My night was short-lived. It felt like I had just closed my eyes when the bells of the church started ringing—deep, urgent, and echoed by others across the town. Years of military service kicked in fast, a cold jolt through my veins.

  Get up. Move. Something's wrong.

  I threw on my clothes and made my way to the tower, heart pounding. Looking out the window, I spotted the northern side of town—several buildings were on fire, the flames licking at the sky like angry serpents. A stream of templars raced through the streets, their armor catching the moonlight. Most wore heavy plate, others chainmail over padded gambesons, all of them moving with practiced urgency.

  Then I saw her.

  Hope.

  Her white hair and horns made her easy to spot, even from a distance. She was running full speed, a kite shield nearly as tall as she was strapped to one arm, a flanged mace gripped tightly in the other. The shield looked massive in her hands, but she moved like it weighed nothing.

  I didn’t have any weapons, but I could still make myself useful—so I ran.

  The air grew thick with smoke as I neared the blaze, visibility dropping, but the distant clash of steel kept my legs moving. The screams came next—raw, panicked, human. Just ahead, I spotted a militiaman limping back toward the city garrison, his bow slung uselessly at his side.

  Or rather, where his arm used to be.

  An opportunity.

  I met his eyes. He saw something in mine, maybe desperation, maybe resolve—but he didn’t hesitate. He dropped the warbow and the half-empty quiver without a word and kept hobbling toward safety.

  A hundred yards ahead, the shieldmaidens held a perfect phalanx, shields locked, spears steady, while the men flanked and cleared the sides. Still, I couldn’t see what they were fighting—just smoke and silhouettes.

  I climbed the closest two-story shop, kicked out a window, and took aim.

  Then I saw them.

  Orcs. Goblins. Lizardfolk. Pale-skinned elves with eyes like dying stars. A horde, three times our number, pouring into the city.

  I didn’t wait.

  The first arrow flew. Then another. I kept two in the air at all times, my hands moving faster than thought. Time stretched. Breath slowed. I became the rhythm of draw, loose, draw again.

  But two dozen arrows could only go so far.

  Out.

  I dropped the bow, jumped through the window, and hit the ground running. No time for stairs.

  On the field, I grabbed a fallen templar’s spear and shield and pushed into the line.

  Hope was in the center, glowing now—gold and green light wrapping her like a second skin. She raised her shield, gave a war cry that made my spine shiver, and charged. Seven-foot orcs went down like wheat before a scythe.

  No time to admire.

  I felt the hairs on my neck rise—instinct screamed. I dove. A firebolt blasted the ground where I’d just been.

  Mage.

  I traced the angle in my head, found the bastard halfway behind a cart.

  I didn’t think.

  I hurled the spear with every ounce of strength I had left. My arms screamed. My chest pounded—my heart pounded.

  It shouldn’t have.

  It hadn’t in a week.

  But it did now.

  The throw was perfect.

  The mage’s head disappeared.

  I ripped a crude sword out of some poor bastard's chest—civilian, militia, I didn’t check—and dove into the fight, slicing and hacking like a madman.

  Then I saw him.

  An orc, eight feet tall and built like a goddamn bulldozer, locked eyes with me and charged.

  “Not so fast, dickwad!” he roared, swinging a massive axe that would’ve split me in two.

  I dodged the blade—just in time to catch his boot full-force in the ribs.

  My world turned sideways.

  I flew straight through the wall of the nearest building, smashing through plaster and wood like a sack of meat.

  Everything rang. My ears. My bones. My damn teeth.

  But all I could feel was rage.

  I sucked in a breath through cracked ribs, hauled myself to my feet, and stormed out the front door like a man possessed.

  I spotted that oversized bastard in the crowd and let loose in fluent Quebecois fury:

  — Mon osti de mange-marde du calisse, m’a te faire bouffer ta crisse de hache par le cul!

  (You goddamn shit-eater, I’m gonna make you gobble your axe by the ass!)

  Blood boiled in my veins.

