Chapter 0

Silead was a loner.
He rarely interacted with people, finding his greatest joy in holing up in his cramped little room, staring blankly at materials and videos about ancient warfare.

His friends all thought he was far too obsessed with cold weaponry and armor culture—but he never found it boring. In fact, he took deep pleasure in it.

And today, his long-held wish was finally fulfilled. He had managed, through a contact in Japan, to acquire a full set of ceremonial Japanese armor. It was blood-red from head to toe, the helmet adorned with golden horns, sharp and menacing like the fangs of some ancient oni demon.

He couldn’t wait to strap on each piece. Finally, he retrieved a fearsome Raksasa mask from the box—black lacquered eye sockets and chilling fangs. Just looking at it made his skin crawl.

Taking a deep breath, he fastened the mask to his face. The cold metal bit into his skin and seeped into his bones. His breathing immediately grew heavy. But when he raised his head to look into the mirror—red armor, demon mask—that oppressive aura made him feel a long-lost sense of fulfillment.

“So... cool,” he whispered to himself, reaching for the phone on top of the cabinet.

The heavy armor made him clumsy. As soon as he bent down, he lost balance and toppled over. With a loud crash, the display rack behind him collapsed, and dozens of pieces of metal armor came crashing down.

His chest was pinned; the air was knocked out of his lungs. He struggled desperately, but the weight of the armor held him down. The Raksasa mask was jammed against his face, its sharp edges digging painfully into his skin. He couldn’t even make a full sound—only broken, muffled growls trembled in his throat.

His breath grew rapid. Darkness closed in. His hands scratched helplessly between the gaps in the metal, movements growing weaker and weaker... until he sank completely into the void.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the crushing weight suddenly lifted. Something—some force—had pushed all the armor away. Cold air rushed into his lungs, and he erupted into violent coughs, his chest rising and falling like a drowning man dragged back onto shore.

When he opened his eyes, he saw gray stone walls and flickering torchlight. Damp air clung to his skin. Beneath his feet was rough sand—not the familiar hardwood floor.

The Raksasa mask was still on his face. The red armor still clung tightly to his body. But it no longer felt like a prop—it was heavy, real, like actual battle armor.

Silead froze, whispering to himself:

“Where... am I?”

Suddenly, deafening cries of battle roared into his ears.

Startled, he turned his head. Through the broken window in the stone wall, he looked out—and his breath caught in his throat.

Out on an endless plain, two massive armies clashed. Banners whipped in the wind. The thunder of swords and shields crashing echoed in waves. Shouts of killing intent swelled like a tsunami. The air was thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder. At a glance, there had to be over three thousand people in the chaos, the battlefield covered in a sea of black figures.

“What... the hell is this...”
Silead instinctively backed away, but the armor locked his limbs—he could barely move. His brain hadn’t even finished recovering from the panic of suffocation, and now this—this scene tore apart the boundaries between reality and fantasy.

Just then, a voice shouted from the battlefield. Someone pointed in his direction. A group of armored cavalry turned their horses and charged toward him. Hooves thundered, dust rose.

Silead stood frozen. A raspy whisper squeezed from his throat:

“They... saw me?”

He snapped back to his senses just as the warhorses closed in—
They really were coming for him!

“Shit!” he cursed under his breath, his heart pounding like it would explode from his chest. The armor was absurdly heavy—every step felt like he was dragging boulders—but his instincts screamed at him to run.

Boots kicked up sand. The Raksasa mask grated against his breathing, suffocating him. Behind him, the war cries roared louder. The thundering hooves pounded like drums on his chest.

“Faster, faster... or I’m really gonna die here!”

He stumbled into a pile of ruins. The clanging of metal echoed between broken stone walls. Silead had no time to wonder why he was here. All he knew was that the killing intent behind him was closing in—and the red armor on his body made him a walking target.

He ran desperately, but the armor dragged him down like chains. Each step was agony. Even breathing was hard.

The sound of hooves drew closer and closer—
Until suddenly, a sharp whooshing pierced the air from behind.

He didn’t even have time to react before searing pain exploded at the back of his head.

A long spear smashed into his helmet. The impact sent him flying, slamming him into the ground. Sparks erupted as red armor clashed with stone.

A mounted knight brought his horse to a stop, spear still in hand, coldly staring at Silead’s motionless body.

That hit had been brutal. Even if it didn’t pierce the armor, it should’ve knocked any normal man unconscious—if not killed him outright.

Silead didn’t move. He looked like a corpse.

