The battlefield was silent.
Ash drifted through the air beneath a blood-red sky, settling over broken weapons and scorched earth. At its center rode a lone figure, upright and unhurried, silhouetted against the burning horizon.
From a distance, it looked heroic.
A man astride a war beast, cutting through the ruins like a legend pulled from old songs. His posture was steady. His presence absolute. The beast beneath him thundered forward, hooves shaking the ground, breath steaming like a dragon's.
A conqueror.
A survivor.
A hero.
The illusion broke as the distance closed.
The war beast was no dragon—no mythical steed of flame and steel.
It was a boar.
Huge, scarred, half-mad with exhaustion. One tusk was cracked, its hide layered with old wounds and fresh blood. Its legs shook not with power, but with the effort of staying upright.
The rider's armor was worse.
Mismatched plates. Fractured leather. A cloak stiff with dried blood. Nothing about him shone—nothing except the fact that he was still alive.
The boar stumbled.
He leaned forward, tightening his grip.
Behind him, the ground writhed.
Lower demons poured across the plain in a screaming tide—clawed, starving, relentless. They crawled over one another, shrieking in hunger, eyes glowing with corruption as they chased the lone human ahead.
They weren't retreating.
They were hunting.
…You're probably wondering how I ended up like this.
The thought was calm. Almost detached.
Riding a half-dead boar.
With an army of demons on my heels.
No dragon. No glorious partner. No backup.
He glanced back once more.
He exhaled slowly, leaning closer to the boar's ear.
"Just a little more," he murmured. "After that… I'll let them eat you."
The boar screamed and ran faster.
Let's go back a few days.