As the morning sun ascended over the horizon, it showered a mountain with its luminous rays of sunlight—a mountain with fallen bodies of soldiers littering it. The light bounced off the decaying corpses' armours, blinding a sole man wearing a grim expression as he stood his ground amidst the countless lifeless bodies of his comrades.

His eyes were hazy yet refined. It was almost as if he had been used to such a grotesque sight throughout his entire lifetime. A dull and cracked blade had its handle clasps in the man's right hand. The man stared at the thousands of dead bodies with a despondent look on his face.

A sigh of melancholy escaped from the man's mouth before he began digging a grave for each and every individual soldier on top of the mountain. The man was of a humble background. In order to support his family, he enlisted as a soldier for the House of Altifirma. The tasks he was ordered to carry out were brutal, yet it was the only thing that helped his family from being famished.

However, he started noticing changes after having been working for a while. He no longer felt guilty, nor fear when he saw his comrades' death. The amount of battles he had participated in had finally taken its toll on the soldier. The fear of death, guilt and remorse for being unable to protect his comrades—those emotions had long eroded. He was barely holding onto the last bit of humanity he had.

Knowing this, he needed to find a way to persevere. With every squad that were annihilated—the man would bury the carcasses and give them a proper send off. He wasn't religious, but he still prayed for the fallen. If it were the past version of himself, he would've naively requested for his commander to help him bury the bodies. But the current him knew best about his superiors more than anything else.

The soldiers, himself included, are nothing more than mere pawns. Pawns on a chessboard with the sole goal of checkmating a queen. Many sacrifices were made, yet those that reigned from their seats remain undeterred. They treated human life similar to that of ants, sending them to battles over, and over again for their own benefits and nothing more. Their authority was unrivalled, and so they utilised it to its fullest extent.

The man wanted to rebel, but how could he? He was a mere commoner. An illiterate commoner that took up this unforgiving job to continue feeding his family. The soldier shed a single tear drop as he picked up the corpse of the colleague he was most friendly with. Slowly, he laid the body inside of a hole he made before covering it in a thin layer of dirt.

He continued digging holes, burying his fallen comrades' bodies and praying for each individual soldier. On the 65th body, he heard the sound of a neighing horse. A neigh that belonged to no one else, apart from his commander's personal ride. Standing up, the man fixed his gaze towards a warrior making its way over to him—cladded in refined iron armour that fully protected the warrior from any danger and wielding a sharp and mighty lance—while riding a vicious looking horse that had partaken in more wars than the man could ever count.

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The horse trampled over the lifeless bodies without remorse, facing the solemn man with a glare. The warrior stepped off his mount and pointed his lance at the soldier. Taking off his helmet, the warrior issued a single command with no less than three words. "Come back."

The soldier nodded his head somberly, having long accepted that against his superior—he was nothing more than a puppet that only needed to execute orders from people that governed the world. However, before the man left—he asked his commander a single question.

"Will you…be willing to allow me…bury the deceased first?"

"What a ridiculous notion." The warrior suddenly clutched the soldier's chainmail chest plate and dragged him close to his face that was seemingly full of rage and lacked sympathy. "We are soldiers, not priests. We are tasked to kill, not to bury and pray. So, stop acting like a saint, Rhodus. Throw away those useless morales of yours and just focus on the present and future, not the damn past."

The warrior shoved the soldier, Rhodus, away, causing him to land onto the bloodied ground. He then mounted his fearsome horse before leaving in a hurry. Rhodus stared deeply into the sky, pondering whether things could've changed if he had just enlisted for another noble house instead. But he knew it was futile to dwell on a scenario that had already passed. Getting up from the ground, he bowed at the people he could not bury in time before he made his way back to the accursed manor that shaped him to be like this.

…

"Hey…isn't that the lucky bastard that always survived?" An infantry asked.

"Yeah…that's him. The bastard that somehow always manages to survive. They say he has been with four squads, but always ended up being the sole survivor every single time." Another answered, gazing at Rhodus from afar.

"Maybe he isn't lucky, but rather…he secretly made a pact with the witches to ensure he wouldn't die." One chimed in.

Words began circulating throughout the entire manor like wildfire. The servants and soldiers glared at Rhodus with mixed emotions. Some were envious of his uncanny luck that carried him throughout all the battles he had fought. Others were enraged by how such a dishonourable soldier still had the audacity to continue working while his colleagues died in his stead. While a few pitied him for his wretched fate.

Nevertheless, Rhodus couldn't care less for the gazes he received. He was all too familiar with those looks. Whether it was anger, envy or pity that they felt for him, he knew not to bother with such people. He enlisted to kill and protect his family, not to care for his notoriety or status. As long as he could keep surviving and working, his family would be fed day by day with each dawn that broke.

As Rhodus made his way back to his barrack, three unique individuals caught his attention from the corners of his eyes. A pair of guards escorted these peculiar men towards the duke's daughter's chamber. One was a giant that made the spacious manor appear small due to his sheer height. Another was a girly yet oddly boyish man with cobalt-blue hair—a fairly rare genetic mutation but nothing noteworthy for most. While the last one, albeit seemingly possessing the most generic vibe out of them all—was blessed with pink hair, a colour that seemingly did not belong in this world.

Rhodus felt perplexed yet curious, staring at the individuals as they passed by him through the corridor. Swiftly, he composed himself and continued onwards with his journey. Although he was intrigued, he knew best not to involve himself in the duke's daughter's business. A dispirited look crept up onto his face as the man murmured dejectedly beneath his breath.

"How foolish, Rhodus…Involving yourself in the young lady's business will only get you killed…All you need to do is survive…again and again…over and over until…you can retire…hopefully."

…