The noise of rustling armour jolted me awake. It was time. I donned my armour, grabbed my sword, and headed out to join the other soldiers who were waiting diligently for commands. I couldn't find Ruvy, but I assumed he had joined a different part of the formation.

A high-ranking officer shouted at the top of his lungs, "Ready, soldiers, for today is the day you become men!" As the commander delivered a heartening yet somewhat tedious speech, I scanned the crowd and spotted Almon. He sat astride a magnificent horse, leading a contingent of about five hundred cavalrymen. Both horse and rider were clad in high-quality armour, with red feathers adorning the tops of their helmets. The speech ended, and before I realised it, we were marching toward a hill just tall enough to obscure the view beyond it. The cavalry had vanished over the crest, but that didn't worry me; I knew that, in the end, I could rely only on myself.

As we reached the top of the hill, a vast field unfolded before us, with an almost mystical forest at its edge. "Where are the Sylvans?" I wondered, scanning the seemingly empty landscape. We lined up, each square of soldiers forming a formidable wall, and marched forward. I was in the second row, ensuring that whatever attacked us would have to get through the front line first, giving me precious moments to react.

Stepping towards the forest felt like walking into the unknown, but I was not afraid. Whatever lay ahead couldn't compare to the danger of the lion I had once slain. Then I felt it—the ground began to rumble. Emerging from the forest was an army of soldiers clad in battle-worn armour, wielding tall pikes. Their numbers were daunting, seemingly twice ours. Now I understood why the emperor had gathered such a massive force; the Sylvans truly deserved their reputation as a formidable empire.

Both armies advanced toward each other in a disciplined, organised manner, with soldiers on each side determined to survive. The sight of the pikes filled me with a small sense of doubt as I struggled to devise a way to get past them unscathed. Before long, we were face to face with the Sylvan forces, close enough to see the resolve in their eyes. The clash was imminent, and the air was thick with the anticipation of battle.

And then it came, so suddenly. The high-ranking officer from before commanded, "Charge!" I was momentarily bewildered, and by the time I began to carry out my orders, the wall of soldiers had already clashed with the pikes. What followed was a gruesome sight as the Cassis soldiers, helplessly charging forward, were skewered by the prickly wall. The Sylvan line was formidable; I saw no way through as my comrades in the front struggled against the deadly pikes. Some pikes impaled multiple men, one atop another, yet the spikes remained upright under the weight.

I knew I had to make a decisive move to break their lines. Panic gripped me as I searched for a solution, desperate to survive. Suddenly, a cold resolve took hold—I decided to put my life above everyone else's. A thought nagged at me: was I truly part of this world, or was it all a figment of my imagination? Pushing aside my guilt with a steely will to live, I acted. I shoved the soldier in front of me toward the pike. As he was pierced, I used the gap created to leap forward into the enemy formation.

The Sylvans were momentarily stunned. There I stood, blade in hand, ready to end the lives of these strangers. They dropped their pikes and fumbled for the short swords at their sides, but it was too late. I began slicing through their formation, limbs flying and panicked gazes all around. The beautiful blade dance, a skill I had learned from Almon, combined with my ferocious spirit, instilled fear in the surrounding Sylvans.

A sharp pain erupted in my shoulder as a blade struck me, but it wasn't enough to halt my frenzy. My expression, unreadable. The world narrowed to a singular focus: the heaps of flesh obstructing my path to survival. Each swing of my sword carved a bloody path, and the battlefield became a blur of violence and chaos. I was unstoppable, my mind filled with the ecstasy of battle.

I now understood why my father had forbidden me from participating in combat sports. The Enma family name, though obscure to many, carried a weight that every Japanese person recognized. It embodied the essence of a demon, the god of hell, the king of the underworld. However, I was not a king; I was merely the emissary.

Moments had passed since I had entered my frenzy. The Sylvans had formed a wary circle around me, their short swords poised as if I were a wild beast in a cage. Then, a figure emerged from their ranks. He was a tall man, resplendent in gold and silver armour, his head obscured by a majestic helmet adorned with wings. He held a great sword with both hands, and his stance spoke of countless battles fought and won, I guessed he was their commander.

"You have caused enough chaos, strange man. But your disruption ends here," the knight declared, stepping forward with a sense of purpose. His presence reminded me of the Gauntlet, a brutal match where I had once fought Lupus. But unlike the agile gladiator, the knight before me was encased in heavy armour.

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The battlefield, previously alive with the clash of steel and the cries of warriors, fell eerily silent. The Sylvans, warriors of the forest, stood still, their eyes wide and breaths held as they watched the confrontation unfold.

