First Role: Bannerman

Rosenheim Plains

"Kill them!!!"

The screams were a hazy backdrop to Alab's disorientation. He was vaguely aware of armored figures clashing nearby, the thunder of horses' hooves at the edge of his perception. He was on a battlefield. The cloying, metallic scent of blood filled the air, thick enough to choke on.

"Bweek!"

Alab's stomach lurched, and he vomited, the world tilting sickeningly. He was a doctor, yes, but this… this was something else entirely. He gasped for air, his lungs burning.

"Bad luck! This is a battlefield! Was this what they meant by an exciting life?!"

"Respa mitsu algare!" The unfamiliar words struck his ears, a harsh reminder that he was in a place where even the language was foreign. Panic clawed at him. He had to do something, anything.

Stumbling, he made his way to a shallow, dug-out area at the edge of the chaos. "Bweek!!" Another wave of nausea, another bout of vomiting. The dug-out was a mass grave, littered with corpses in the same grim uniform. A single, desperate thought pierced through his fear: blend in. He had to blend in.

He found a body near the bottom of the pile, careful not to disturb the macabre arrangement too much. The dead soldier clutched a pole topped with a tattered flag. Still holding on to it until the last minute, Alab thought grimly. The corpse wore a leather armor. Alab stripped the body of its bloody armor, pants, and sandals, and donned them himself. The leather was stiff and cold against his skin. He brushed the matted hair from the dead man's face, a strange impulse driving him to look at the face of the soldier whose identity he was stealing.

Then, darkness. A rush of images, vivid and disjointed, assaulted his mind. His head throbbed, an agony he'd never known.

"This shit hurts, Argh!"

He crumpled to the ground, more visions crashing through his consciousness. A cracked clay bowl, the smell of woodsmoke, a woman's gentle hand on his cheek. "Don't worry, Mama," Lucas's voice echoed in his head, thick with unshed tears. "I'll be back before the first snow." The vision shifted, replaced by the brutal clash of steel, the scream of a dying horse. Then, a voice, clear and commanding: "Soldier! Bring the flag to the left flank then go back to the hill now!!!"

The words were suddenly understandable, though he had no idea which flag the voice referred to. A man on horseback, his face tight with urgency, shouted, "Hurry up! The flank is being destroyed!"

Alab, still reeling, forced himself to find the nearest flag. It was heavy, the pole awkward in his grip. He staggered towards the left flank, arrows whistling past him, one clipping his heel. ??!! Fear spiked, adrenaline flooding his system. He unfurled the flag and waved it frantically, his arms aching.

Ugh.... This is really heavy. He had no idea how long he was supposed to do this, his stamina waning, until finally, a group of mounted soldiers charged past him. As they rode by, one of them yelled, "New orders! Fall back to the ridge!" Alab, confused, lowered the flag. Normally, flag bearers were stationed safely behind the lines, he thought, remembering something Lucas's memories had dredged up. But not in this army. Here, even the flag carriers are sent into the thick of it. He turned and ran, blindly, towards the hill he'd been ordered to reach.

He arrived at the hill, where a group of officers stood around a table, the commander observing the battle with a grim expression. Why was I transferred in the middle of a battlefield? he thought, his mind still struggling to grasp the reality of his situation.

From his vantage point, he watched the battle unfold. The men in the same uniform he now wore were being pushed back, losing ground. He realized with a sinking feeling that the uniform he'd taken belonged to a soldier from a platoon that had been all but wiped out. Damn it, did I just join the losing side?

The scene before him was a horrifying spectacle. Men hacked and slashed at each other, a brutal, chaotic dance of death. Even from a distance, Alab flinched at the sickening sounds and the imagined spray of blood. So this is what it feels like to be in a war. There was no strategy he could discern, just raw, savage combat.

He understood then. The images, the memories, they came from the man he'd touched, the dead soldier whose clothes he now wore.

Later, a man in a leather uniform approached him. "From what platoon are you from?"

Alab struggled to dredge up something, anything, from the stolen memories. "Di...di...Diamond Platoon, sir."

"Your lieutenant?"

The memories were still fragmented, elusive. "He's gone. I think I am the only one left in our platoon."

