War

Name: Achlys

Age: 18

Race: Human

Symbol: Trickster

Status: Gifted Mortal

Apographs: [Filipendulous], [Agathological]

Thaumata: [Light Tricks]

Ascension: 0/100

…

Light tricks?

Achlys furrowed his brow, pondering the mysterious ability listed in his Mythos panel.

Yeah, I've no clue what it could be, he thought and decided to check it out.

[Light Tricks] : [You can make something appear different from what it actually is]

Illusions? Achlys wondered incredulously, as he studied the short description.

Not quite what I was expecting, nor wanted, he thought with bitterness…

His whole life, he was training to become some kind of a ruthless warrior.

He had wilded swords, shields, axes, daggers, spears, and so on.

Achlys had trained in various combat styles, honing his body and mind.

He had paid countless instructors to teach him their art and had dedicated countless hours to perfecting his techniques.

Yet here he was, gifted with the power of illusions.

What the actual fuck? Is this some kind of a sick joke from Zeus? I'm not amused.

Achlys clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought back a wave of frustration.

This wasn't what he had signed up for.

Illusions, he thought again, his jaw tightening.

A trickster's game. A coward's art.

He could almost hear the mocking laughter of the gods echoing in his ears, as if they were watching him struggle, toying with him for their own amusement.

The thought made his blood boil, but he forced himself to calm down. He couldn't afford to lose control now.

As he reached the edge of the hill, Achlys felt despair.

Damned old man. If I back out now, he'll probably inform some other soldiers and hunt me down…

Hundreds of men were locked in combat, each fighting for their lives, for their honour, for something greater than themselves.

It was terrifying.

His heart pounding, Achlys took his first step into the fray.

And as the sounds of the battle roared louder around him, drowning out everything else, he realised one thing with startling clarity.

I'll probably die.

Achlys tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

He had trained for this—every cut, every parry, every strike drilled into his muscle memory—but all that training felt hollow in the face of the sheer chaos unfolding before him.

Let's not forget the fact that I'll have to kill people…

The was another weight added to his consciousness.

As he stood there, sword in hand, Achlys felt a cold sweat break out across his skin.

Illusions, everything here is an illusion. A fragment of my imagination, or the past, he thought fervently, trying to convince himself.

But he could see the Greek soldiers desperately holding the line, their faces streaked with sweat and grime, their movements growing sluggish under the weight of exhaustion.

The Trojans were pushing forward relentlessly.

They don't seem like illusions.

It was a nightmare, and Achlys was walking straight into it.

I don't even have time to learn how to use the damned light tricks.

That was Achlys' last coherent thought for the next several hours.

He had no plan, no strategy beyond simple survival.

As soon as he joined the fray, his sword moved on instinct, slashing and parrying, blocking strikes that seemed to come from every direction.

Every muscle in his body screamed in protest immediately, but he pushed through, his mind too overwhelmed to register the pain.

Don't think, just move, he told himself, but even that thought slipped away.

Achlys was dimly aware of the Greek soldiers around him, their faces twisted with fear and determination as they fought to hold the line.

They didn't know who he was, didn't care.

He was just another body, another blade in their mass struggling against the Trojan tide.

After the first enemy fell to Achlys' sword, he started feeling disconnected from it all, like he was watching himself from a distance, seeing his own movements as if through a haze.

The Trojans came again and again, relentless.

He barely had time to react before a man lunged, a spear thrusting towards his neck.

Achlys twisted, the point grazing his cheek, and brought his sword down in a wild, desperate arc.

The sharp sting barely registered in his adrenaline-fuelled state.

He stumbled back, regaining his footing just in time to bring his sword down in a wild, desperate arc.

The blade connected, and Achlys felt the sickening sensation of flesh yielding to steel.

The Trojan fell almost immediately, but there was no time to process what had just happened.

Another soldier took his place, and then another.

Achlys parried a blow, but his arm felt heavy, his movements sluggish.

He knew he was slowing down, and that was death in a place like this.

Yet he kept going.

Slash.

Parry.

Slash.

Dodge.

Slash.

Block.

One last push, he repeated to himself, knowing that he had done so a thousand times before.

Achlys' arms burned with fatigue.

"I'll kill you!"

A guttural roar erupted from somewhere to his left.

Achlys barely managed to whirl around and meet the enemy sword with his own.

The clash of steel sent a vibration through his body.

Achlys could see the rage in his opponent's eyes, the desperation fuelling each strike.

He tried pushing the man back but he was taller and bigger than him.

The Trojan's strength had almost overwhelmed Achlys when a Greek soldier appeared from nowhere, driving his spear into the Trojan's side.

With a twist from the man, the Trojan crumpled to the ground.

Achlys stumbled back, narrowly avoiding the falling body.

He turned to thank his saviour, but the Greek soldier had already moved on, disappearing into the chaos of battle.

And after a while… everything just stopped.

There were no more Trojans coming his way.

Did it end? Achlys wondered.

He scanned the immediate area, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of an impending attack.

Achlys just stood there, his chest heaving, muscles trembling from the unrelenting strain.

The battlefield had fallen into a sudden, eerie stillness, the clamour of swords and cries of agony having faded into a haunting silence.

Blood dripped from his blade, pooling at his feet, but his mind barely registered it.

His vision blurred, and he realised he was shaking, not only from the utter exhaustion he was in but from the raw, unfiltered horror of what he had seen and done.

Is this it? he thought, his grip loosening on the hilt of his sword. Is this the glory I've been yearning for?

Achlys could see bodies strewn across the field, lifeless, broken, faces frozen in expressions of fear, pain, and even, peace.

He had thought himself prepared for this, but the reality was far more visceral, more chaotic, more real than he had ever imagined.

He suddenly bent down and retched, the acrid taste of bile burning his throat.

As he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, his gaze drifted upward, catching a glimpse of the sky—dark, stormy as if the heavens themselves mourned the carnage below.

"Why did I even come here?" he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Of course, no answer came.

Light Tricks, Achlys thought and summoned the system panel again.

Maybe I can use them to deceive myself, he thought with dark amusement