The knight stayed cautious. He didn’t approach immediately. Instead, he drew a sword from his waist—ready to finish the job.

He urged his horse forward, raised his blade—

Cough—haaah!!

Silead’s body twitched violently. He burst into a coughing fit like a drowning man gasping for air. To the knight’s shock, Silead sat up slowly—as if nothing had happened.

Through the slits in the mask, his eyes were dazed.

“You son of a...” Silead gasped, not even caring whether the knight still had his sword raised. He rolled to the side and tumbled behind a low wall, scrambling back into a desperate escape.

He staggered, barely able to stand. His breathing and heartbeat were one jumbled mess.

He stumbled onward, gasping like a beast. His stamina was nearly drained dry.

Rounding a half-collapsed wall, he froze.

Open ground. No cover. No escape.
And that knight was right behind him.

“There’s nowhere left to run...” he muttered, throat dry, eyes filled with fatigue and grit. “Then... I’ll fight!”

He spun around, locking eyes with the knight. He clenched his fists, stood tall. The red armor shimmered in the sun, the demon mask cracking with a sinister gleam.

The knight said nothing. He merely leveled his spear and charged.

The wind howled. The earth shook.

“COME ON!!!” Silead roared, lunging forward—
But he barely took a step before the spear slammed into his chest.

BAM!

He was launched again, crashing hard into the ground, tumbling through dust and sparks.

He forced himself up—
His chest was dented, breath nearly gone—
But he stood again.

The knight circled, then charged again.

The spear struck his gut—
Boom!

Again he flew.

Third time.
Fourth time.
Fifth time...

Silead didn’t know how many times he’d been hit.
Each time shattered him.
But the armor never broke.
And somehow—he never died.

Down. Up. Down. Up...
Every time he tried to fight back, he missed.
He couldn’t even touch the knight’s horse tail.
He was just a plaything, a punching bag.

The eleventh strike drove him face-first into the sand.
His nose filled with blood and grit.

Huff... haah...
He gasped on the ground, mask soaked with sweat, vision spinning.

The knight finally stopped. Sitting atop his heaving warhorse, he looked at the still-moving red figure on the ground with furrowed brows, his expression shifting from caution to something... confused.

“What the hell is this thing...?”

After the thirteenth strike, the knight halted.

His horse wheezed, legs trembling.

He clicked his tongue and looked down at the slumped red figure still trying to rise. He frowned.

“That’s enough,” he muttered, dismounting with practiced ease, drawing his sword.

“What the hell are you made of?”

The blade gleamed—simple, but razor sharp.

Silead was barely able to kneel. His strength was gone. He wasn’t even thinking about escaping anymore. His gaze was vacant. All he heard was his own ragged breathing.

“Just kill me already... I’m already half-dead anyway...”

His voice was muffled by the mask—deep, hoarse, like some cursed whisper from a dark ritual.

The knight stepped forward and swung down.

CLANG!!

Sparks flew. The blade struck the shoulder plate—
Only a shallow dent.

“Tch.”
The knight raised an eyebrow, then twisted his stance. With shocking agility, he slashed again.

Silead was flung aside like a rag doll, tumbling through the dust.

“Get up, you freak,” the knight sneered, kicking him over.

Silead’s thoughts were scattered. The world buzzed. He couldn’t breathe. Yet his body still twitched—still tried to stand.

“You can still move? You’re not dead?”

Thunk!

The sword stabbed into his chest. The armor thudded. Silead lay pinned, unmoving, like a nailed-down corpse.

The knight stood over him. This time, the monster didn’t move.

He stared for a few seconds, silent.

Then, with a long sigh, he turned away.

He walked to his exhausted horse and patted its neck, calling out to his nearby squad. They brought over another horse.

The knight mounted, looked once more at the distant battlefield—and spoke flatly:

“Let’s go.”

It was as if the entire ordeal had been meaningless.

His men glanced back at Silead, eyes wary. Then the group rode off into the dust and smoke.

And behind the shattered stone wall—

Silead lay in the sand, unmoving. Only his shoulders twitched, like a fish gasping for air.

He slowly turned his head, watching the knights disappear. His chest burned, and even breathing hurt.

“Haah... they’re gone...?”

He collapsed.

The armor crushed him.
The Raksasa mask pressed against his face like a tombstone.

And then... a faint chuckle escaped beneath the mask.

“Damn... I’m still alive...”

An internet beggar in need of sponsorship   Ko-fi.com/bencu