The crackling of gunfire, distant explosions, and unsettling screams of horror marked the beginning of the bullet exchange between the two nations.
Dust rose in the air, and the sun struggled to break through the haze. Soon, the ground was covered with patches of blood.
A young soldier ran to the front with a bazooka, targeting the altar the enemy's commander stood on. The bazooka pointed at the head of the commander, and shrouded by haze, the soldier hid perfectly, preparing his aim.
Determination pounded in his chest, there was no room for fear or doubt, because if this missed, he had failed, and that would mark the downfall of his comrades. They only held too little hope now.
"Go ahead, Cross," one whispered, "we are right behind you."
He made a quick nod and covered more distance from his unit.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sound struck the hearts of the surrounding soldiers. The last thing the enemy's commander saw was molten steel coming for his head. With precision, three enemy tanks came crumbling down. Only one person could use those advanced engineered grenade launchers. The tide had changed.
Chaos ensued afterwards and the enemy soldiers ran back to the altar their headless leader's body laid on. "Fall back! It's The Cross! Fall back! He's attacking now!"
The young soldier ran swiftly through the rubble and corpses as the enemy soldiers tried to take him down. He took cover behind a crumbling wall and tore off a wig and uniform of the opposite nation he had worn to get closer to the enemy.
His reddish hair had been neatly tied underneath the wig and he ran his hand through it roughly to undo it. "Phoenix is down!" he spoke through a mouthpiece. "I repeat, the leader, Phoenix, is down! The Cross would proceed as planned!" He resumed running till he made a clean escape.
His comrades responded quickly, regrouping and preparing for another raid on the enemy amidst their confusion.
Suddenly, an altar rose behind his comrades with two muscular men standing on top of it. There were the commanders of his army and they bellowed. "Victory is justice!"
"Victory is justice!! Victory is justice!!" the soldiers chanted, before rushing to the retreating enemy that had realized they were outnumbered ducklings amongst wild dogs.
The young soldier reached the storage and quickly exchanged his bazooka with a rifle that had a dagger connected at the mouth.
"Benign!" He was called before he sprinted off.
He halted but didn't turn back. "That was a good shot." He heard his superior say. "Again, The Cross left the battle half won for us. Survive and give us victory, and we'd talk about the marriage reward."
Benign's expression stayed straight as he nodded. When the superior left, he continued his sprint towards his comrades. He clicked his tongue when he was out of earshot.
They were in the battlefield where anyone could die suddenly, yet his superior's motivation for him was to marry afterwards? Wouldn't it be better to just die here with honour? These superiors didn't know the sacrifices made in the battlefields.
He shook those thoughts from his head. He squinted his eyes to the enemies when he noticed them in a cluster. Their movements were unusual and seemed to be reaching a missile-laden vehicle.
That vehicle threatened to release destruction on his unit base.
"Unit Fox! Oh shit! Unit Fox! Take cover!"
Without thinking, he sprinted toward them, dodging bullets and debris. He began releasing fire from the distance and watched the desperate soldiers eat their fill. Yet one of them had struggled to reach the vehicle.
The missile was launched, but not where Benign expected it.
It was likely a missed shot but since it was coming directly for him, the one who took down their leader, then it might be the most accurate. He was the most dangerous in the battlefield at that moment.
"Benign! Look out!" he heard his comrades call for him. But wasn't it useless? How would he dodge a missile coming straight for him? He'd rather accept it in its glory.
THUD!
The ground shook and a shockwave erupted behind him and slowly crept to engulf him. He felt his body slam against something really hard. His consciousness left him before pain could set in.
His body was likely in too much pain to feel, or his receptors shut down early. Benign felt nothing yet could see darkness. His whole life played in his head.
At fifteen, he faked his age to join the military. He did this so his village would get his salary and not die out of starvation or turn to crime and get killed shamelessly. As long as he made the world even a little bit easier for those villagers who took him in to live in, he was satisfied.
At least, none of the children left would go through what he had to endure as a young orphan. He perished a hero, their hero, and would finally rest with his parents.
A life worth living.
No regrets. All Glory.
They'd remember his sacrifice and contribution.
Benign Cross.
Out.
Except...
Why did he feel like he was being baked in low heat? Wasn't he dead? Or was he reminiscing over his foster mother's oven that was always steaming. It was still too intense. His hand was also over a rough surface, not fitting the wet ground on the field he died in. He ignored those sensations, waiting for his death.
[Welcome, Benign Cross. The Legacy System is activated.]
Benign scrunched his nose, wondering who spoke on his head? He tried to get the smell of anything familiar; blood, burning flesh, gun oil, or the foul meat they ate in camp. "I might not be very dead if my articulation and hearing are still intact." He said within himself.
Consciously, he moved his fist and they moved. Perhaps the missile didn't kill him out at once but probably in pieces. He knew he wouldn't have survived that hit. Yet hearing voices on his way to peace, did that mean he headed to hell?
The murmurings above his head came again. His fists balled. It was a male voice. Was it his comrade? Talking over his body wouldn't bring him back to life, Kendrick!
The worst part was he heard gibberish. It sounded like incarnations and he really wanted to know what farewell wish his friend sent him off with.
[As you wish.]
[Regeneration... Language Comprehension... Revival.... Registering.]
[Do you wish to select a unique skill?]
"What the hell is this guy saying?"
[As you wish.]
[Unique Skill acquired.... Hell Rain... Registering.]
[Downloading and registering all skills and unique skills to Benign Cross.... Complete.]
Benign remained silent. This fellow didn't seem like Kendrick. It sounded like those AI robots the military brought to train them.
"Am I dead?"
[Do you wish to use Revival Skill?]
"Yes?"
[Revival Skill... Activating.]
[Activation Cancelled.]
[The host is already alive.]
Benign clenched his fists and they had more strength than the last time. The burning of his skin didn't seem to be something he experienced because he was getting closer to hell. He forced himself to stand up and his bones crunched.
He stretched sideways, and slowly opened his eyes and they burned. After five seconds, he adjusted to the brightness of his surroundings. It didn't look like a battlefield scattered with rubbles, corpses of armed men and women, and broken guns.
Heck, it didn't even look like the forest ground. He was in a damn desert.
"What's happening?"
[Benign Cross, you have been transmigrated to a different realm.]
"Yeah, no shit, but you said I wasn't dead."
[Not in this realm.]
Very comforting. He looked around. He stood in the middle of nowhere and some robot was telling him that he transmigrated to another world? "This can't be possible," he muttered, sluggishly moving towards the other side of the sand hill he stood on.
On reaching the edge, his eyes widened at the landscape. He was in a battlefield, filled with bodies of soldiers, and forgotten weaponry, the desert was also covered in blood, and some dead weird bird-like creatures.
The bodies belonged to mostly men wearing ancient armored plates. The first thought that came to him was, 'had there been no one to bury their corpses?' The sight of abandoned soldiers left a sour taste on his tongue.
"What historical event happened here?" he asked as it seemed more like mass murder than a battlefield.
[This event will be recorded in history as the Clash of Realms.]
[You, Benign Cross, shall be recorded with it.]