A Glimpse from the Past 3

Each villager heard it, the sound of a collision.

 In an instant, the peaceful calm of the village was shattered. Children playing froze, with their heads turned in the direction of the noise, and the air was heavy with foreboding. The village was now awake.

 Ithri didn't wait to see how the soldiers regrouped. Turning swiftly, he sprinted down the hill toward his childhood home. His breaths came in sharp bursts as he pushed the wooden door open and darted inside.

His eyes swept the room, searching every corner. A small pan rested on the table, and he pulled it out of instinct.

"I didn't find my family inside," he thought, unexpected relief washing over him. "This dream didn't include them. It's as if the memory erased them."

He steadied himself with a deliberate breath. His plan was simple: strike hard, strike fast. He would wait for the right moment.

The faint sound of hooves and distant shouts grew louder, drawing closer like an ominous storm. His gaze flicked to the doorway, tension building in his chest.

"They're coming," he muttered, the smile twisting upon his lips turning dark.

This wasn't about stopping them. Not in the way a hero might. Instead, he wanted to toy with them and savor the control the dream offered. It was twisted, yes, but satisfying all the same.

Gripping the stolen ring in one hand and the pan in the other, Ithri felt the absurdity of his situation. As a seven-year-old boy or the child-sized version of himself in this dream, the pan felt enormous.

He climbed up the wooden doorway to perch just above the entrance and waited. He creaked the frame beneath him with his weight, and his anticipation mounted higher.

Seconds dragged into what felt like minutes. Outside, the village was alive with screams and chaos: the clash of metal, the crackle of fire, and the wet splat of blood on earth.

The first soldier stepped cautiously through the door, his weapon raised and eyes scanning.

Clang!

Ithri swung the pan with all his might, the blow landing with a sickening crack. The soldier crumpled, his head smashing into the wall, leaving a dark stain behind.

"One down," Ithri muttered, his chest tightening with a savage thrill.

Another soldier appeared, rushing in with his blade raised high. Ithri sidestepped the swing, tripping him and sending him sprawling. Before the man could rise, Ithri brought the pan down with brutal precision.

He grabbed the fallen sword of the soldier, its weight ungainly but manageable in his hand. Outside, the chaos roared further. Smoke filled the air thick and choking as the fire lapped at the edges of the nearby rooftops.

He darted out of the house, scanning the scene. Villagers were being rounded up, their wrists bound with rope, and dragged toward a wagon repurposed for enslavement. Soldiers moved with ruthless efficiency, their blades gleaming in the firelight.

And then Ithri saw him, the leader.

A man in his mid-20s, tall and imposing, with sharp features and an aura of command. His gold hair glinted in the light, slicked back, while his polished armor reflected the chaos around him. A blade rested in one hand, a map in the other, as he barked orders to his men.

Ithri's focus narrowed, the chaos around him fading into a dull roar. He didn't see the archer until it was too late. The arrow grazed his side, sending a searing pain through his body as he tumbled to the ground. Blood trickled down his skin, hot and sticky, but his grip on the stolen ring never wavered.

A great four-star pattern flared to life before him, shimmering brightly with a gold light of fire.

"Shit," Ithri cursed under his breath, his heart pounding.

The brilliance of it was beyond compare, slashing through smoke and flame like a beacon. Every soldier turned toward him, stupefied for one clear instant by the impossible sight. Even the leader, who sat his horse so proudly, paused mid-order, eyes slit as they fixed on Ithri.

Heat surged through Ithri's palm as the ring flared to life. The pain was almost unbearable, but he welcomed it, letting the raw energy coursing through him. With a guttural roar, he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the throbbing ache in his side.

Time seemed to slow as Ithri locked eyes with the leader. The world around him the shouts, the crackling fires, the cries of the villagers blurred into a distant hum. There was only one goal now, one singular purpose driving him forward.

Instinctively, he grabbed a broken spearhead lying nearby and hurled it with all his strength. The jagged metal sliced through the air, striking the leader square in the chest and knocking him clean off his horse. The man hit the ground hard, his armor clanging against the dirt as he rolled before coming to a stop.

For a moment, the leader lay motionless, his body limp in the dirt. Then, with a groan, he pushed himself up, dust and blood streaking his polished armor. He looked up at Ithri, his sharp features contorted with fury.

And from now on the awakening phase began, with his and Ithri's focus on accomplishing his mission making the dream more absurd.

"You've made a grave mistake, boy," he snarled, his voice low and venomous.

Ithri didn't respond. There was no room for words now. He gripped the hilt of the fallen soldier's sword tightly, its weight unfamiliar but reassuring in his hand. Without hesitation, he charged.

The clash was instant and violent. The leader moved with the precision of a veteran warrior, each strike calculated and deadly. His sword blade sliced ​​through the air with terrifying speed, forcing Ithri to dodge and parry with every ounce of focus he could muster.

But where the leader was disciplined, Ithri was savage and unpredictable. He moved with a savage energy, his small body darting and twisting in ways the leader couldn't have anticipated. Each strike of his sword blade was raw, powered more by instinct than technique, but it was enough to keep the leader at bay.

Their swords met in a shower of sparks, the clash echoing through Ithri's arms. He stepped back, nearly losing his grip, but the heat of the ring rose again, holding him still. He pretended to lean left, then turned right, slamming his sword hilt into the leader's ribs.

The man let out a growl, and stumbled from the blow, but quickly recovered, and swung his sword blade toward Ethri in a deadly arc. Ethri barely managed to duck, the steel grazing his hair as he rolled to the side.

The fight moved like a storm, chaotic and relentless. Ethri's breath came in ragged gasps as he dodged another blow, his boots skidding across the blood-stained ground. He swung his sword violently, and the blade brushed against the leader's arm, drawing a thin line of crimson.

The leader roared, his movements becoming more aggressive. He pressed forward, each strike forcing Ithri back another step.

He roared. "You are nothing," he spat, complete hatred in his voice. "A child playing with powers you do not understand."

This was an attempt to dream to make the story more realistic. Usually, dreams try to create stories despite their randomness.

Ithri clenched his jaw, anger surging high in his chest. The ring throbbed within his palm; "Power was seething inside him, yearning to be released. He stepped forward, meeting the leader's strike head-on, their blades locked, their steel screaming with thrust and thrust against each other.

"I don't need to understand that," Ithri growled through clenched teeth, his back pressed tightly against the wall, with a tremendous thrust. "I just need to use it."

Logic returned for a moment. "What's the story? Haha, I didn't understand." He replied spontaneously. "Perhaps this is drowning in a dream?"

However, he used all his strength to get away from the leader, taking an inch for himself. At that moment, he fell to one knee and swung his leg, catching the man off guard. The leader fell, with the sound of his sword hitting the ground.

Ithri didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, his blade slicing downward toward the falling man. But the leader rolled over at the last moment, grabbing a dagger from his belt and slashing upward.

Pain exploded in Ither's shoulder as the blade found its target, but he didn't stop. "With a roar, he slashed his sword again, knocking the dagger from the leader's hand.

He stepped back, his chest heaving as he clutched his side. His eyes flicked to his fallen sword, but Ether was already there, kicking the weapon out of his reach.

"Who are you?" the leader asked, his voice tinged with anger and fear.

Ither stepped forward, raising his sword high. His voice was calm, almost cold, as he answered.

"No one matters."

The blade fell, but before it reached its target, a dream began to unfold. The world became blurry and distorted, and the sound of battle faded into silence.

As the leader fell, Ithri began to awaken.