The mist had long since dissipated around the war-ravaged village of Hastenbeck, replaced by an oppressive heat that drove men and beasts alike to seek shade, particularly near the tall trees in the region. An eerie atmosphere prevailed, a sort of heaviness that contrasted with the beauty of the cloudless blue sky. The smell of burnt powder still lingered in the air, barely diffused by a light breeze from the southeast. It tickled the soldiers' noses, making those not yet accustomed to it wrinkle their brows.

While the men were busy dealing with the aftermath of the battle that had ended a few hours earlier, the wounded were being cared for in a makeshift hospital set up a little away from the camp. The screams of pain that escaped from it could be heard from afar, prompting most soldiers to keep their distance.

"How is he?" asked a man with a distinguished appearance and a pleasant face.

"François still hasn't opened his eyes, Colonel."

"He did regain consciousness earlier, but after looking around, he passed out again. I'm afraid the blow to his head did more damage than that bullet to his shoulder."

The colonel, dressed in his fine uniform adorned with numerous gold elements, silently looked at the young soldier lying practically on the ground. Like most new recruits, he was barely an adult, possibly half the colonel's age, and could have easily been his son. The officer let out a deep sigh, his expression grave.

This young man was under his command, but they didn't know each other since one was an officer and noble, while the other was just a common soldier and a peasant. The boy's features were delicate like those of a woman; his thin lips had lost their color, and his elastic skin appeared terribly pale.

The officer turned his attention to the other young men who seemed to be the first's friends. He addressed the eldest-looking one in a calm, reassuring tone.

"I see. Your friend is in good hands. Let me know when he wakes up."

"Yes, sir!"

Despite his title of marquis, his honors at Court, and his rank of colonel, Monsieur de Bréhant remained very close to his men. He was respected as much by the king as by the brave soldiers of the Picardy regiment, which he commanded.

By visiting the field hospital, he showed his care for the soldiers, even the most modest among them.

"Hey, guys," said one of the soldiers dressed entirely in white, "do you think there's a chance he might never wake up?"

"Don't say nonsense, Jean!" retorted another, in a tone both aggressive and full of concern. "He will wake up! We just have to hope that fall didn't damage his brain."

"Still, what a fall! Did he really have to land headfirst on a rock?"

"Earlier, when François opened his eyes, he seemed completely lost. Do you think he's become an idiot?"

"More than usual, you mean? Hahaha!"

Perhaps out of nervousness, the small group began to laugh softly around their unconscious friend. Quickly, the mood became somber again.

"Haha, we shouldn't laugh about this, guys. Besides, he's not really an idiot, he just likes to joke around. He's always been like that, even though he's changed a lot since we left. And he was smart enough to enlist in Monsieur de Bréhant's regiment!"

The few soldiers surrounding François all nodded in agreement.

"Yeah... He mostly wanted to escape his parents' pressure. They kept pushing him to take over the butcher shop."

"Are you sure it wasn't to get away from Agathes Desmoulins, Charles?"

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"You're one to talk, right? Didn't you enlist to escape her sister? By God, they're as ugly as each other! The only thing they had going for them was their bosoms!" he said, crossing his powerful arms over his broad chest.

"Why are you talking about bosoms, Jean? Let me remind you that the last time you saw one was when you were still suckling your mother!"

"Hahaha!"

Although they joked among themselves, their laughter sounded hollow. Everyone could see that worry was gnawing at them. The entire upper part of their friend's head was wrapped in a thick layer of white bandages.

François belonged to the Picardy regiment, just like these few people around him. They were his most loyal friends, well before being his comrades in arms. Although they had enlisted in this regiment at the same time, it was for very different reasons.

A man's voice, full of irritation, suddenly rang out behind them, interrupting their conversation.

"Have you finished chattering like a bunch of old women?! Can't you see there are injured men here?!"

The field surgeon was an old man with the look of a butcher and the croaking voice of a sick crow. He was in charge here, responsible for getting all these men back on their feet. Pale-skinned, with thin limbs and a forehead covered in sweat, he looked like a malevolent madman.

"Oh, come on! We're just visiting our friend. We're from the same village."

"I don't care!" the man cut in. "You want to help? Then leave the tent! Our patients need rest, and your friend is no exception. Those bandages aren't there just for show!"

Indeed, young François had nearly died that day from a very bad fall after being hit by an enemy bullet. He had fallen to the side, where unfortunately the ground sloped steeply, and his head had struck a rock the size of a pig. When he had been brought to the surgeon, the latter had deemed his chances of survival very slim. That didn't stop him from doing everything possible to keep him from dying.

Under those bandages was an impressive wound shaped like a half-horseshoe, running from his temple to above his left ear. The surgeon, despite his frightful temperament, had done what he could by disinfecting and stitching the horrible wound, but it would be up to the young man and God to decide the final outcome.

Hours passed without Adam noticing. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the weathered peaks covered with massive trees surrounding Hastenbeck. In the increasingly dark sky, a few stars were already visible. The temperature was finally beginning to drop, making the air a bit more breathable. It was then that he opened his eyes.

Immediately, an excruciating headache seized him, to the point where he wished he could lose consciousness again. The slightest sound, the slightest light, the slightest thought—all caused pain.

With great effort, he raised a trembling hand to his head. As soon as he touched the rough, dirty bandages with his fingertips, a strange sensation overcame him. The world seemed to spin around him. It took him a few more seconds to regain his senses.

His memory was confused. He remembered going on a hike with his little group in the German mountains, then slipping and tumbling down a slope. While he hadn't been injured, it had been a frightening experience. At the bottom, he had found a very old-fashioned watch, then started feeling unwell.

Strangely, these memories were mixed with others that were familiar yet unfamiliar. The images were so intertwined and blurry that he had great difficulty analyzing them and putting them in order. The name François kept coming up, along with smiling faces. A family he didn't recognize, a peaceful village he had never visited, and nameless friends.

What are these memories? What's happening to me?

One by one, like a silent film or a slideshow, strange memories surfaced randomly, some old, some recent. He saw himself being recruited into an army, not knowing which one, training hard, not knowing why, then leaving with his friends in a troop without knowing where to.

Where am I?

Confused and disoriented, he looked around with immense effort. Adam realized he was under a large tent that he shared with several hundred wounded and dying men, groaning and calling for their mothers. Where they all came from, however, was a mystery. He belatedly noticed that his throat was very dry, as if he hadn't had a drop of water in days.

It was then that he saw a small group enter the tent, taking advantage of the surgeon's brief rest.

These are... my friends? Why does it feel like I know all of them?

"Ah! You're finally awake! Praise be to the Lord!"

"Ouch!"

Jean, a tall, strong man, had thrown himself on Adam to hug him, accidentally hurting him. Surprised and unsure how to react, but also too weak, Adam didn't respond. His other "friends" quickly reacted, albeit a bit late:

"You idiot, be careful! You hurt him!"

"Oh, sorry, François."

Everyone in the group, as well as in their native village, agreed that God had played a strange trick by giving Jean a weak mind in exchange for a strong body. The wounded man, not wanting to react strangely, forced a slight smile to reassure these people, whose eyes were full of concern.

"I-it's okay, it's nothing."

It was probably the worst lie they had ever heard, but the group pretended to believe it. Even Jean wasn't entirely convinced.

They're calling me François... But it feels... normal?

Still confused, he asked the question that was burning on his lips.

"Where are we? What happened?" Adam asked weakly, not directing the question to anyone in particular.