was their general—The Ghost General—but mostly because they feared what would happen if they did not.
Ahead of us surged a tide of crimson and black—a wave of armored men under banners bearing a black serpent coiled on red cloth. At their head stood Gai Ren, the Warlord of the Eastern Steppes.
He was a mountain of a man, clad in burnished gold and blood-red steel. His glaive caught the firelight with each brutal swing, cleaving through armor and bone alike. The stories about him were legend—he who feared nothing but dishonor, whose campaigns left nothing but ash and shattered kingdoms in their wake.
As long as he lived, this war would never end.
Logic whispered to me, cold and sharp: Retreat. Regroup. Fight another day.
But logic was for cowards.
I vaulted from the ramparts, landing hard in the muddy blood-soaked earth below. The ground clung to my boots, thick and sucking. Two soldiers tried to block my path, desperation in their eyes.
"General, please—" one began, but I cut him off with a harsh glare.
Their voices cut off, silenced by swift, merciless strikes. No hesitation. No remorse.
Every step forward was a pulse: strike, block, kill. Strike, block, kill. My blade sang a cold song, and every body it touched did not rise again.
The world narrowed to just one point: Gai Ren.
He saw me coming. The chaos parted like a sea around him. His eyes, dark and steady, weighed me as I approached.
"The Ghost General comes to die," he growled, voice low and terrible like distant thunder.
I said nothing. Words are for the living.
We clashed in the heart of the battlefield. Steel screamed as blades met, sending shivers down my arms. His glaive was heavy, brutal, a force of nature. My sword was faster, precise—a serpent striking for every weakness. Around us, the battle noise faded until there was only the clash of metal and the rhythm of breath.
He pressed forward with the force of a mountain. I yielded an inch, then another, drawing him into overreach. His strikes tore the air, close enough to feel the wind on my face. Each miss stoked his rage; each block deepened my calm.
Then—there it was. A crack in the armor, a hesitation in his swing.
I twisted my blade under his glaive, locking it briefly. My free hand drew a dagger etched with ancient runes—made to pierce even enchanted steel. I slid it beneath his collarbone, driving it deep. His eyes widened, disbelief stronger than pain.
He was not finished.
With a roar, his glaive swung wildly, cleaving into my side. White-hot fire exploded in my nerves, pain blinding and absolute. I did not flinch.
We fell to our knees, locked in a final, eternal moment.
"Your army," I whispered, breath ragged but steady, "has no head now."
The light in his eyes faded.
The battlefield held its breath.
Enemy soldiers froze. Their leader was dead.
My own strength bled out with every heartbeat. Darkness closed in. Above me, the sky burned—red, black, and gold—until the colors blurred.
For the first time in years, I wondered if I could rest.
Then nothing.
When I opened my eyes, the world was unrecognizable.
Light filtered softly through thick green leaves, dappling the forest floor with patches of gold. The air smelled of damp earth and wildflowers—no smoke, no blood, no screams.
I lay on a bed of moss, soft and strange beneath me. My limbs felt wrong—lighter, weaker. My hands were not my own: slender fingers, smooth skin, no scars or calluses earned through years of war.
Not my body.
Slowly, I sat up. My clothes were rough-spun linen, worn and plain, unlike the armor and leather I had known. The forest around me was quiet, alive with unfamiliar sounds—a bird's call, the rustle of small animals in the underbrush.
Memories flickered: the fortress, the clash of steel, Gai Ren's fall, the burning sky… then darkness. The rest was scattered, ash on the wind. Only the moment of death remained sharp.
"Makito! There you are!"
A voice, clear and warm. A girl running toward me, her short brown hair bouncing, amber eyes bright with relief. She carried a basket heavy with herbs, their scent faint but comforting.
"You were supposed to help me gather these before sunset," she said, smiling.
I blinked, expression blank, studying her.
Her smile faltered. "Are you okay? You look like you haven't eaten in days."
I said nothing. I stood and walked through the village, my cold eyes scanning every detail—wooden houses with thatched roofs, the stone well at the center, children chasing one another in laughter.
Haruka, as I learned her name, chattered about village life—chores, festivals, the wild berries that grew in the southern hills. I listened, noting every word but focusing on the place itself.
War taught me to read people and places at a glance. This village was no different.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I helped Haruka carry the last basket into her modest home. The air was cool, filled with the scent of woodsmoke and herbs drying in bundles above the hearth.
"You must be tired," she said, her eyes soft with concern.
"Fatigue is a stranger I know well," I replied, voice low.
She smiled gently. "You can rest here, if you like. The village is safe."
I nodded, the unfamiliar weight of peace settling uneasily on my shoulders.
That night, alone in a small room of rough timber, I tried something.
A flicker of flame danced on my palm—small, controlled. But when it died, a sharp pain stabbed my temple, like a warning.
And with it came loss.
The face of the woman who raised me here—gone. Her laughter, her voice—vanished like smoke.
Magic had a cost.
I pressed my lips into a thin line. If power steals my past, I would use it only when necessary.
Days passed. I moved like a shadow, listening, watching.
One morning, at the village square, I noticed a boy standing apart from the others. Dark eyes colder than winter's first frost, he watched me as if weighing my soul.
Recognition flared inside me—not from his face, but from something deeper.
He approached slowly.
"You're not from here," he said, voice quiet but sharp.
"No," I answered. "And neither are you."
His gaze didn't waver. "I know who you were."
"And I know who you might become."
A tense silence fell between us.
"I won't let that happen," I promised, the fire in my chest burning brighter than any flame.
The war was over.
But my true battle had only just begun.