Only a few left! Christoph had succumbed to an insatiable bloodlust. It might seem like madness (and it was), but he had come so far. His first life had been lost while fighting a battle against these invading peoples. These must have been the caravans and collective population that trailed the scouting groups that attacked the Empire’s conscripted boys.

With every pelt, he felt a wave of anger. Every accursed slur of his language in their rough tongue made his stilled blood boil. The crude weapons they wielded made his muscles tense. It was as if he weren’t on that road, but he walked an imaginary world filled with shadows and fire.

He saw the world as a sea of grass that jittered as if it were phasing from one position to the next in the breeze. The moonlight of the distant celestial body coated each blade with a noxiously brilliant glow in contrast to the shadowed edges. His hands moved through the blades without concern for cuts or scrapes—his human hands only trying to embrace that which wasn’t real.

And perhaps this is the most terrifying detail of all. It was his humanity that walked through the corrupted grass and lashed out at the horrific nightmares that attempted to leap from their camouflaged dens. Christoph moved thoughtlessly through the sea and struck down every furry beast that lunged at him. The way he moved was more like an abomination simply reaping life because it was in his way… unsure and uncaring whether the beast was afraid or aggressive.

It was an extermination.

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Humanity had been baptized in the blackest pitch of undead madness. He stumbled about in this hazy reality beneath a fire-filled sky where dragons dominated and scorched even the clouds in the eternal night. This is the world of a man that had broken on the fields of battle. This is the falsified, yet accepted, hallucination that permitted madness its reign.

Each movement was a struggle as the pitch tried to peel flesh or restrain the body, yet he had to move forward. He had to move through the sea of grass to some haven beyond the shadowed hills. Some might say hope drove him, but it was the dying glimpse of what remained of hope.

Hope and madness coupled in marriage.

He already knew that what heavenly blessings he’d hoped for were lost. The suffering he’d endured was real. The loss he’d known was real. This world… this was the defense of a broken mind as the beasts covered with fur and metal lashed out or fled. He’d cut them down and remain in the sea of grass… a time before the burning magic fell or his home and family had been violated.

It was a harsh time, yet a preferred time.

So, he wandered through the blades; feeling their touch and admiring their waves. He’d keep moving and clearing the grass of troublesome vermin. He couldn’t stand in one place too long, or the pitch would begin to poison the soil. He didn’t want to move too quickly, or the dragons would spot him and turn the sea to ash.

So, he wandered through the blades.

Wandered… and killed.