Blood. Smoke. Screams that no one would remember.

Danarre knew this was the end. He stood at the northern breach of Telwalk Fortress, where corpses piled two deep and the air crackled with stray mana bolts and desperate pleas.

Half the mercenary band he'd led here lay in twisted heaps behind him. The other half? Deserted, fled, or soon to be dead.

The man who once carried the moniker "Red Gale" was alone.

"Come on, you bastards!" Danarre snarled, spitting blood from a cracked lip. He adjusted his stance, feet grinding into the shattered stone.

Dark-garbed soldiers funneled through the broken archway. He counted seven. No, eight.

One held a rune-etched staff still dripping with conjured flame. Another hefted a heavy war pick. All wore that grim insignia: a downward-pointed sword wreathed in green flame.

The Kingdom's special enforcers, or so they claimed. Danarre had killed six of them already tonight.

A ding followed. He risked a glance down as a panel of pale light flickered into his vision.

[System Notification]

Name: Danarre LeMott (Red Gale)

Level: 38

Class: Mercenary Lieutenant

HP: 124/910

Stamina: 43/300

Mana: 0/0

Status: [Bleeding II], [Broken Rib], [Exhausted]

Skills: [Blade Flurry Lv.5] [Dirty Feint Lv.4] [Resolve Lv.6] [Adrenaline Surge Lv.3 (On Cooldown)]

No further level-ups available.

He snorted. That was bad. The system, stingy as always, offered no miracles. No last-minute buffs.

Sure, he'd lived a hard life, grinding out levels by running errands for nobles and slaying beasts. But in the end, the math was simple: he was bled dry, outnumbered, and cornered.

The fortress walls behind him were slippery with gore, and the enemy smelled his weakness.

"You're surrounded, merc," one of them hissed. A stocky figure with a half-shattered helmet stepped forward. "Surrender and we might make it quick."

Danarre chuckled, low and rasping. "Last time someone said that, I ended up with this pretty scar on my thigh. You think I'm gonna trust you jokers?"

He raised his sword—an old hand-and-a-half blade chipped at the tip—and beckoned them closer. "Let's skip the chatter. I'm too damn tired for it."

They charged. The first swung a curved blade at shoulder level. Danarre ducked, ignoring the twinge in his ribs, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's elbow.

A crunch, a scream, then a backhand slash sent the soldier's helmet spinning off into the dark. The soldier's neck sprayed crimson.

[System Notification: Enemy Killed! Gained 255 EXP.]

Useless. Not enough for a level. Danarre stepped aside, narrowly avoiding the thrust of a spear. He twisted and rammed his sword into another attacker's gut.

The blade snagged on bone, and he had to plant a boot on the man's chest to yank it free.

In that instant, the staff-wielder muttered a guttural spell. Danarre barely had time to lift his off-hand bracer to shield his eyes.

Flames roared forth in a concentrated jet. The heat washed over him. He felt the leather of his vest begin to smolder, and his cheek blistered on impact.

He lunged through the flame, howling, sword raised. The caster's eyes widened. That was the moment Danarre lived for—that spark of terror he put into the hearts of anyone foolish enough to face him.

He drove his blade straight through the mage's sternum.

[System Notification: Enemy Killed! Gained 290 EXP.]

He coughed through the smoke, vision dancing with spots. Two down, at least five more to go. His HP had to be dropping just from the burns alone.

He didn't dare glance at his status again. It was too depressing.

Behind him, the sound of stones cracking. He glanced over his shoulder. Through the smoke, the dark silhouette of someone—something—massive loomed atop the fortress wall.

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Reinforcements? Danarre's heart sank. If that thing joined in, he was screwed.

He pressed on. Another enemy swung a war pick, aiming low. Danarre pivoted, tried to parry, and sparks flew as metal clashed.

His arms trembled. That last kill had cost him precious stamina. He felt like he was lifting lead weights strapped to his wrists.

A sudden pain flared in his left side. He looked down to see a short blade protruding from between his ribs. One of them got him. Bastards.

Danarre grunted and grabbed the attacker's wrist with his free hand, twisting until he felt bones pop. The man screamed, dropped the knife.

Danarre slammed his forehead into the attacker's nose with a sick crunch.

"Your mama teach you to sneak up like that?" Danarre hissed, voice ragged. "Mine taught me better manners." He shoved the man away and stumbled back.

A searing ache told him he didn't have much time left. Blood soaked his leather vest. He could barely stand.

"Damn. I must look like shit," he muttered, trying to laugh, but it came out a cough. "Bet I smell worse too."

Something massive landed behind the enemy line. The ground shook. The soldiers parted, revealing a giant in dark plate armor.

Not human, that was certain—its helmet's visor glowed crimson. In its hand, a huge zweihander crackling with green runes.

Danarre forced himself to focus. He raised his blade again. Just one more trick. Just one more kill.

If he took down this big bastard, maybe he'd get enough EXP to heal up. Some classes got that perk—he didn't, but a man could dream.

The giant knight strode forward, slow and deliberate. The remaining soldiers fanned out to flank Danarre, forming a half-circle. Trapped like a rat.

This wasn't the glorious end he imagined, but it'd do.

