Chapter 1: War Scars

War is, at its core, a disaster wrought by human hands—one that could be avoided, yet never is. Pride, hatred, greed—these forge the unbreakable chains that drag civilizations into the abyss time and time again.

The year is 2054, and once more, Europe drowns in blood and fire. The Eastern Front is alight with war, the Balkans fractured into countless battlefields. Extremist groups rise from the shadows, their ranks swelling as governments crumble under the weight of their own failures. Some nations cling desperately to power, while others are ground to dust beneath the treads of armored divisions.

The war rages for four long years, an unrelenting storm of destruction. Then, in early 2058, the guns finally fall silent—not because peace prevails, but because exhaustion has set in. The battlefields lie still, but the war's aftermath lingers in every ruined street and shattered soul.

Soldiers still patrol the city, their presence a grim reminder that peace is an illusion. Beggars—once proud citizens—now huddle on sidewalks, their hollow eyes pleading for mercy. Criminals feast upon the chaos, preying on the weak while war criminals vanish into the masses, hoping to escape justice.

And me? I'm just another survivor, picking up the pieces, trying to live.

---

I step into a convenience store, the bell above the door chiming dully. The fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the shelves, illuminating the neatly stacked goods—one of the few signs of normalcy left in this broken world.

It has been three months since the war ended, yet the air still reeks of burned metal and desperation. The dull ache in my phantom arm reminds me that no amount of time will erase what happened. My right arm is gone, replaced by cold steel. My left eye is nothing more than an empty socket, a wound I no longer bother hiding.

I gather what little I need—a few cans of food, some instant coffee—and place them on the counter. The cashier, a young woman, hesitates as she scans my items. She wants to say something. I can see it in her eyes. Fear, curiosity, uncertainty.

I sigh. "Just say it. We live in a free country—at least for now."

She flinches, caught off guard by my bluntness. Then, after a moment, she gathers the courage to speak.

"Are you a veteran?"

The question hangs between us, heavy and expected. I follow her gaze. She's staring at my prosthetic. I nod, slow and deliberate.

"Yeah. I fought in that cursed war."

She looks away, biting her lip. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"No." My voice is sharp, cutting through the stale air. "Don't pity me. Don't insult my comrades who died screaming in the trenches by reducing them to an apology. If you want to honor them, remember them. But don't pity us."

She stiffens, her fingers tightening around the register. "I… I didn't mean—"

"I know." I exhale, running a hand through my unkempt hair. "Forget it."

For a long moment, there's only silence. Then, she speaks again, softer this time.

"My father… He used to own this store. Before he passed, he told me he wanted to give veterans a fifty percent discount. You're the first one to come here since the war ended."

I blink. Of all the things I expected, that wasn't one of them.

"Your father sounds like a good man."

She gives a sad smile. "He was. He wasn't a soldier—he wanted to be, but he had a medical condition. He… he died in an accident. A drunk soldier celebrating the end of the war crashed into his car."

I clench my jaw. I've seen too many men drown their guilt in liquor, seen too many reckless bastards escape punishment. But before I can ask, she continues.

"I heard the soldier got what he deserved."

I nod, unwilling to pry further. Some wounds are best left untouched.

She hands me a form—name, age, years of service. I fill it out without hesitation. When she reads it, her eyes widen slightly.

"7th Armored Cavalry Division…"

I smirk. "Surprised?"

"No, it's just… my father used to talk about the 7th. Said they were the ones who held the eastern flank during the last battle."

"We did. And we paid for it."

She nods solemnly, then rings up my total. True to her word, I only pay half price.

"Thank you for your service, sir."

"Don't call me that," I say with a tired chuckle. "I'm just a washed-up old soldier."

She smiles, and for a moment, the world feels a little less heavy.

---

I step outside, the flimsy paper bag of groceries clutched in my good hand. The night air is crisp, carrying the faint, almost nostalgic scent of rain, damp earth, and distant decay. The streets are eerily quiet—too quiet. The city is holding its breath, just like I am.

Then it happens.

A sudden heat explodes in my chest. Not warmth—this is not the fleeting comfort of human connection. This is a white-hot fire, a sudden, searing pain that spreads through my veins like molten lead, scorching every nerve ending. My breath catches, not in a gasp, but in a strangled, desperate rattle. My vision blurs, fracturing into a kaleidoscope of impossible shapes. My knees buckle, not from exhaustion, but from an internal force, the grocery bag slipping from my prosthetic grip and clattering onto the cracked pavement.

A pulse—deafening, all-consuming, a thunderclap inside my own skull. A force slams into me from within, rattling my very bones as if trying to shake my consciousness loose. The world outside distorts, bending and twisting into grotesque caricatures. Streetlights stretch into impossible lines of light, the solid ground beneath me crumbles into nothingness.

I can't breathe. The air turns to ash in my lungs.

I can't move. My limbs are lead, then non-existent.

I am weightless. Falling. Ascending. Spinning. A terrifying, disorienting void.

The darkness devours me, swallowing my thoughts, my very concept of a body, my existence. It's not the darkness of unconsciousness, but a profound, absolute nullification. I try to scream, to lash out, to make sense of the obliteration, but there is no mouth. No voice. No form. Only a terrified, desperate awareness, adrift in an endless, formless void. For how long? Seconds? Minutes? The objective time scale has ceased to exist. Hours? Eternity? The human brain, even one accustomed to trauma, cannot process this.

Then, a sound. A voice—distant, yet impossibly clear, cutting through the formless void like a drill.

"Oh, it's a girl! I was hoping for a boy so he could serve the kingdom as a soldier… but I suppose a daughter isn't so bad either." The words filter in, absurd and mundane, yet devastating in their implication.

My mind, what little is left of it, reels. My pulse, a phantom thrum in a non-existent body, hammers. My existence feels wrong—small, fragile, alien. My lungs, so recently desperate for air in a dying body, now struggle again, tiny and underdeveloped, yet I am cradled in warmth. It's a shocking, unexpected comfort.

Then, another voice. Softer. Loving. Utterly out of place in this cold, logical void.

"Haha, I had a feeling it would be a girl from the moment I carried her in my womb. And now, my sweet little angel… I shall name you Erina."

No. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. This is not how survival works. This is not logical.

Panic surges through me, raw and primal, but I am utterly powerless. I am a prisoner in a reality that defies all reason.

I have been reborn.

And the nightmare, far from ending, has just begun anew.