Later that afternoon, the doctors finally discharged him. His sister, Vivian, fussed over him the entire way home, carrying his bag even though he insisted he could manage.
When he entered his room, the first thing he did was peel back the bandages. The wound still stung faintly, but what froze him in place was the light—red sparks pulsed faintly along the scar, like embers refusing to die.
His breath caught. The moment his fingers brushed the scar, flashes filled his mind—
Soldiers lined in rows.
The crack of whips as men trained.
His own voice booming, "Hold your ground! Again!"
He staggered back, gripping the edge of his desk. These weren't just dreams. They were memories. Memories of a man he wasn't supposed to be.
"Macon!"
He blinked. Vivian stood in the doorway, her brows furrowed.
"Food's ready," she said.
He didn't answer—his mind still drowning in the images of soldiers, swords, and blood.
"Macon?" she called again, her voice trembling now. "Don't tell me you're—"
"Yes, Vivian." His voice finally broke through.
She let out a shaky sigh of relief and rushed forward, smacking his arm lightly. "You scared me. Do you know what it feels like? Since Mom and Dad are gone, you're all I have. I can't lose you too."
Her voice cracked, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes.
Macon froze, guilt burning in his chest. He hugged her tightly. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispered. But even as he said it, he didn't know if it was true.
They ate in silence after that, and later Vivian left for her evening shift.
Macon packed his bag and went to class. The lecture hall buzzed with voices, papers rustling, but none of it reached him. His thoughts were stuck on the scar. The sparks. The battlefield.
Why do they call me General? Why me?
He stared down at his notes, words blurring into nothing. As soon as class ended, he rushed home, opened his laptop, and searched desperately—dreams that cause scars, parallel lives, shared consciousness. But everything he found sounded like nonsense, like people spinning wild theories. None of it explained what was happening to him.
Frustrated, he slammed the laptop shut and collapsed onto his bed. Sleep took him faster than he expected.
——
"Macon! The enemy's cavalry is pushing from the west!"
He jolted upright—only, he wasn't in his room anymore. He was standing on the battlefield again, armor heavy on his shoulders, sword gripped tight in his hand. Dust and blood filled the air.
"General!" his second-in-command shouted, pointing at the approaching wave of soldiers.
Macon's mouth went dry. This wasn't just a dream anymore. It was too vivid, too raw. The ground quaked under the pounding of hooves, the clash of steel rang sharp in his ears.
He raised his blade. His voice rang out without hesitation: "Hold the line!"
The soldiers roared, crashing against the enemy with brutal force. Macon moved with them, his body fighting as if it had done this for years. Blades clashed, sparks flew, his muscles burned.
And then—pain.
A sword ripped across his side, cutting deep—the exact spot where his scar burned in the real world.
He stumbled, dropping to one knee, his sword buried in the dirt to keep him from collapsing completely.
"General Macon!" his soldiers screamed, voices breaking.
His vision blurred, the world tilting sideways. Still, he forced himself up one last time, swinging his blade, driving the enemy back with desperate fury. The opposing troops finally wavered, retreating into the distance.
But Macon's strength was gone. His knees buckled, his sword slipping from his grasp. The last thing he saw was his men rushing toward him, shouting
his name with fear and devotion—
And then everything went dark.