  I sprinted at him, jumped, and midair, I caught the edge of his now-purple-glowing axe on my blade. Twisting my core, I poured every ounce of inertia into a counter swing.

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  For just a moment, I saw it—like a golden guitar string humming along the sword’s edge.

  The chop was perfect.

  But to my surprise, the orc’s head stayed on his shoulders. The blade cut halfway through his throat and stuck.

  Tough bastard.

  He roared, slamming my shield with his glowing axe. It cleaved through the metal like paper, shearing off the top half a hair from my fingers.

  Just like that, I was weaponless.

  But not helpless.

  I ducked under his next swing and weaved around him, keeping moving, stretching the seconds. All I had to do was outlast him.

  Finally, my hand landed on the hilt of a knife sticking out of a dead goblin's chest.

  Not ideal. The reach was trash.

  But it would do.

  The clash of steel faded, replaced by the groans of the dying and the quiet, wet squelch of blood seeping into dirt and cobblestone.

  Smoke hung low over the street, thick and acrid. It stung my eyes and clung to my skin, mixing with the stink of sweat, shit, and iron. I stumbled forward, half-drunk on adrenaline, the orc’s massive axe still clenched in my hands. My arms ached. My ribs screamed. My heart—my goddamn heart—thundered like it had something to prove.

  But the battle was over.

  The street was a butcher’s block.

  Limbs lay where they’d fallen, hacked off and twitching in puddles of blood. A goblin’s body had been trampled into paste by the warhorses—its head was ten paces away, rolled under a broken cartwheel. A lizardman had been gutted open, his steaming insides dragged across the cobbles like someone tried to unravel him.

  The knights dismounted, silent as tombstones, their armor caked in blood. One of them wrenched a blade free from a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead yet—its mouth still moving, eyes wide and glassy.

  I stepped over a templar’s body, face frozen mid-scream, chest cleaved open by something big enough to bite through plate. I didn’t recognize the guy. I think I hated that more than I expected.

  Behind me, someone was sobbing.

  A woman—human, maybe half-elf—curled over a little body. Her kid, I realized. The child’s leg was missing below the knee. Her hands were trying to put him back together like broken pottery. Like if she held on tight enough, he’d come back.

  He wouldn’t.

  Children screamed in the distance, a high-pitched, panicked wailing that grated against my ears worse than any battlefield roar.

  I watched a group of shieldmaidens pass by, dragging a cart loaded with corpses. Some were orcs. Others were ours.

  Some were too small.

  A young templar vomited in a gutter near me. He tried to hide it, but his hands were shaking. His tabard was soaked in someone else’s blood.

  War was war.

  And no matter the world—steel, magic, rifles or lightning—death looked the same.

  The smell was the same.

  The loss… it never changed.

  I leaned on the axe like a crutch, staring at the ruin around me. My stomach twisted, but I kept it down. I’d seen this before. In deserts. In forests. On roads that didn’t exist anymore. I didn’t know what city I was in, or what the name of this place was, but I knew this scene like the back of my hand.

  The butcher’s bill had been paid.

  But the cost? That came later.

  Always did.

  “Please,” he said, adjusting the silver skull atop his staff, “go lie down at the church. I’ll make sure someone checks on you before sunrise.”

  He gave me a wink, that damn grin still plastered on his face.

  “I’d be rather displeased to lose such an... interesting specimen.”

  And just like that, he turned and walked away—like the burning city, the blood, the bodies, none of it even grazed him.

  “Please,” he said, adjusting the silver skull atop his staff, “go lie down at the church. I’ll make sure someone checks on you before sunrise.”

  He winked, that grin still stretched across his face like he’d just won a bet with the gods.

  “I’d be rather displeased to lose such an... interesting specimen.”

  Then he turned and walked off, cloak swaying, staff clicking on the wet stone like nothing had happened.

  I stood there for a second, soaked, bleeding, sore in places I didn’t know could get sore, and now somehow slightly... flirted with?

  Was that flirting? Was he flirting?

  Great. Now I’m bleeding and confused.

  I proceeded to limp my sorry ass back to my room and check this season’s harvest.

