Matthew Ho had always prided himself on his unshakable calm—though to be fair, after enduring a lifetime of absurd misfortunes, anyone would develop a thick skin. Waking up in unfamiliar places after blackout drinking? Routine. Finding himself inexplicably younger, stronger, and sharper-minded? Interesting, but hardly earth-shattering.
But what happened next would test even Matthew's legendary equanimity.
Frankly, no modern person could remain composed when suddenly finding themselves sandwiched between two ancient armies—each numbering in the thousands—with less than a hundred meters separating them. The palpable bloodlust radiating from both sides left only two options: piss your pants in terror, or cling desperately to denial. Matthew chose the latter.
"Holy shit, is this a movie set?!"
He knew better, of course. Having visited actual film productions, Matthew recognized this was no staged scene—the absence of crew, equipment, or safety measures made that abundantly clear. This looked more like something ripped straight from a historical epic, except for one glaring difference: the murderous intent in the air was terrifyingly real.
Had he somehow traveled back in time? The possibility both excited and unnerved him. Seizing the momentary standoff, Matthew studied the opposing forces.
To his left stood Asian warriors whose armor seemed plucked from different dynasties—Han, Tang, Five Dynasties, Ming—all mashed together in a chaotic jumble. Their weapons showed similar chronological dissonance, spanning centuries of Chinese history.
The European contingent to his right proved no more coherent. Crusader chainmail rubbed shoulders with Renaissance plate armor, while conquistador morions sat beside Viking helmets. It was as if someone had emptied a history textbook into a blender.
If this were a film, Matthew would've fired the costume designer. But if this was real... just what era had he stumbled into?
"Hello everyone! Lovely weather for a battle, don't you think?" Matthew's strained greeting echoed across the field. The Asian side remained impassive—perhaps taking him for a countryman—but a European archer answered with a whistling arrow aimed straight between his eyes.
"Holy shit, they're actually attacking?!" Matthew's voice cracked in disbelief. In his mind, he was just an insignificant mouse caught between two warring giants—hardly worth their notice. The armies had paused merely out of surprise at his sudden appearance, not because he posed any threat. With their numbers, they could've crushed him underfoot without breaking formation.
Yet in that critical moment, something primal awakened within him. The enhanced reflexes he'd noticed earlier kicked in instinctively—his head jerked aside with unnatural speed as the arrow whistled past. Then, in a move that defied physics, his hand snapped out and caught the projectile mid-flight.
Fury overtook reason. Without thinking, Matthew hurled the arrow back toward its source with all his might. He expected nothing more than a symbolic gesture of defiance—certainly not the sickening thunk that followed as the missile found its mark. A longbowman in the European ranks collapsed, clutching his throat, before going still in the dirt.
The battlefield froze.
On the European side, pavise shields slammed into formation as halberds leveled toward Matthew. Cavalry lances dipped into attack position while a new wave of archers nocked arrows. Dodging arrows was one thing—but catching one mid-flight? And killing with a return throw? These were feats beyond mortal men.
The Asian forces mirrored their counterparts' readiness. Frontline heavy infantry raised their swallow-tailed spears and polearms, while cavalry brandished their mǎshuò lances. Crossbowmen ratcheted their weapons with mechanical precision.
Amidst this powder keg of tension, Matthew remained oblivious to the impending violence. Only one thought echoed through his mind:
I just killed a man.
The closest he'd ever come to taking life was having fishmongers gut his purchases. His hands had never been stained by anything more than swatted insects. Now he'd crossed that fundamental line in an instant, without warning or preparation.
"I killed someone. Killed someone. Killed someone. What do I do? What do I do? This is bad. This is really bad—" His muttering grew increasingly disjointed as his pupils dilated. Observers might have noticed his trembling limbs, his ragged breathing, the way his pulse visibly throbbed at his temples. He was spiraling fast.
Then—flash!
The world dissolved into blinding light. When his vision cleared, the nightmare battlefield had vanished. In its place stood... something entirely different. The sudden shift jolted Matthew back from the brink of panic, his breathing gradually steadying as this new reality took shape before him.