Alabaster

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“Riflemen! Take position! Shields! Cover them!” A commander shouts out, the lieutenants in each division echoing the command.

Soon, the riflemen have marched to the front of our lines and taken up firing stance. At the same time, the shieldsmen take position in front of the riflemen, tower shields raised to defend against ranged fire. The riflemen perch their guns atop the shields, and take fire.

In succession, the enemies fire. A few unlucky shieldsmen and riflemen fall, dead, but the vast majority survive the onslaught. The enemy’s side appears to have suffered the same general result.

“Front lines! Charge!”

I look around as the soldiers around me take up arms and charge. Taking the hint, i join them in the attack.

The battlefield extends a surprising length. Such a length that it is hell to run across. Especially in this stuffy armor. It takes a two minute’s run before the two opposing sides meet in the center.

It is bloody chaos. War cries here, prayers there. I stumble forward from the force of a blade bouncing off my heavy armor. I turn around, swinging my sword wildly. It accomplishes little more than bouncing off my attacker’s armor.

I can’t see their face, but from the grunts of effort they make, I determine the enemy to be a boy. Not much older than myself.

I steel my blade, quelling my hesitance with the thought that they are just a construct. No more than a magical creation intended to fulfill a role.

I knock away his blade as he thrusts it at my stomach. Taking advantage of the opening, I move in close and impale his stomach with the sword. It slides into a divot in his armor. He shudders for a moment before falling still.

I pull my blade out of his stomach, and turn.

As a horse rider comes barreling my way, lance aimed for my chest, I throw myself to the side. I watch as a catapult boulder smashes into the horse and the man, near instantly instantly obliterating them and sending the lance into the ground all but two feet away from me. I am left shell shocked, splattered with blood, and lying on the ground — which isn’t great position in a battle.

I roll to my side as halberd nearly chops me in two. I narrowly avoid impaling myself on the lance next to me before I rise to my feet. I block the next swing of the halberd by stepping in and grappling the handle of the halberd.

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I yank the halberd out of their hands, and swing my sword into and through their neck. Their head goes flying in a spurt of blood.

I whirl around to catch a man swinging his sword down at my head. I block it with my own sword before stepping in and shoving him to the ground.

Before I can kill the man, another horseman comes barreling towards me. I run to the side, but the bastard keeps on my trail. An idea pops into my head, and I charge towards the lance sticking out of the ground. Yanking it out of the dirt, I whirl around to find the arse coming up fast.

I wait till he has almost reached me, and throw myself to the side, shoving the lance into the horse’s stomach. The horse lets out a screech and topples over, the man falling off it.

I lumber around the horse, courtesy of this overweight armor, and pierce his neck with my sword.

Looking over where the halberd wielder lay, I find nothing but an empty space. I take a breath for a second before charging towards a group of enemies ganging up on two of my side’s soldiers.

I really need a better name than just my side and other side. As I charge across the short distance, I settle on the distinction friends and foes.

With my off hand, I shove one of the five foes to the ground as I stab a second one in the side with my sword. I step on the prone soldier’s throat, crushing it under my armor’s weight and duck under a swing from one of the three remaining standing.

One of the three swings a halberd down at my shoulder. I step in close and grab hold of it, shoving my sword just under their breast plate.

They release the halberd, and I turn to one of the last two remaining. I sheath my sword to wield the halberd with two hands.

Ignoring a strike that bounces off the the armor plating on my back, I swing the halberd into my foe’s shoulder. It cuts through the measly chain mail, chopping the arm clean off. The man screams as his severed arm gushes blood. I leave him to bleed out on the ground.

I turn to the last remaining member of the enemy squad. They rush at me with reckless abandon. I simply sidestep their swing and swing the halberd in a horizontal arc towards their stomach. Their upper half and lower half keep moving, but not in sync. No. Their torso collapses to the ground, severed from waist up, while their legs stumble and trip to the ground. Blood sprays everywhere and guts spill out.

I turn away from the gore before I vomit.

I help the prone friend up.

I continue cutting down foes for an hour or more before the fighting ends. The enemy side retreats, and I look around at my surroundings.

What was not so long ago a serene meadow filled with the fragrance of flowers is now a wasteland filled with blood, shit and death. Almost every meter of area is taken up by corpses. The few uncovered patches of grass and lilies; covered in blood.

As I make my way across the field and back to the war camp, I ponder the morality of all this. They are just constructs, right? No more than tools put in place by the system to challenge participants.

They don’t- can’t have feelings. Because, if they did, it would be no better than slavery. No, I tell myself. They are mere puppets doing the spire’s bidding.

I take a deep breath, and turn away from the scene. I walk up the hill, blood dripping from my armor.

Not my blood.