Macon's eyes fluttered open to the scent of blood and burning wood.
Not his bedroom.
Not his world.
A canvas roof loomed above him, patched with soot and stitched leather. Torchlight flickered across worn pelts and crude weapon racks. Every breath felt heavy, as if the air itself remembered war.
He was back.
"General Macon! You're awake!"
The voice came from a broad-shouldered man kneeling beside him—armor dented, one arm wrapped in bloodied bandages. His face was familiar from previous flashes. A man who had followed him through fire and death.
His second-in-command.
Macon struggled to sit up. Pain rippled across his ribs, the same spot where the wound had reopened in his world.
"What… happened?" he muttered.
"You collapsed after forcing the western flank to retreat," the man said, bowing his head. "The men are holding, but their resolve weakens without your command."
Command.
Resolve.
Army.
Macon swallowed. "I'm not… your general."
The man stared at him—confused, almost offended. "With respect, my lord… who else bears that title?"
Before Macon could argue, the tent flap opened.
Three soldiers entered—one limping, one covered in ash, one barely standing. They knelt without hesitation.
"General Macon George," one said, his voice strained. "Casualties grow. Supplies thin. The men await your decision."
Decision.
That word cut deeper than any blade.
He wanted to scream I'm not your leader! I don't belong here!
But then—outside—the faint echo of chanting reached him.
"—General Macon! General Macon!"
Hundreds of voices. Wounded, exhausted… yet clinging to his name like it was salvation.
His chest tightened.
Why me? Why do you all believe in someone I don't even understand?
The second-in-command stepped forward again. "If you wish to rest, we will buy time. But if you stand…"
He struck his fist over his heart.
"…then we will follow you into hell itself."
Macon closed his eyes.
He wanted to refuse. He should refuse.
But flashes struck him like lightning.
Men training beneath scorching suns.
His own voice shouting Again! until throats were raw.
Soldiers standing taller at his presence.
Pride shining in their eyes.
These weren't fantasies.
They were memories.
His.
Slowly, he rose from the cot.
The soldiers' faces lit with awe.
He didn't feel like a leader.
But the words came anyway.
"Reinforce the barricades. No one retreats without my order."
They bowed deeply.
"Yes, General!"
They rushed out with renewed conviction.
Macon stared at his trembling hands.
"…Did I really just say that?"
He stepped outside.
The night was drowned in smoke and crimson moonlight. Soldiers limped between makeshift tents, sharpening blades, murmuring prayers beneath tattered flags. When they saw him—
Swords lifted. Shields slammed against armor.
"GENERAL MACON!"
The roar shook the ground.
Macon's heart pounded. He didn't know if he should feel pride…
Or fear.
Suddenly—
A cold pulse shot through his ribs.
THUD.
His vision flickered.
The wound glowed faintly beneath the armor.
Return… a whisper echoed.
Not from around him.
From within him.
"No," he growled. "Not now. I'm not leaving them."
Another pulse.
THUD.
He staggered.
The second-in-command rushed forward. "General—?"
"Something's… dragging me away…" Macon hissed through clenched teeth.
The world wavered—colors draining to gray.
The soldier grabbed him by the shoulders.
"General!" His voice shook—not with fear, but desperation. "If this is some curse—if you are bound between worlds—then hear me well…"
He leaned close, tightening his grip.
"Even if gods themselves try to take you—WE WILL DRAG YOU BACK."
Macon's eyes widened.
Then—
CRACK.
Reality tore apart.
The battlefield vanished.
-----
Cold.
Silence.
A ceiling fan hummed above him.
Macon lay flat on his bedroom floor—half in sweat, half in shock.
"Macon?!"
Vivian's voice.
She rushed into the room, still in her work uniform, panic all over her face.
She dropped to her knees, shaking him. "Macon! Wake up! Macon!"
He didn't respond.
She grabbed her phone with trembling hands. "Doctor. Now. Please—please come quickly!"
Minutes blurred.
A family doctor arrived. Checked his pulse. His temperature. His breathing.
It's just exhaustion," the doctor said calmly. "His vitals are stable. Likely stress-related syncope. Let him rest."
Vivian exhaled shakily, brushing hair from Macon's forehead.
Slowly—hesitantly—she lifted the hem of his shirt to check the wound from yesterday.
Her breath caught.
Gone.
Not even a scar.
She froze in place, heart pounding.
That wound was real. I saw the blood… So how…?
The doctor glanced back. "Something wrong?"
Vivian quickly dropped the shirt
. "…No. Nothing."
They moved him to bed.
Pulled the blanket over him.
Vivian sat beside him, refusing to leave his side.
Macon's eyes remained closed.
But beneath the lids—
They twitched.
His fingers curled against the sheets.
Somewhere deep within…
A voice echoed.
"General… return to us…"