The ground was cold. Too cold. Blood, his blood, congealed around him. His body felt heavy, too heavy, like it was sinking into the earth. His hands—his fucking hands—were gone. Nothing but stumps where they used to be.
Pain. Raw, unrelenting pain. But it wasn't the pain of the cuts or the torn flesh. It was the nothingness. The absence of feeling in his hands, the loss of control. It was the worst kind of agony: the kind that made him realize how helpless he was.
He tried to move. Couldn't. His legs refused to obey. His body was broken, shattered, and yet, it wasn't the wounds that had him frozen in place. It was the sight before him.
The dragon.
It was… devouring them.
Its massive jaws clamped down on broken, mangled bodies, tearing through the flesh with disturbing ease. He could hear the sickening crunch of bones, the wet tearing sound as the beast ripped into his comrades. It didn't even slow down. It didn't even care. They were nothing but meat to it. And Reynar was next.
I'm going to die.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.
His breath caught in his throat, and his chest felt like it was caving in. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the image of that creature feeding on them. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to get up, to run, to survive. But his limbs refused to cooperate, his vision swimming with tears that he couldn't wipe away.
I don't want to die like this.
The dragon lifted its head, eyes glinting with malice, glowing like embers in the dark. It sniffed the air, and for a split second, Reynar thought it was looking at him. And then, it stepped forward.
No, no, no—
His heart pounded in his ears, his breath coming in gasps, his entire body shaking. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not like this. He was supposed to survive. He couldn't just lie here and wait for it to eat him, wait for the darkness to take him. He wouldn't die like this.
His throat tightened, but he couldn't scream. Couldn't move.
Please, just move. Please. Please.
The dragon's shadow swallowed him whole, its massive form blotting out the sky. He could feel its heat, the burning pressure of its presence, the sheer death radiating from it. His mind screamed to flee, but it was too late. There was nowhere to run.
I'm going to die. There's nothing I can do. No way out.
His chest felt tight, like a vice was crushing him from the inside out. The fear was choking him, suffocating him, dragging him under.
He was going to die. And the worst part?
It didn't even matter. Not to the dragon. Not to anyone. He was just another body. Just another casualty. The thought wrapped itself around him like chains.
His stomach churned. His heart raced. The weight of inevitability pressed down on him like the end of the world.
No. No, I can't die here. I can't…
But the dragon was already moving closer. Its maw opened wide, ready to finish him off. He couldn't escape. Couldn't fight back. He was powerless, nothing but a broken, bloodied mess. The thought of it—the acceptance of it—all but drowned him.
The last thing he saw before everything went black was the dragon's fiery eyes staring down at him, as though it could already taste his fear.
The weight of it all—the inevitability, the helplessness, the crushing fear—was too much to bear. But then, deep within the suffocating blackness, something sparked. A small flicker of something far more primal.
The only thing that can fight fear is rage.
It burned at the edges of his mind like wildfire. At first, it was a spark, then a spark that quickly grew into an inferno, swallowing everything in its path.
His body was shaking, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, but his mind? His mind was on fire, filled with an anger so fierce it cut through the darkness like a blade.
The dragon was too close now. Too close.
The heat from its breath was suffocating, but it wasn't the heat that made his blood boil. It was the sight of it. The creature that had torn apart everything, that had destroyed everything he knew and cared about. It was right there, ready to snuff out his life like it had done to his comrades. It didn't deserve to live. It didn't deserve to breathe.
Reynar's fist clenched—his bloody stumps trembling with a fury he couldn't control.
He wouldn't die like this. Not today.
I am not going to die.
It was as if a switch had flipped inside of him. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than his ragged breaths. His anger grew, turning every ounce of his fear into something darker. Something raw. Something… deadly.
"YOU WON'T KILL ME!" Reynar screamed, his voice cracking with the intensity of the emotion, a raw snarl ripping through his throat.
He shoved himself to his knees, feeling the searing pain of every broken bone, every shredded muscle, but it didn't matter. The rage was consuming him, pulsing in his veins like molten lava.
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
He felt it then—the power surging from within. Every part of him was filled with the overwhelming need to destroy, to survive, to make this beast pay. He had no hands to wield a weapon, but that didn't matter. He wouldn't let it end here. Not on his knees, not as prey.
The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, its golden eyes narrowing, as if amused by Reynar's defiance. But Reynar didn't care. The dragon's arrogance only fed the fire in him, fanning the flames higher.
"I'M NOT GOING TO DIE TODAY! YOU WILL DIE! YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!"
His roar echoed through the desolate landscape, cutting through the chaos, the terror, the silence of everything that had come before. The rage burned hotter than the dragon's breath, hotter than anything he'd ever felt, and it filled him. Filled him with power, with strength, with purpose.
The dragon's massive jaws closed around him, the sheer force ripping through his body. Teeth like mountains tore through flesh, bone snapping with a sickening crack as Reynar was torn in two. Pain, unimaginable pain, shot through him as the dragon's bite severed him. Blood poured from his body, staining the earth beneath him. His vision blurred, the world spinning as he gasped for air, feeling his life slipping away.