"I see... Observe the battle. You will be assigned to another platoon later."

The man left, and for the first time, Alab felt a sliver of relief. He used the opportunity to try to organize the fragmented memories he'd acquired. The dead soldier's name had been Lucas Ternos, a conscripted farmer from the Heartwood Kingdom, a man with a blind mother back home.

Through Lucas's memories, Alab pieced together the context of the war. The Heartwood and Green Rose kingdoms were fighting over two territories: a gate and a tower. The gate, once a year, released creatures whose remains, particularly crystals, were highly prized by mages. The tower was rumored to hold treasures and, at its peak, a genie who granted wishes.

The two kingdoms had previously shared the gate, but the appearance of the tower beside it had ignited tensions. Rumors spread: the Heartwood Kingdom wasn't sharing the spoils fairly, the Green Rose Kingdom had murdered Heartwood soldiers. The whispers escalated until fifteen Green Rose lieutenants were poisoned at a feast after a joint dragon slaying with Heartwood soldiers. That was the breaking point.

Alab's gaze drifted back to the battlefield. Amidst the carnage, he saw a group of Heartwood soldiers pushing back the enemy. At their head was a young boy on horseback, wielding a spear with surprising skill. The boy moved with an almost preternatural grace, cutting down two enemies before leading his platoon in a ferocious charge. Watching him, Alab realized a chilling truth: in this world of swords and magic, he would have to learn to fight if he wanted to survive.

Night fell. Alab, still unassigned, found himself lost in the sea of soldiers. Rations were distributed by platoon, and as he waited in line, he overheard snippets of conversation about the lone survivor of the Diamond Platoon. It seems they don't know my face, he thought. The Diamond Platoon had been made up of conscripted farmers, reinforcements for the second day of battle. They were not well-known.

After receiving his meager rations, Alab found a quiet corner to sit. Five men in metal armor sat around a bonfire, and they noticed him.

"Hey, from what platoon are you?" the largest of the men asked. He seemed to be the group's leader.

"From the Diamond..." Alab replied.

"So, it was you..." one of the men muttered, a mix of awe and pity in his voice.

"If my platoon was annihilated and I am the only one left, I would rather die," another man, Richard, muttered, chewing on his food.

"Stop it, Richard," a smaller man sharpening his sword said.

The large man approached Alab. "I am Lieutenant Marshal. Normally, you would be absorbed by the Wallflower Company, since that's where the Diamond Platoon belonged. But you're a lucky guy. I'll give you a chance to join our platoon, son. If you beat Sonny in arm wrestling, I will let you join the Lion Platoon. It'll be our little secret."

Alab, just wanting to belong somewhere, agreed. Sonny, a skinny boy who looked like a strong gust of wind could blow him away, stepped forward with an innocent smile. After wiping his face, he locked hands with Alab.

"Will the survivor or our weakest win?" someone joked.

The match began, and Alab's arm was pinned almost instantly. He's really strong despite his physique. Or maybe, the soldiers are just really that strong here. In Gaia, strength was paramount. Alab wondered if everyone was just naturally stronger here, or if Sonny was simply exceptional.

"It seems your luck ran out this time, boy," Lieutenant Marshal said.

Alab shared the meal with the squad.

"But I tell you," Lieutenant Marshal said, raising his waterskin in a toast, "for farmers to survive until the third day, they're pretty resilient. And you, I heard you did a great job, enabling the left flank to be reinforced."

The battle was on its third day. Tomorrow, or the day after, could be the last. If it was, Alab thought, it would be a blessing. He was still reeling from the horrors he'd witnessed.

Later, Alab sought out an officer to assign him to a platoon. He was placed in the Dragoon Platoon. Unlike the Lion Platoon, the Dragoon Platoon's quarters were filled with a heavy, somber atmosphere. Many of the men were injured. Alab, despite his medical training, felt helpless. He lacked the energy and the resources to do anything meaningful.

Have the Information Points increased? I thought there would be contact from Mozza?

He fell asleep, and then, he was in Mozza. The familiar sofa and table were there. Merlin hurried toward him.

"You only have ten minutes here. There is no time to waste. Find the magic that will suit you