"General Macon George! The enemy is pressing on the northern flank. Just give the order!"
The roar of soldiers shook the valley. Banners snapped in the wind, blades gleamed with blood and smoke, and the earth itself trembled with the weight of war.
Thousands of men stared at him—their general.
Macon.
His breath caught. General? He wasn't a general. He wasn't even a soldier. Yesterday he was just… a nobody. Yet here he stood, armor biting into his shoulders, a sword heavy in his grip, an army waiting for his command.
"What… is this?" His lips barely moved.
A scarred officer knelt before him, eyes burning with loyalty. "Say the word, and we'll cut them down."
Macon's throat dried. His mind screamed this isn't real, yet the battlefield was alive with heat, with iron, with the stench of blood. The weight of the sword felt like it belonged to his hand.
His voice cracked. "Attack."
The valley erupted.
Steel clashed, arrows split the air, men screamed as they fell. Macon fought to breathe as the tide of war swept around him. A blade crashed against his own, sparks biting his skin. His arms shook—but his body moved with a memory not his own.
How… how do I know these movements?
He ducked, drove his sword forward, felt the jolt of steel cutting through flesh. His enemy crumpled, blood staining the dirt. Macon's heart thundered. I just killed a man…
Pain.
A flash of silver—cold steel sliding between his ribs. The world reeled. His body stiffened, blood rushing hot down his side.
"No—"
"General Macon!" Voices screamed his name, fading into the black.
Silence.
---
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Macon gasped awake.
No battlefield. No soldiers. Only white walls, bright lights, and the sharp sting of antiseptic. A heart monitor kept time at his side.
"Where… am I?" His voice broke.
A nurse glanced up from a clipboard. "FMC Hospital. You collapsed. Your sister brought you in. You were bleeding."
"Bleeding?" His hand flew to his chest. Beneath the thin gown, bandages pressed tight, damp where blood had seeped through.
"Yes," the nurse replied calmly. "Your sister said you were sleepwalking. Thankfully, the wound wasn't deep. We'll keep you for observation."
Sleepwalking? His mind reeled. He remembered steel in his chest, the screams of men dying around him. That wasn't sleepwalking. That was real.
"Macon!"
His sister burst into the room, eyes red, her hand clutching his as if she'd never let go again. "You scared me half to death. You wouldn't wake up, no matter how hard I shook you. They said it was shock. Please—don't ever do that again."
Her voice cracked. Her fingers trembled against his. She looked like she'd been crying for hours.
Macon wanted to tell her everything—the battlefield, the sword, the blood—but the words burned in his throat. Who would believe him?
The nurse adjusted his IV. "We'll run some neurological tests. Nothing to worry about."
Nothing to worry about.
But Macon felt the faint heat still burning beneath his bandages. His scar remembered.
Vivian squeezed his hand. "You're safe now. That's what matters."
Safe.
But Macon knew better. Somewhere beyond these white walls, the battlefield was still waiting.