The battlefield was a grotesque tapestry of death. The once green fields had become a swamp of blood and mud, the earth itself soaked with the cries of the fallen. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, metal, and the stench of decaying bodies, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke from burning villages nearby. The clash of swords, the cries of pain, and the screams of dying men filled the air, but Jay could hardly hear them anymore. The world around him was reduced to a blur of motion, a cacophony of sound and fury as his blade sliced through the enemy.
Jay's body was a storm of motion, his every strike calculated, his every movement instinctive. He had become a creature of battle, but with every life he took, the weight of the war grew heavier on his soul. His sword, once gleaming, was now a wicked thing, dark with blood and dirt. His tunic, once a symbol of pride, was now tattered and stained beyond recognition. The mud clung to his skin, mixing with the blood of those he had slain and those who had fallen beside him. His face was a grim mask, streaked with dirt and the gore of battle, his once-pristine armor now battered and dented from hours of relentless fighting.
Beside him, Joan was a warrior forged in the fires of war. Her armor, though still functional, was smeared with blood, both hers and others. Her once-bright tunic was torn in places, revealing the deep gashes where her enemies had struck. Her face was smeared with dirt, her hair matted with sweat and blood, but her eyes burned with a fierce resolve, a flame that would not be extinguished no matter how many lives were taken or how many souls were lost. She moved with a grace and precision that was a testament to her training, her sword flashing like a streak of light in the midst of the chaos.
Yet even she could not escape the toll the battle had taken. She staggered slightly as a blow from a heavy ax connected with her shoulder, the impact knocking her to the ground. For a moment, Jay's heart stopped, but Joan was up again in an instant, her face a mask of determination.
The battle raged on around them, but Jay's eyes were drawn to the faces of their fallen comrades. To his left, a young soldier who had fought bravely beside him just hours before lay face-down in the muck, his lifeless body pierced through with a dozen arrows. His armor was mangled, his face frozen in a silent scream. Jay had known this man, had spoken with him just hours earlier, and now he was nothing more than a forgotten casualty of war.
To his right, another ally—a woman with the fierce spirit of a lioness—lay crumpled against a broken tree, her throat slit by a sword that gleamed with fresh blood. Her once-beautiful armor, a gift from her father, was now dented and torn, her eyes wide in shock, her hand still gripping the hilt of her sword as if she could somehow continue the fight from beyond the grave.
Jay's breath caught in his throat as he looked around, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the death that surrounded him. He had always known that war meant loss, but the reality of it was like a crushing weight on his chest. He had promised himself that he would protect those around him, that he would fight for a future where the innocent no longer had to die—but that future seemed to slip further away with each passing moment.
And yet, there was no time to mourn. The enemy was relentless, their soldiers pressing forward with the ferocity of a tide that could not be stopped. Jay snapped back into the present, his eyes narrowing as a group of knights charged toward him, their swords raised high. He moved without thinking, his sword cutting through the air with a speed and precision that defied belief.
One knight fell before him, his chest torn open by Jay's blade. Another tried to strike, but Jay moved faster, sidestepping the blow and slashing the knight's throat in one smooth motion. The man dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, his lifeblood pooling around him.
But even as Jay continued to carve his way through the enemy ranks, he could feel the weight of every life he took. The blood, the gore, the broken bodies—it all became a blur. He fought not just for survival but for something deeper, something personal. Each fallen soldier, each fallen ally, was another reminder of what was at stake. And yet, there was a part of him that felt nothing, a coldness creeping into his heart with every blow he landed. It was as if the Arc DNA inside him was consuming him, burning away the last traces of the man he had once been.
Beside him, Joan was a whirlwind of death. She moved like a shadow, her sword cutting through the enemy with the grace of a dancer and the fury of a goddess. Her every strike was a promise—a promise that she would not fall, not today, not while there was still breath in her body. But even she couldn't keep up with the sheer number of enemies pouring into the battlefield. They were like ants, swarming and overwhelming the few remaining soldiers who still dared to fight.
In a single, brutal moment, Jay saw a man—one of his closest comrades—fall beneath the blade of a Black Order knight. The soldier had fought valiantly, but the enemy had outnumbered him. The knight's sword sliced through his abdomen, and with a sickening sound, he fell, his face contorted in pain as he breathed his last. Jay's heart twisted with rage, but there was no time to stop the carnage. His eyes locked onto the Black Order knight who had struck the fatal blow, and in that instant, he moved.
His body surged forward with a speed that defied reason. He closed the distance in seconds, his sword a flash of deadly silver. The knight barely had time to raise his shield before Jay's blade crashed through it, tearing through armor and bone with a sickening crunch. The knight fell to the ground, his body limp and lifeless.
Jay stood over the corpse, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His mind was clouded with the deaths of those around him, but there was a fire burning inside him—a fire that refused to go out. He had become something more than human. The blood of the Arc coursed through his veins, and with it, he was reborn.
Joan appeared beside him, her face a mask of dirt and blood, her armor battered and broken, but her eyes were as fierce as ever. She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. In that moment, they both understood. They had become warriors, forged in the fires of war and tempered by the deaths of those they had sworn to protect.
The battle was far from over, and more enemies were closing in. But Jay and Joan stood together, unbroken, ready to face whatever horrors the Black Order would throw at them. They had seen the cost of war, and it had changed them both.
But they would fight on, not for glory, but for survival.