Daelen's feet crunched against the dry earth as he trekked deeper into the wilderness. The sun beat down on his back, the heat almost suffocating. His water pouch was nearly empty, and every step felt heavier than the last. He had been walking for hours, no clear destination in mind, but driven by a single need: to prove himself.
The rumors of mercenaries in this region had drawn him like a moth to the flame. He had heard their camp was nearby—warriors for hire, ruthless and strong. This was no place for the weak. But Daelen couldn't afford to back down now. If he was ever going to make his mark in this world, he had to face this test head-on.
A rustle of leaves broke his focus, and the unmistakable sound of footsteps reached his ears. Daelen froze, muscles tensing. It was too late to turn back.
From behind the trees, a group of rough-looking men emerged. The leader, a tall man with a jagged scar across his face, took one look at Daelen and sneered.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "What have we here? Another lost sheep wandering into the wolf's den?"
Daelen gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "I'm not lost."
The mercenary leader chuckled darkly. "Then you must be looking for trouble."
Daelen's fingers tightened on the grip of his sword. He wasn't just looking for trouble. He needed to prove that he could fight, survive, that he wasn't just some nameless extra in a forgotten story.
"I won't go easy on you," Daelen said, his voice steady but the tension in his chest rising like a storm.
The mercenaries exchanged glances, grinning as if Daelen had just given them permission to tear him apart.
"You hear that, boys?" the scarred man laughed, motioning to his companions. "The kid thinks he has a chance."
Without warning, the leader lunged forward, his massive sword swinging down with terrifying force. Daelen barely managed to block the blow, his arms rattling under the strength of the impact. The pain shot up his limbs like lightning. He staggered back, barely keeping his balance.
He was already behind.
The mercenary leader swung again, aiming for Daelen's head. Daelen ducked just in time, feeling the air rush past him as the blade sliced through nothing but empty space. He scrambled backward, every move feeling sluggish and uncoordinated, as though his body wasn't responding fast enough.
No. No! I can't lose. Not here.
But he could feel it. The mercenary's movements were too fast. His swings were too powerful. Daelen was already outclassed. Every time he tried to strike back, he was pushed further back, barely able to keep his guard up. His sword felt heavy, like it was made of lead.
"Is that all you've got?" the scarred man taunted. "You're slower than a crippled dog."
Daelen's breath came in gasps, his vision narrowing. Everything hurt. His side throbbed with pain where the mercenary's sword had nicked him earlier. His arms were burning from the constant effort of blocking and dodging. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. His sword hand trembled, the grip starting to slip.
He could feel the frustration rising in his chest. Why can't I do this?
The ground beneath his feet seemed to tilt. Every swing felt like it was pushing him to his breaking point. His body screamed for rest, his muscles aching from exhaustion, but there was no room for that. He couldn't afford to back down.
The mercenary swung again, faster this time. Daelen raised his sword, but the blow was too strong. His weapon was knocked from his hands, spinning through the air, landing with a distant thud on the ground.
Daelen's breath hitched in his throat as he watched it fall. He was unarmed.
A sickening laugh bubbled up from the scarred man's throat. "It's over, boy. You're nothing. You always were."
The mercenary raised his sword, ready to end it.
And in that moment, Daelen felt it—the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a mountain. His body was crushed, his heart shattered, and everything he had hoped for seemed pointless.
This was it. The end of the line.
No… No, it can't be over.
And then, in the darkness, it came.
Why am I here?
A sudden shift in his perception, like a door slamming open. Memories that weren't his own flashed before his eyes. A life he had lived before. Faces. Voices. Technology. A world he once knew.
He saw streets filled with noise, with people rushing by, unaware of the person who had lived and died in that place. His hands trembled as he reached out to touch the air around him. The cold sensation of glass, of something artificial. A place where nothing seemed real, but it had been.
This world—this world is a lie.
The realization slammed into him like a freight train. He wasn't just some lost traveler. He wasn't some extra meant to die in some forgotten corner of the world.
This was all a story. A game. A narrative.
I'm not supposed to be here. I wasn't supposed to die like this.
The memories swirled faster, clearer now. A world full of stories and entertainment, where characters were manipulated by unseen forces. A world where fate wasn't real.
And with that, something inside him snapped.
His vision cleared, and his heart pounded in his chest. He was Daelen. He didn't care about the plot. He didn't care about being an extra. He had his own role to play now, and it wasn't the one they had written for him.
With a violent surge of adrenaline, Daelen's hand shot out, grabbing the hilt of a sword lying nearby, his fingers closing around the familiar grip. The pain that had been clouding his mind faded into nothingness, replaced by a raw, primal fury.
The mercenary swung his blade down, but Daelen was faster. In a blur, Daelen sidestepped the strike, his body moving with a newfound fluidity, a grace that defied the exhaustion clawing at him. He thrust his sword forward, the blade sinking into the mercenary's side. The man's eyes widened in shock, the sound of his breath hissing through clenched teeth.
Daelen twisted the sword, pushing it deeper. The mercenary's grip on his weapon faltered as he crumpled to the ground, blood spilling onto the earth.
Daelen stood over him, chest heaving, eyes cold and unforgiving. The mercenary groaned, trying to rise, but the light was already fading from his eyes.
"You were never meant to win," Daelen whispered, his voice steady. "But I wasn't meant to lose."
With a final, brutal motion, Daelen ended it. The fight was over.