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Peter Buniel leveled his boar spear and, shouting haphazardly, charged towards the riverbank.

During the charge, Peter's hands and feet were icy cold, and his mind was a blank slate. He mechanically moved his legs, planted his feet, moved his legs again, planted his feet again...

When he came back to his senses, he found himself standing in the icy river with not a single comrade by his side, while the barbarians a dozen meters away were shooting arrows at him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Peter turned and ran.

Running was almost instinctual for him; being bullied, swallowing grievances, escaping... He had been living like this for all of his twenty-three years.

But this time he couldn't escape, as the warriors who had caught up with him from behind blocked his way.