  The adrenaline was crashing hard now, leaving behind aches, bruises, and the delightful sensation of blood drying in places it definitely shouldn’t be. My loot clinked in my pockets like twisted little trophies.

  Hope wasn’t at the front. I didn’t see her on the way either. Maybe she was already at the church, maybe patching someone up. Or maybe she was dead in a gutter somewhere.

  That thought hit like a sack of bricks to the chest. Heavy. Cold.

  No, no—she was strong. I’d probably see her later, cracking heads and giving me homework like nothing happened.

  Probably.

  I started emptying the satchel and laying things out on the table, one mystery at a time.

  A bundle of dried herbs and roots—probably magical, probably deadly, probably both. Three neatly rolled scrolls tied with wax seals. A dozen tiny bottles filled with liquids in shades ranging from swamp water green to “definitely radioactive” purple.

  A few trinkets. One gold chain with a seven-pointed star hanging from it—big, weighty, and definitely not cheap. Embedded in the center was a golden gem that shimmered with an inner light, like it was holding its breath. I flipped it over. Jules Saprien, engraved in delicate script on the back.

  Fancy name. Probably the mage's.

  Then came the dagger. Its pommel held a moonlight stone that pulsed faintly with silvery glow, the handle carved with an intricate art deco pattern that felt… out of place. Too elegant for a battlefield.

  Lastly, a pouch of coins. Heavy, clinking like victory.

  Yep. Mages are rich. Note taken.

  I stared at the pile. That star pendant looked like something the Church might care about. And the dagger probably screamed “magical heirloom” to the right people.

  Yeah… this does seem important.

  I sighed.

  “Maybe I should report it,” I muttered, already dreading the mountain of paperwork that probably came with that sentence.

  I decided to hold off on that—for the moment, at least. Surely grabbing a bite, scrubbing the blood off, and catching a nap wouldn't count as some terrible crime against humanity, right?

  Worst case, I’d just shrug and say I hadn’t checked the bag yet. Who digs through a war trophy the second they limp home from a battlefield anyway?

  Let the world wait. I’d earned a little peace. Even if it was just long enough to eat, wash, and collapse face-first into my mattress.

  I quickly shoved everything back into the bag, except the two coin pouches and the pile of shiny rocks. Priorities.

  I sat down and slowly counted the loot, taking my time to figure out the coinage and see if anything looked off. Two-thirds of the coins were stamped with church iconography—halos, swords, the usual holy bling. The other third had the smug face of some elf on one side and a crescent moon on the other. Fancy.

  Huh. Interesting. Despite the difference in design, both types of coins were the exact same weight per metal. Standardized currency across regions? That was either a sign of a very stable economy... or a very powerful church.

  Either way, money talked. And right now, it was whispering “steak dinner and maybe a new shirt without blood on it.”

  The full haul came to the equivalent of ten small gold, twenty-five large silver, and some jangly pocket change. Not bad for a night’s work and a few cracked ribs.

  I separated the shiny rocks—some sort of crystal or gemstone, maybe?—by size. Ended up with about a dozen small ones and a dozen larger ones. They sparkled under the moonlight peeking through the window, like they were trying to convince me they were worth something. I wasn’t sure yet, but they definitely looked expensive enough to pretend I knew what I was doing.

  I leaned back and took a breath.

  All things considered... yeah. Could’ve gone worse.

  I slid the coins and stones back into their pouches and tied them up tight. No point in flaunting treasure like a moron when I didn’t even know what half of it did. Maybe they’d turn out to be explosive. Or cursed. Or both.

  I tossed the pouches back into the satchel, dropped it beside the bed, and flopped down on the mattress like a bag of bricks. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and the pain was sneaking back in like a thief in the night. Muscles throbbed. My ribs still felt like someone had shoved a boot through them. My hands stung from the strain of fighting, and there was dried blood under my fingernails—not all of it mine.

  I stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the faint sounds of the church at night. Somewhere in the distance, someone was crying. Probably a child.

  War, huh?

  Different world. Same old bullshit.