Macon jolted awake.
Not gradually, not peacefully—he exploded out of sleep as if ripped from another world. His back arched off the mattress, lungs dragging in a sharp gasp of air like a drowning man breaching the surface. Sweat soaked his shirt, plastering it to his skin. His heart slammed against his ribs in wild panic.
For a split second, he couldn't tell where he was.
The screams of soldiers still echoed in his ears.
The metallic stench of blood clung to his nostrils.
The clang of steel still rang in his skull.
His surroundings—the familiar walls of his bedroom—blurred and warped, shifting like a mirage. The cream-colored paint flickered into scorched stone battlements. His posters wavered, melting into charred banners soaked in soot. He could still hear them—men shouting his name.
General!
Hold the line!
General Macon, we await your order!
His breath caught. His eyes stung. He didn't dare blink.
It wasn't just a dream.
It never was.
Slowly—terrified of confirming the truth—he lowered a trembling hand to his side.
His fingertips brushed the old scar that ran along his ribs.
Except it wasn't just a scar anymore.
Warm. Wet. Raw.
His fingers froze.
No.
No, no, no—
Not again
He yanked his hand back and stared at it.
Red.
His palm was smeared in blood.
His chest tightened, frantic breaths tearing from his throat. The room tilted. A wave of nausea slammed into him as every dark memory surged forward—swords slashing across his side, searing pain, hot blood streaming down armor he didn't remember putting on.
But I felt it. I bled. I… I was there.
He threw off his blanket and forced himself to look.
The wound had reopened.
Not a small cut. Not a scratch.
A deep, fresh gash ran across his ribs, the skin split open like something had clawed through it from the inside. The flesh around it pulsed with a faint red glow, as if alive.
"What—what's happening to me?" he whispered.
Panic flared.
He stumbled to his desk and yanked open a drawer, retrieving his first aid kit with unsteady hands. The metal tin rattled, pills and gauze clinking like bones in a coffin.
"Calm. Calm. Just—just clean it. Wrap it. Pretend it's normal."
He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to open the antiseptic.
But the moment the cotton touched the wound—
A white-hot pain exploded through his body.
"AGH!"
He cried out—loud, raw, and helpless.
The bottle slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
"Macon!"
Vivian's voice. His sister.
No. Not now.
She burst into the room without knocking, eyes wide with panic. "What happened?! I heard you scream—"
He reacted on instinct, slamming his hand over the wound and kicking the first aid kit beneath the bed.
"Nothing!" he rasped, forcing a steady voice he didn't have. "I'm fine."
Vivian stared at him, chest heaving. "Fine? You were screaming."
"I—I stubbed my toe."
Her expression said she didn't buy it for a second.
Her gaze flicked to the sweat on his forehead. His shaking hands. The blood smeared faintly across his side.
"Macon…" She took a cautious step forward. "I hope it's not what I'm thinking… why is there blood on you? This isn't sleepwalking. There's something you're not telling me, Macon!"
He recoiled without thinking. "I said I'm fine!"
Silence.
Vivian's brows furrowed—not in anger, but in hurt.
"…Okay," she finally murmured, voice soft.
She lingered for a moment longer, searching his face for truth.
But Macon had already looked away.
Vivian exhaled quietly. " I will be going to work, we will talk when I'm back"
She left the room.
Macon didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Only when he heard her footsteps fade did he allow himself to shake.
He slumped to the floor beside his bed, one hand clutching the wound, the other digging into the carpet.
The pulsing beneath his skin continued. Throbbing. Beating. As if something inside was trying to wake up.
He shut his eyes.
But behind his eyelids—flashes of the battlefield returned like lightning.
A sky split in crimson.
Burning arrows raining down like meteors.
Men kneeling before him, chanting his name.
General Macon George!
He saw himself—standing at the frontlines, armor stained in gold and blood, sword in hand.
Confidence in his eyes.
Power in his stance.
An aura of command he had never possessed in this life.
But the feeling—the fury, the pain, the responsibility—it was real.
And the wound…
…was proof.
"Funny," he muttered with dry sarcasm. "Maybe this is how my boring life finally gets interesting."
He tried to force his mind somewhere else. Homework. Chores. Anything to keep from spiraling.
But the battlefield clawed at him relentlessly.
Every heartbeat brought another memory.
Every glance at the wound whispered Come back.
His hands curled into fists.
Why me?
He didn't know how long he sat there.
Minutes. Hours. Time blurred.
Eventually, he forced himself up and faced the mirror.
He expected to see himself—tired, pale, shaken.
But instead…
For a single second—
He saw someone else.
His own reflection—but standing straight-backed in crimson armor, eyes burning with a ruthless fire.
Then the image flickered away like static.
His heart leapt into his throat. He staggered backward.
"No… no… no…"
He gripped the sink, breathing raggedly.
"This is impossible. This can't be real."
But the mirror didn't lie.
And neither did the blood.
Suddenly—THUD.
A deafening pulse shot through the wound.
The pain was no longer sharp.
It was deep.
Rooted.
Spreading.
He gasped as a strange sensation rippled beneath his skin. Like something alive was slithering through his veins, spreading outward from the wound in branching patterns.
Cell clustering.
He didn't know where the term came from—science class? A random documentary? Someone else's memory?—but it echoed sharply in his mind.
The flesh around the wound tightened unnaturally, like invisible tendrils were pulling it apart.
He stumbled forward, clutching his side.
His knees buckled.
The room tilted again.
His ears rang.
This time—he didn't catch himself.
He collapsed.
His cheek hit the cold floorboards. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges.
Somewhere in the distance—he heard voices.
Not Vivian's.
Not human.
He returns…
The bridge awakens…
General… come back to us…
"No…" he whispered weakly. "Leave me alone…"
But the voices grew louder.
The wound pulsed again.
Then—
Everything went quiet.
Darkness swallowed him.
No sound.
No pain.
No breath.
Just one faint whisper curling against his ear.
"Wake up….