The knight, resplendent in his ornate armour, made the first move. With a confidence that bordered on arrogance, he swung his greatsword in a powerful arc. The blade, massive and gleaming, sliced through the air with a whoosh. Yet, despite the display of strength, the swing was sluggish, telegraphed by the knight's overconfidence. I sidestepped effortlessly, my movements fluid and precise.

In that brief moment, as the knight's sword passed harmlessly by, I observed the weaknesses in his armour. The joints, designed for mobility, were left exposed—vulnerable points that I could exploit. The intricate design, meant to balance protection with flexibility, was his undoing. I intended to exploit this flaw to its fullest.

Undeterred by his initial failure, the knight adjusted his stance and launched a second attack. This time, the swing was horizontal, aimed to cleave me in two. It was faster, a testament to his experience in battle, but still predictable. I ducked beneath the sweeping blade, feeling the rush of air as it passed over my head.

In one quick motion, I slid behind him, the ground barely making a sound under my feet. The knight's back was now exposed, the vulnerable spots at the back of his knees clear to me. I slashed at these weak points. My sword cut deep, the blade biting into flesh and sinew. A spray of blood arced through the air.

A gasp rippled through the Sylvans as the knight collapsed, his legs giving way beneath him. He fell to his knees, the strength sapped from his body, and used his great sword to steady himself. The majestic warrior who had strode towards me with such purpose was now reduced to a pitiful figure, trembling and vulnerable, awaiting the final blow.

How anticlimactic. Moments ago, he had strode towards me with the confidence of a seasoned warrior. Now, he was reduced to a trembling, pitiful figure, awaiting the final blow that would send him to meet his maker.

As I stood there, towering over the fallen knight, he tried to speak, his voice weak and trembling. "What is your name, warr—" He never had the chance to finish his sentence. I had no time for pleasantries. I decapitated him, silencing him forever.

"You are not worthy."

The scene was seared into the memory of every witness. There I stood, the lifeless body of the Sylvan commander at my feet, surrounded by his stunned followers. They were poised to attack, eager to avenge their leader's death. But in this moment, their resolve wavered, and even under the pressure of a thousand soldiers, I would not falter.

"Your commander is dead!" I screamed, my voice echoing across the battlefield. "Will you follow his fate?" I sought to crush the spirit of any who dared to challenge me.

Fear was evident on their faces. What stood before them was an otherworldly warrior, an existence beyond their comprehension.

Amidst my theatrics, a new sound emerged—heavy footsteps pounding from the right flank of the battlefield. It was Commander Almon, leading the cavalry unit that had vanished before the fight. They charged through the Sylvan forces, sowing chaos and driving the enemy into a panicked retreat. The Cassis soldiers pursued relentlessly, cutting down any who tried to flee. I remained still, my gaze fixed on the headless body of the Sylvan commander. His sword caught my eye, its craftsmanship remarkable. I decided to claim it as my own.

In the aftermath, with the remaining Sylvan soldiers either captured or killed, Commander Almon approached me. "You did well. I could see from afar," he proclaimed, his tone filled with approval.

He had been watching us? This realisation struck me—were we merely a diversion, a sacrificial force while they waited for the opportune moment?

I shrugged off his praise and turned away, re-joining my comrades as they prepared to march back to camp. The day's events had left a bitter taste in my mouth, but there was no time for reflection. The battle was over, but the war was far from won.

As we began to arrive back at the camp, the sight that greeted us was not an empty encampment, but a grisly display of punishment and discipline. Lines of crucified soldiers lined the path, each with wooden boards hanging from their necks. The signs bore the damning words, "I am a coward." These were the men who had attempted to flee before our departure.

Whilst walking past these unholy crosses a noise from my right drew my attention, and as I turned, I saw Ruvy. He was barely recognizable, beaten to a pulp and gasping for air, with a sign hanging around his neck. So, this is where he had gone. It was a pitiful and almost sorrowful sight, yet I had become so desensitised to such scenes that it did not affect me as deeply as it once might have.

From somewhere nearby, I heard a faint, wailing voice. "Just kill me, please." The plea triggered flashbacks of Rhistal's death, a memory I had tried to bury. In that moment, I acted almost reflexively. I drew my new sword piercing Ruvy's side. Instead of blood, only water poured from the wound as his eyes slowly faded into lifelessness.

I quickly walked away, unwilling to let these memories hinder my progress. Lying down by my tent, I realised I needed to steel myself against the harsh realities of this world. It was a place devoid of kindness and morality, where only the strong survived.

In that moment, I made the decision—friend or foe—all would become my stepping stones to survival.

This brutal world had no room for hesitation or compassion, and I could not afford to let sentimentality weaken me.

To be continued…