He fell to the ground in a broken heap, the weight of the dragon's strength leaving him in pieces. His body, once full of life, now lay still. The dragon's growl echoed in his ears, deafening, as he could barely comprehend what had just happened.
He couldn't feel his limbs anymore. The pain that had surged through him was now distant, fading into a cold emptiness. He couldn't think—couldn't move—couldn't fight. All that was left was the sound of the dragon's victory and the darkness closing in.
As the darkness crept in, Reynar's lips curled into a faint, twisted grin. His final thought echoed in his mind, bitter and cold.
"Is this how it ends?"
He let out a weak, breathless laugh. "Haha… life really sucks."
And then, the world went black.
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"…Eh… light? Is… this… heaven?"
R-e-y-n-a-r…
A voice. Distant. Echoing.
"Who… who's calling me?"
Silence answered him.
He turned his head slightly to the left. His neck ached, his body numb. And there—standing in a haze of white—was a woman in a flowing dress, radiant and still.
"Reynar!"
His eyes snapped open.
A blinding light poured in. Cold sheets. The sharp smell of antiseptic.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
"…Am I… not dead?"
Then—it appeared.
Eyes. Those eyes.
Burning like coals in his memory.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! YOU! WHY ARE YOU HERE?!"
Reynar screamed, thrashing in panic.
"Calm him down!"
"Grab him—quick!"
"Get the anesthetic!"
"Now, damn it—move!"
Chaos exploded in the room. Nurses flooded to his side, struggling to restrain him. Reynar's mind had snapped. Panic surged, drowning out reason. He kicked, fought, shouted incoherently until—
—a sharp sting in his arm.
The sedative took hold fast. His limbs grew heavy. His vision blurred again.
And just before darkness returned, a final, confused whisper escaped his lips:
"…Why… am I still alive…?"
"I don't understand… Why am I alive?"
His voice trembled in the quiet room. "Was it all… just a nightmare?"
But then—why this weight in his chest? Why did his hands still feel like they were gone? Why did it feel so real?
"…Then what is this feeling?"
A thick silence answered. Heavy. Almost accusing.
—
Reynar stirred again, eyes fluttering open. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—white, cracked, humming with a faint flicker of electricity.
"My head… I feel dizzy…"
"Well, that's what happens when we use half a bottle of anesthetic on someone."
A voice. Calm. Dry. Familiar.
Reynar blinked. His thoughts were foggy, drifting. Where have I heard that voice before?
"…Who?"
His vision slowly cleared—and there he was.
The scar. The beard. The white hair, slightly more unkempt than usual.
"…Captain?"
The old man crossed his arms. "Yeah. Finally awake. You've been out for a week."
Reynar tried to sit up, instinctively—but a jolt of pain lanced through his side. He winced, collapsing back onto the bed, breath ragged.
"…What the hell happened to me…?"
The captain stepped forward, his expression grim, eyes locked onto Reynar's with a weight that pierced deeper than words.
"That's what I came here to understand as well."
Reynar blinked, confused. "What… what do you mean?"
But before the captain could answer, the realization began to creep in. The silence. The sterile room. The absence of laughter… or voices… or anyone else.
Reynar's voice cracked, his chest tightening."…The others. Where are they?"
The captain held Reynar's gaze for a moment longer before turning toward the door.
"Come with me," he said flatly.
Two soldiers stood outside the room, fully geared. They exchanged glances as Reynar stepped out, the weight of confusion still heavy in his chest. No one spoke. The walk was quiet, almost ceremonial—like they were escorting him to a place where the truth would finally be handed over… or buried.
They led him down a long corridor, past thick doors and dim lights that hummed above like low whispers. Eventually, they stopped at a metallic door. The captain gave a short nod, and one of the soldiers opened it.
Inside was a dimly lit room—bare walls of steel, a rectangular table bolted to the floor, and at the far end, a single man seated with eerie stillness.
His presence was impossible to ignore.
White hair fell around his shoulders like snow over ash, untamed yet deliberate. His pale skin was marred by faint scars, the kind earned over years of blood and war. A long black coat wrapped around his form, partially hiding the strange silver trinkets and clasps attached to his chest—like trophies from forgotten battles.
But it was his eyes that stopped Reynar in his tracks.
Cold. Piercing. Ancient.
They studied Reynar with an unsettling calm—like a wolf inspecting a wounded beast, not out of hunger, but curiosity.
The man didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The captain turned to Reynar and nodded toward the seat across the table.
"Sit down, Reynar. There's someone you need to meet."
Reynar was still confused, his thoughts hazy, the room feeling both too small and far too vast. He didn't know who this man was—but still, he sat down, instinctively obeying the silent pressure in the room.
The captain remained standing behind him, arms folded.
"Reynar," he began, voice steady. "Let me introduce you. This is Zaor… a High Commander."
