Chapter 1 - Perspective

The hill rose from the battlefield like a scar that refused to heal. Its slope was uneven, worn down by countless boots and soaked through with blood until the soil had darkened into something closer to clay than earth. At its peak stood a lone man, his figure outlined against a sky choked with heavy gray clouds that pressed low, as if the heavens themselves were reluctant to look down.

The wind climbed the hill with him, cold and unrelenting, carrying the scent of iron and rot from below. It tugged at the man's long dark-brown hair, lifting the strands and letting them trail behind him like a banner stripped of its color. His clothes were torn and stiff with dried blood, blending into the brutal stillness of the land, as though he belonged to this place just as much as the dead beneath him.

From where he stood, the battlefield unfolded in every direction. The ground sloped downward in long, shallow waves, littered with bodies that filled every hollow and crest alike. Some were half-buried in mud, others sprawled atop broken shields and shattered weapons. The earth itself seemed exhausted, trampled and split open by the passage of thousands, its surface cracked and uneven under the weight of war.

He turned slightly, and the view did not change. Behind him, the same endless spread of corpses stretched toward the horizon, fading into a haze where blood-soaked ground met fog. Here and there, blackened patches marked where techniques had scorched the land, leaving behind twisted remnants of stone and glassed soil. The silence was absolute, broken only by the wind sliding across exposed steel.

The man's posture remained straight, his breathing steady despite the carnage surrounding him. His dark eyes reflected neither shock nor sorrow, only a quiet focus, as if he were committing the shape of the land to memory. The hill beneath his feet felt firm, layered with stone beneath the thin soil, a natural vantage point that had likely drawn combatants to it long before the fighting reached its peak.

A crunch echoed behind him.

Loose gravel shifted underfoot, dislodged stones rolling down the slope before disappearing among the bodies below. The man did not turn, but the muscles in his shoulders tightened slightly as the sound climbed closer. The wind shifted, bringing with it the faint creak of metal and the dull rhythm of armored footsteps.

Another figure emerged from lower on the hill, climbing steadily upward. His silver armor caught what little light broke through the clouds, reflecting it in dull flashes that stood in sharp contrast to the muted browns and reds of the battlefield. The helmet he wore was cracked, its surface marred by deep fractures that hinted at battles narrowly survived.

As the armored man approached, the ground between them told its own story. A shallow trench cut across the slope where a heavy weapon had torn through the earth, now filled with blood and debris. Broken arrows protruded from the soil at awkward angles, some snapped underfoot as he climbed, others buried so deep only their fletching remained visible.

"Haha…" The armored man's laughter drifted across the hill, dry and rasping, carried by the wind that circled the peak. "How unlucky."

The dark-haired man finally turned to face him. As he did, the clouds overhead shifted slightly, allowing a pale strip of light to fall across the hilltop. It illuminated the dust clinging to his skin and the faint cuts along his arms, each one a quiet testament to the battle that had raged below.

"To think it would come to this," the armored man said, gesturing toward the land behind him. From this angle, the battlefield appeared even more desolate, the bodies forming a chaotic mosaic that swallowed the terrain beneath. "It's only you and me left."

He took another step forward, boots sinking slightly into the softened ground. "Even if I kill you here, the mission is as good as failed."

A stronger gust swept across the hill, pulling the dark-haired man's hair forward. He raised a hand to push it aside, his fingers brushing against his cheek before lowering again. The movement revealed the slope behind him, where the hill fell sharply into a shallow ravine clogged with corpses and broken siege equipment, half-submerged in mud.

"So you'll let me go?" he asked.

His voice was calm, almost lost beneath the wind.

The armored man hesitated, his helmet tilting as though reassessing both the man before him and the land that had devoured their allies. A short laugh escaped him, echoing strangely across the empty field. He opened his mouth to answer—

And the world broke.

The dark-haired man surged forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet as his right arm shot out. His hand straightened, fingers locked together, piercing through silver armor with a sound like splitting stone. Shards of metal scattered across the hilltop, sliding down the slope and disappearing among the dead.

Blood sprayed outward, dark against the gray sky.

The armored man stiffened, his boots carving shallow grooves into the soil as his body fought to remain upright. The dark-haired man leaned close, his shadow falling across the fractured ground between them, his lips brushing the edge of the cracked helmet.

"Divine Replacement."

The words seemed to sink into the earth itself.

For a heartbeat, the wind stilled.

Then the dark-haired man staggered back. His spear-hand withdrew as his strength vanished, his knees buckling beneath him. He collapsed onto the hilltop, his body striking stone hidden beneath the soil, sending a dull echo across the battlefield.

The sky above him blurred, clouds spinning slowly as blood pooled beneath his back.

The armored man remained standing.

He looked down at his chest, where the earth beneath his feet was stained but his body was whole. Fine fractures spread across his armor, crawling outward like frost before pieces began to fall away. They struck the ground one by one, clinking softly as they rolled into the grooves carved by countless footsteps.

Beneath the armor, his flesh regenerated visibly, muscle tightening, skin smoothing over until not a trace of the wound remained. A heartbeat echoed faintly in his ears, slow at first, then steady, synchronizing with the rhythm of the wind sweeping the hill.

"Haha… successful," he murmured.

The sound felt foreign, his tongue heavy around the words, as though he were learning how to speak in this body for the first time. He flexed his hands, watching dust fall from his fingers, and rolled his shoulders as the last fragments of armor slipped free and joined the battlefield below.

His gaze drifted to the corpse behind him.

The dark-haired man lay still, his hair spread across the stone and soil, blending into the earth that had claimed him. His open eyes reflected the gray sky, unmoving.

After a moment, the newly reborn man turned away.

He descended the hill slowly, stepping over broken weapons and fallen bodies, the slope growing steeper and more treacherous as he went. The battlefield swallowed him, the land closing in with every step, the wind carrying distant, indistinct sounds from far beyond the corpses.

Then something sliced through the air.

A sharp whistle cut against the wind.

He turned, eyes widening as the landscape blurred—

An arrow pierced his head.

His body crumpled forward, collapsing into the mud at the base of the hill, joining the countless dead who had never made it to the summit. Blood soaked into the earth once more, darkening ground already saturated beyond redemption.

The wind swept over the battlefield again.

And the hill stood silent.