The melodious sound of birdsong rang through my ears, a comforting and familiar symphony. A gentle warmth caressed my face, and my body was enveloped in the cosy embrace of a warm duvet that covered me from neck to toe. The sunlight, insistently shining on my face, coaxed my eyes open. My gaze fell upon a room steeped in nostalgia—my childhood bedroom. The blank walls enclosed me, and at the foot of my bed, my old desk. Smothered in old textbooks.

Huh.

I found myself not in the forest or the afterlife but back in my old room from adolescence. Or perhaps this was the afterlife? I sat up abruptly, scanning my surroundings to confirm my location. My eyes had not deceived me. "My hands," I thought, as memories of recent events flooded my mind. Both hands were present, devoid of calluses, appearing smaller than I remembered. Faint voices drifted from beyond the door. I recognized them—Mom and Dad. Rising to investigate, I passed a mirror on the desk. Strangely, it reflected the room but not me. Was I a ghost? If so, I must be dead. Yet, the voices piqued my curiosity, drawing me out of the room and towards the closed door. I opened it and followed the voices down the corridor. At the end stood my parents. I called out, but there was no response. Again, I called, and still, no reaction. They continued their conversation, oblivious to my presence—though not really conversing, but arguing, as was their habit. The argument felt like déjà vu. My mother was berating my father.

Memories stirred. After my grandfather's disappearance, my grandmother wanted to dispose of old furniture, and my father insisted on keeping the wardrobe—an ancient, European-looking piece ill-suited for a Japanese home. Now I remembered: my father had given me that wardrobe when I moved out. I had forgotten about my grandfather, a distant figure, more by his own choice than mine. But why was I recalling this now? These repressed memories emerged without warning, seemingly purposeless. Was my grandfather's disappearance connected to the wardrobe? Most likely, then why hadn't my father discovered its secret?

"You stupid bastard! Couldn't you bring home something useful instead of that creepy wardrobe?" my mother berated him. Despite myself, I agreed—the wardrobe seemed to harbour curses, as I had discovered.

"Stop whining like you always do," my father retorted bluntly. "It's a family heirloom, far more important than anything we own."

"A wardrobe, important?" my mother scoffed.

"Yes, it was gifted to our clan many years ago, and I will not let it go to waste." My father's words hinted at an incomplete truth as if there was something more he had to say but kept it hidden behind his mouth. I yearned to know more about the wardrobe, my grandfather's disappearance, and my clan's history. I needed answers. But a warm sensation on my face made me feel faint. The room dissolved into darkness, and in a flash, I awoke to the sensation of something touching my cheek. I shot up, my head colliding with something hard—a ceiling? No, as my vision adjusted, I saw a girl, perhaps twenty years old, with short silver hair and a smooth, pale face. Her eyes glowed with a green energy, unlike anyone I had seen, and she wore strange, almost anachronistic clothes, akin to a doctor's but less modern.

"Why the hell did you sit up so quickly?" she exclaimed, clutching her forehead where we had collided.

I ignored her words, surveying my surroundings. It was an encampment similar to the one in the field, but now situated in the woods. Had I been captured? No, there was a finely painted two-headed eagle on the side of a tent.

"Aren't you going to respond?" the girl persisted.

"Sorry," I muttered, my chest weak. When I reached to feel my forehead, my hand was missing, replaced by a bandaged stump.

"Poor you," she remarked, pity in her eyes as she looked at my arm. "At least it wasn't your head."

I gave her a stern look. in that moment, I wished it had been my head, so I wouldn't have to endure the torment of this world any longer.

Her gaze shifts from my arm to my eyes, and she stares intently, as if trying to read my mind. "What's wrong with your eyes?" she asks.

How great. I wish I wore a helmet like the others so I wouldn't have to deal with these questions. "I was just born like this," I respond bluntly, hoping to deflect her curiosity. I still hadn't come up with a convincing excuse for why my face looked different from theirs, but was there really one to give?

"Well, I don't mind them. I like their uniqueness," she says with a smile. It's the first time anyone has ever complimented my appearance in this world.

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"Am I not ugly to you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Nope. The scars tell me you're strong, and there's nothing ugly about strength." Her smile is warm, and I break eye contact to hide my blush. This is the first time a woman has ever complimented me on my appearance or engaged in a proper conversation with me. I've always kept to myself, so this interaction feels foreign, though not unwelcome.

We continue talking, and I tell her about my previous battles while she shares more about herself. Her name is Imira, and she's a nurse from Credeni, like the soldier I fought alongside. I wonder if he survived. Our conversation is interrupted by Almon, who stands tall over me. There's no emotion in his eyes, not disappointment or relief—just nothing.