"Know what I hate most?" Danarre said, licking dry lips. "Bastards who wear fancy armor and think it makes them invincible." He spat. "You're just another target."

The giant knight's voice echoed hollowly: "You defied our liege. You slaughtered our men. You are out of time."

"Yeah, yeah," Danarre said, forcing a grin. "Let's get on with it then."

He lunged, going for a desperate overhead strike. The knight swung its huge sword in a lazy arc, blocking Danarre's blade with a clang that rattled his teeth.

The sheer force behind that parry flung Danarre back two steps. He nearly lost his footing. Nearly.

He snarled and circled right, aiming for a chink in the armor near the giant's hip. But the knight was ready.

A gauntleted fist crashed into Danarre's shoulder, shattering something. Pain exploded across his chest. He gasped, sinking to one knee.

[Status Updated: Broken Collarbone, HP Critical]

No shit, system. Thanks for the heads-up.

The soldiers laughed. The knight raised its sword high, runes flaring. A greenish smoke drifted from the blade's edge.

Some cursed enchantment. Danarre knew that if he died here, there'd be nothing left of him—no glorious memory, just another corpse in the rubble.

"You think I'm scared?" Danarre murmured, voice low, mostly to himself. "I've crawled out of deeper graves than this. Hell, I'll do it again."

He forced his body to move. Adrenaline Surge was still on cooldown, but Resolve might give him a moment's clarity. He triggered it mentally, feeling a faint tingle.

[Skill Activated: Resolve Lv.6!]

Pain slightly reduced

Willpower temporarily increased

He staggered upright and charged again, ignoring the blackness at the edges of his vision. His sword flickered out, a feint, then a real strike aimed at the knight's knee joint.

Metal screeched. He chipped a chunk off the armor. Not enough. The knight responded with a downward slash.

Danarre tried to sidestep, but he was too slow. The giant blade caught him across the torso, carving deep through flesh and bone.

He screamed. The world tilted. He toppled backward onto the rubble. The sky was a smear of smoke and stars.

His sword fell from numb fingers. He vaguely saw his status screen flicker:

HP: 3/910 Severe Bleeding Organ Damage: Critical

The knight stood over him, towering and pitiless. One of the soldiers stepped forward, trying to get a better look.

Danarre laughed, more a wet cough than laughter. "Look at you… all high and mighty. You win, big guy. Hope it makes you feel like a real tough bastard."

He tried to lift his arm. No good. Everything was cold. His fingers wouldn't respond. He felt his life slipping away, dripping into the broken stones beneath him.

In the distance, the fortress's main keep was aflame. The heat from that distant fire mingled with the stink of charred corpses.

He remembered better days—cheap ale, dirty jokes, and the feel of a good blade in his hand. He remembered old friends, long dead.

He was a mercenary who'd never reached the top, never gotten that legendary kill to cement his name. He'd been close, so close, but fate had other plans.

"Any last words?" the knight asked, voice echoing. Somehow that offended Danarre. He'd been a terror on the battlefield, a man whose name alone had been enough to frighten most.

Now, he was a joke to them.

"Sure," Danarre rasped. "When you meet your gods, tell 'em Danarre LeMott said, eat shit."

The knight lifted its sword high. The runes blazed bright green, casting sickly light across the dead and dying. Then the blade came down.

[System Notification: HP 0/910. You have died.]

Darkness.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just a void—cold and unfeeling. He tried to think, but thoughts slipped away.

Pain was gone, which was a mercy. He had expected something… maybe a judgment hall, or a final scoreboard of his life's kills. Maybe his mother's face, who he barely remembered.

Instead, just emptiness. But emptiness didn't last.

A faint, whispering presence stirred in the darkness. He couldn't see it, couldn't name it, but he felt it coil around him like smoke.

It tugged at him, drew him along a path he couldn't perceive. He tried to speak. No voice. Just awareness drifting in a black sea.

Then he heard soft murmurs, indistinct, as though from behind a closed door. Was that crying? Or perhaps chanting?

Suddenly, a flare of light. Not the green runes or the torchlit fortress, but a soft glow like moonlight through gauzy curtains.

Danarre's awareness stretched thin. He understood nothing, yet felt something profound changing. Like an old shirt being peeled away and replaced.

He reached for the memory of that final battlefield, tried to hold onto his hard-won skills. The system. His scars.

They were slipping through his fingers. He had no body, no voice, but he still tried to scream in defiance. He would not vanish so easily.

He was Danarre, the Red Gale, damn it.

More whispers, a distant lullaby. He caught fragments of language, too blurred to translate. Then a single word, or maybe a name: "Danarre."

It drifted past him and he clung to it. The void receded, the darkness cracked, and a gentle warmth enveloped him.

For just an instant, he understood: He was going somewhere else. This was no simple death. The world had decided to roll the dice again, to toss him into a new game board.

He laughed inwardly. whoever was behind this cosmic joke, he hoped they were ready. Because he'd be back. Better. Stronger. Smarter.

And he wouldn't die like a cornered animal next time.

He drifted, weightless, into new life, no longer a battered mercenary on a burning battlefield, but something else entirely.

The next time he opened his eyes, everything would be different.