Those last two words echoed in Reynar's mind like a tolling bell.
High Commander.
A title reserved for only a handful across history. A living legend—those who had once led vast armies into war against the forces of Chaos. Revered. Feared. Untouchable.
And now, one of them sat across from him.
Zaor leaned forward slightly. His expression unreadable, but his presence heavy.
"You must be Reynar, correct?" His voice was deep, calm… but it carried an edge that pierced straight through.
"…Yes," Reynar replied quietly.
"I understand you're confused. Everything must feel like a blur right now."
Reynar nodded slowly.
"I'm going to ask you a few questions. And I want answers. Clear ones."
Zaor's gaze locked onto Reynar's, unblinking.
"Tell me—what happened in the forest?"
Reynar froze. The word forest brought it all back like a thunderclap.
"The forest…?" he echoed. "Wait—what happened to the others? Where are they? Maria? Ares?
G—"
"They're dead," Zaor said, cutting him off.
"…What?"
"All the teams sent into that mission. Wiped out. Every single one. No survivors…"
Zaor leaned forward.
"…Except for you."
Reynar's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened as the weight of reality crashed into him.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination.
They were all gone.
"…So I'll ask again," Zaor said, voice lower now. "What caused that?"
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What's this? Is this sadness? No… it's something else. A feeling… this emptiness. Why am i not sad... shouldn't i cry for my comrades? What's going on.
The weight in Reynar's chest pressed harder with every breath. A dull ache, like a wound that refused to close. His eyes stared forward, unfocused, trapped in the haze of memory and trauma.
From that moment, Reynar recounted everything to Zaor. The forest, the ambush, the terror. But he kept one truth buried—the part where he died.
"It can't be…" Zaor muttered.
"What?" Reynar looked up.
"Antares."
"…?"
"The dragon you described. It matches the ancient records. The eyes, the scale color, the pressure… That was him."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Antares isn't supposed to be anywhere near Zendia."
Reynar froze.
"Are you serious right now…? You're telling me you knew about a monster like that?!"
Zaor leaned forward, his voice calm but stern."I need to be sure, boy. Are you certain it was him?"
That did it.
Reynar's body tensed, a crack running through what little composure he had left.
"ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME?! YOU THINK I MADE THIS UP? AFTER EVERYTHING? I SAW DEATH! I WATCHED MY TEAM GET SLAUGHTERED AND YOU THINK I'M WRONG?!"
He stood up, his voice raw."WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU, HUH?! IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, THEN GO TO THAT GODDAMN FOREST AND ASK HIM YOURSELF—YOU F*CKING BASTAAAAARD!"
The captain and two guards rushed in as Reynar thrashed, shoving the chair back.
"Take him out. Let him breathe."
They guided Reynar—still seething, still shaking—out of the room.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sunlight hit Reynar's face like a slap—harsh, unwanted, real.
He stumbled forward, boots crunching against gravel and dried blood. The fresh air did little to cleanse what was inside him. There was no wind. Just silence… and the overwhelming stench of death.
Ahead of him, the field stretched endlessly. Bodies—dozens of them—lined up in imperfect rows. Each covered by a white blanket, stained at the edges where crimson had seeped through. Some were small. Some were far too still. But all were the same: gone.
Reynar's steps slowed as he approached the scene. His breath hitched. The pit in his stomach, that strange void he couldn't name earlier… it grew. He wasn't sad. He wasn't angry. It was worse than that.
He felt nothing.
Not even numbness. It was as if the part of him that could feel had been burned away. The man from before, the one who cracked jokes, who dared to dream, who chased answers about his past—he wasn't here anymore.
He stared at the rows of blanketed corpses.
Was it guilt? No. Was it grief? Maybe. But what echoed inside him wasn't mourning.
It was emptiness. A hollow chasm, too wide and too dark to see the bottom of.
"This is what's left," he thought. "This is the price."
He lowered his head, eyes tracing the white shrouds, one by one. He didn't even know all their names. Some were faces he'd only seen twice. Others were men who joked with him around the fire. And now they were just… objects. Covered. Forgotten.
He clenched his fists.
And paused.
His hands. They were there. Whole. Unwounded.
But he remembered the pain. He remembered the dragon's teeth, the blood, the moment they were torn from his arms like paper. So how were they here now?
He turned them over slowly. Stared at his fingers. His palms. Flexed them. No scars. No damage.Just flesh. Warm. Alive.
His breath became shallow.
"Am I… dreaming again?" he muttered. "No. No, I'm not. This is real. This is real…"
But his voice shook. Because nothing about this felt real. It felt like he was walking through the grave of a world that had already ended—and somehow, he'd been forgotten inside it.
A broken laugh escaped him. Then silence.
He looked up once more at the sea of white sheets.
"I should've died too," he whispered to no one. "Why didn't I?"
The sun beat down on the field. The dead did not answer.
And Reynar stood there—hands whole, soul shattered, and surrounded by the silence of those who never got a second chance.