"Good to see you're alive," he says in a blank tone. The only thing I remember about him from the fight is the smile he had on his face as he battled the Forest Warden.

"Did we win?" I ask.

"Of course. Would you be here if we didn't?" he responds, his face finally showing a hint of emotion as he chuckles. "We killed all but one, and I think you know who I'm talking about." His words seem designed to manipulate my emotions, and initially, they don't. But when I look again at where my left hand used to be, I feel something in my chest. An unknown emotion that I cannot put to words.

Almon smirks as I rise to my feet, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "The prison is at the edge of the camp. Once you're done, meet me in the tent in the centre." With that, he turns and strides away, leaving me to follow in the path he's set. Imira watches me, her expression almost disappointed, but I brush off the look and make my way toward the prison.

The "prison" is nothing more than a single wooden cage, stark and rudimentary. Inside is a middle-aged man, well-built with a face marked by years of battle, yet untouched by fear. His hair, similar to Almon's, suggests a shared history or origin. I squat in front of the cage, peering at him through the wooden bars. "Oi."

The man looks up, his eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "What do you want? Here for revenge?" His gaze flicks to my injured hand, clearly aiming to provoke a reaction.

I should feel anger towards him. I want to. The memory of our previous encounter, where he bested me and left me with these scars, should fill me with rage. Yet, as I stand here, facing him, I do not feel loathsome towards the warden. acting on this anger would make me no better than a coward, taking out my frustration on an unarmed man who fought with honour and skill.

"Nah," I say, my voice calm and steady. I don't hate this man. In fact, I find myself admiring his grit, his determination, and the skill that allowed him to defeat me. These are qualities I need to survive in this harsh world. "Congratulations, you beat me. But next time, it won't be the same." I give him one last, measured look before turning my back and heading toward the centre of the camp. I don't see his expression as I walk away, but I can imagine the puzzled look he must be wearing, wondering why I chose not to exact my revenge. Why I acted this way i don't know, sometimes i felt pure unfiltered rage other moments nothing at all. Did Imira have an effect? I barely know her. I guess I'm just messed up in the head.

As I walked towards the central tent, where Almon was undoubtedly located, I surveyed the expansive camp. It was teeming with soldiers, suggesting that Almon's group and I were part of an advance team to clear the way for the others. Soldiers, once jovial, now wore expressions of doubt, likely indicating the imminence of another battle. However, I noticed an unusual sight this time—a blacksmith and his assistant, the former crafting new weapons while the latter repaired old ones. It seemed odd to have them here, but my curiosity waned as I neared the back of the tent.

From beneath the draped entrance, voices reached my ears. Intrigued, I decided to eavesdrop through a small gap. The voices were unmistakable: the emperor and Almon.

"How is he progressing?" the emperor inquired.

"Fine, but his arm might be problematic," Almon replied.

"No, I think he'll manage. We can always send him to Credeni after the war for a replacement," the emperor assured. They were discussing me. A replacement? Did they mean prosthetics?

The conversation continued. "He'll need new weapons and armour if he is to thrive," Almon noted.

"That's fine. I brought the royal blacksmith with me. Have him craft something from the Forest Warden's armour, and he should be well-equipped," the emperor responded.

"But why your majesty? Why do you invest so much in this man?" Almon asked.

"Why? From the moment I saw him in the gauntlet, the way he killed that shitty prince Rhistal without a second thought, I knew he was special. That is the reason why I commanded you, a sword master, to mentor him. But that's beside the point. Has he taken the bait?" the emperor queried.

"Yes, he left for the prisoner," Almon confirmed.

"Good. The more we fuel his anger, the stronger he will become and as long as he has anger he will latch onto me as I provide him sources of relief" the emperor stated.

"How do you know he will become stronger your majesty, what if he becomes a nuisance?" Almon questioned.

"His anger is easy to quench, however the reason I know of his potential is because of a book I read in the palace dungeon, there is a legend of a similar man who appeared on the continent 200 years ago. Although that man was much older than Yoshida, I suspect they share a commonality," the emperor explained.

Could the emperor be referring to my grandfather? But he mentioned 200 years ago, which didn't align with Earth's timeline. The conversation inside the tent ceased abruptly. Had they discovered my presence? No, probably not. I would act as if I hadn't overheard their scheme to manipulate me. This conversation had made me reconsider my view of the emperor. I'd come to understand that he was far more dangerous and sly than I initially thought.

To be continued…