The world ended with a flash.

  Jake didn’t see it coming. Not really. Not until the deafening blast tore through the street and threw him to the ground.

  He had been walking home from work, earbuds in, phone in hand, oblivious to the chaos about to erupt. The city smelled of exhaust and rain-damp concrete. A normal day. A normal life.

  Then everything changed.

  Glass shattered. Metal screamed. The smell of fire and smoke hit first, hot and choking. He felt the impact before he registered it—the ground folding under him, then an explosion of sound and pain that ripped through his chest.

  He couldn’t breathe. His ears rang, voices muted into distant echoes. People fell around him, screaming, crying, disappearing into smoke. For a second, everything seemed to stretch and slow.

  But survival wasn’t an option.

  Pain exploded. Heat, fire, and shrapnel tore through him. He saw hands, eyes, and faces, even as the world dissolved into screaming red and black.

  And then nothing.

  Groaning, Jake pushed himself up—and froze.

  The field around him wasn’t empty.

  A village burned in the distance, its thatched roofs swallowed by flames. Black smoke coiled into the sky, carrying with it the stench of charred flesh. Screams—high-pitched, desperate—cut through the air.

  His stomach twisted.

  He woke choking on smoke.

  Air clawed its way into his lungs, searing all the way down. His body convulsed violently, dragging in breath after breath as pain slammed back into him—sharper now, undeniable, proof that whatever should have ended him had failed. He rolled onto his side and retched, bile mixing with dirt and ash.

  I’m still breathing.

  That thought landed heavy, unwelcome.

  This wasn’t a hospital.

  There were no sterile lights, no distant beeping—no mercy.

  The ground beneath him was uneven and wet. When his fingers curled into it, they came away slick. The smell followed a heartbeat later—iron thick enough to taste, rot clinging to the air, burning oil that stung his eyes and refused to let him forget.

  Screams carried over the smoke. Not panicked cries, but drawn-out, breaking sounds—cut through by the clean, merciless ring of steel striking steel.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Jake lay there, gasping, and understood one thing with terrifying clarity:

  Whatever world this was, it was already killing someone—and it wasn’t finished yet.

  Jake forced himself to move.

  His arms trembled as he pushed against the ground, muscles protesting like they hadn’t been used in years—or had been used too much, torn down and rebuilt wrong. His vision swam. Smoke blurred the world into streaks of gray and orange.

  He got to one knee.

  That was when he saw the bodies.

  They lay scattered between the trees and the edge of the field, twisted in ways no living thing should bend. Some wore rough-spun clothes, burned and torn. Others were clad in leather and mail, their weapons fallen from slack hands. Blood soaked into the earth in dark, spreading patches, turning mud into something thick and sticky.

  Civilians. Soldiers.

  No difference now.

  Jake swallowed hard. His throat burned, but not from the smoke.

  This is what I left behind, a voice in him whispered. This is what I ran from.

  A shout rang out—closer this time. Harsh, barking words in a language he didn’t understand, followed by a wet, choking cry that ended too abruptly.

  His fingers curled into the dirt.

  Get up, he told himself. Or die here.

  He staggered to his feet.

  The village came into clearer view beyond the smoke. Flames crawled along rooftops like living things. Figures moved between the buildings—some armored, purposeful, cutting down anything that tried to flee. Others ran, stumbled, fell.

  Jake took a step back.

  A boot crunched behind him.

  He turned—

  Too slow.

  Something slammed into his chest, knocking him flat. Air exploded from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, stars bursting across his vision. A heavy weight pressed down on him, pinning him in place.

  “Found one.”

  The voice was calm. Almost bored.

  A cold hand fisted in his clothes and hauled him up with brutal ease. Jake’s feet dangled uselessly as he gasped, hands scrabbling against metal that didn’t give.

  The man holding him was tall, wrapped head to toe in black armor that drank in the firelight. Jagged plates overlapped like scales, each edge sharp enough to look deliberate. Etched into his shoulder was a silver symbol—a serpent devouring its own tail, worn smooth by time and blood.

  Jake met the man’s eyes and felt his pulse stutter.

  They were pale. Flat. Empty.

  Not angry.

  Not cruel.

  Just finished.

  “Another stray,” the soldier said, tilting his head slightly as if inspecting damaged goods. “You people have a talent for showing up at the worst possible time.”

  Jake tried to speak. Nothing came out.

  The soldier’s grip tightened—just a fraction. Pain flared, clean and precise.

  “Tell me,” the man continued, voice low enough that only Jake could hear it, “do you know what happens to those who wander into a war without a banner… without a name?”

  In the distance, something screamed—and was cut short.

  The soldier leaned closer.

  “You’re about to learn.”

  The soldier released him.

  Jake hit the ground on his knees, coughing, hands scraping uselessly at the dirt. Before he could recover, cold metal pressed against the back of his neck.

  A blade.

  Thin. Steady. Close enough that he could feel the chill of it through his skin.

  “Look,” the soldier ordered.

  Jake’s head was forced up.

  Across the field, the village burned. A woman stumbled from a collapsing house, dragging a child behind her. She made it three steps before an armored figure cut her down. The child screamed once—then stopped.

  Jake’s jaw clenched. His teeth shook.

  Not again.

  The blade pressed harder.

  “This,” the soldier said calmly, “is the price of being in the wrong place and wrong time.”

  Jake shut his eyes.

  He didn’t beg.

  He didn’t pray.

  He waited for the end he thought he deserved.

  Something shifted.

  Not in the world—but inside him.

  A sensation like cold fingers brushing the back of his skull. Not gentle. Not kind.

  A presence.

  And then—

  [ERROR]

  The word burned itself into his vision, sharp and invasive, as the blade began to descend.