Chapter 1

Silead lay motionless on the ground. His armor was mangled and fragmented, gaps filled with a mixture of mud and blood. Underneath the Raksasa mask, his breath was faint—barely more than a whisper.

The sound of hooves receded, and the metallic clangs of weapons against armor grew more distant.

Only when total silence fell, and distant cries from the war’s other edge rose again above all else, did Silead begin to stir.

His chest heaved violently—each breath felt like inhaling through sand and grit. He could feel every muscle screaming in protest.

But he was alive.

The final strike from that knight had broken through his chest armor—but it had not killed him.

Through a warped crevice in the armor, a longsword jutted obliquely, its blade buried into the dirt behind him.

He slowly reached out and grabbed the hilt.

His gauntlet had turned slick with dried blood, but he gripped hard and pulled the sword free.

The sound of metal sliding through flesh sent a dizzying shock through his mind. He bit back a groan, then stumbled away from the battlefield, following the hoofprints the knight had left behind.

Dragging the sword, he had no idea where he was going—only that he instinctively fled from any riders still hunting him.

Around him, the terrain opened. The acrid fog of gunpowder lifted in the wind. The metallic stench of blood and soil receded, replaced by the wet scent of grass and the hum of insects.

In a daze, he realized he had entered an endless grassland.

Tall blades of grass brushed against the edges of his shattered armor, as if countless hands were gently beating on his already battered body.

He could go no further.

At some point, his consciousness slipped away. With a thud, he collapsed into the grass. The blood-stained sword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

His final sensation before slipping into darkness was the breeze—so faint it felt like a whisper.

...

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in that sprawling plain.

He was inside a simple but clean room. The ceiling was rough wooden beams fitted together. A breeze drifted in through the wall’s gaps, carrying the faint rustling of leaves.

Beneath him was a straw mattress. His body felt like it had been filled with lead. Even the slightest movement was agonizing.

But one thing was unmistakable—the armor remained.

The crimson decorative Japanese armor clung to his body like a shell that refused to be shed. Even when he dug his nails into its edges, the metal felt rooted to him, as if grown from his flesh.

Silead realized one truth:

He could not remove it.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, then struggled to recall each fragment of the past:

—He’d been at home, just messing around in his collector’s armor.
—He slipped, was pinned, and lost consciousness.
—He awoke on a real battlefield in another world.
—He’d been charge-lanced, pierced—but hadn’t died.
—Eventually, he faked death and escaped, instinct guiding him to that grassland.

None of it felt real.

But the wound in his chest, the armor he couldn’t take off, the unfamiliar bed—they all told him: this was no dream.

He frowned, throat dry, opened his mouth to speak—

And at that moment—

The door creaked open.

Footsteps came inside.

He forced himself to turn his head. A blurred silhouette stood against the light in the doorway.

Squinting, he saw more clearly.

A man in his forties, lean and tall, with a gaunt face and a cloth bandaged around his forehead. He wore a coarse linen tunic, and carried a bundle of firewood on one shoulder.

The man, astonished to find Silead awake, paused briefly. Then he put down the wood and approached.

“You’re finally awake,” his voice hoarse and rough as if shaped by years of wind and sun. “When my son found you on the grass, you were about to die.”

Silead tried to respond, but his throat was hoarse like sandpaper—no sound would come.

The man frowned and retrieved a clay jug and wooden bowl from beside him. He scooped some water and held it to Silead’s lips.

“Don’t worry. Take your time. It won’t poison you.”

Silead managed to lift a hand, but the man gently supported him and let the water reach his mouth.

The icy liquid soothed his throat and brought back a spark of strength. He asked quietly, “You... saved me?”

“My son spotted you first, while tending sheep at the grassland’s edge. He was terrified.”

The man knelt, studying the armor and mask carefully.

He hesitated. “This armor... is it magical? Why can’t you take it off?”

Silead looked down at the metal clinging to his body. His voice tremored faintly: “I... don’t know.”

A silence fell.

The man seemed about to say more, but instead sighed heavily. “You stay here for a few days. We’re not wealthy, but I can spare you some broth.”

He glanced toward the door. “Just stay in here. We’re not far from the nearest town. The two lords’ battle is heading west. Soldiers patrol this way daily. I don’t want trouble.”

Silead nodded.

The man turned back, paused in the doorway, and asked: “What’s your name?”

Silead hesitated as he looked at the man’s back. Slowly he replied, “...Silead.”

“Silead?” The man smiled with subtle amusement. “That doesn’t sound local. Well, get some rest first.”

The door closed behind him. Silence reclaimed the room.

Silead drifted back to sleep on the straw bed. The pain in his body slowly ebbed, and this time—there were no dreams, no memories—only thick darkness, as if a cold shell formed outside his armor.

When he opened his eyes again, night had descended.

Moonlight filtered through the gaps, faint starlight dancing in the room. The breeze brought the cool scent of the grassland night.

He should’ve felt relief—but his mind had never been clearer. Sharper than ever, like a blade scraping his skull.

He realized something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

—His sword—the one he’d pulled from his body—was gone.

He checked nearby. Not bedside, not in any corner. The room was empty—not even a stick remained.

Silead frowned. A gnawing unease took root.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, fingers digging into the straw edge. He moved toward the door, careful not to make a sound. His eyes adapted to the darkness.

The room was unnaturally still. Even the daytime sounds—rustling leaves, crackling fire—had vanished.

He eased the door open just enough to peer outside.

Pale moonlight spilled onto the ground. In the field beyond, a figure stood by a fence, arms crossed, motionless—like a guard... or a warder.

Silead’s heart sank.

The man who’d saved him had said he didn’t want trouble—but now he’d stationed someone to watch? He hadn’t even offered basic trust.

Moreover, the cabin wasn’t even locked—yet guards were posted.

“I wasn’t saved... I was surveilled,” Silead thought, a cold dread creeping up his spine.

“I can’t wait for them to strike.
I must strike first.”

He pressed his back against the wall, closed his eyes, steadying his breath. He had to stay calm.

Dawn would come soon.

Pale light filtered through the cracks, casting the room in shades of grey.

Silead opened his eyes, staring at the door, body leaning forward like a predator poised to strike.

His gaze was as sharp as ever. Every sinew coiled, ready to spring.

He waited.

He waited for the villager to appear again.

He crouched in the dark corner by the door, armor battered yet weighty, merging with the shadows.

Through the cracked wooden door, only faint breeze and starlight slipped in. Outside, the village was eerily silent. Occasionally, the echo of boots on patrol broke the silence, amplifying the tension in the room as if it were a cage.

He had almost no strength left—but forced himself to stay alert.

“Creeeeak—”

Then—

The door opened again, and the smell of broth drifted in.

Silead’s pupils contracted and every muscle went tense.

It was last night’s villager again. He carried a bowl of broth and entered carefully—his steps low and guarded, as if testing him.

“You’re awake? Feeling better today—”

His words were cut short when a crimson shape leaped from behind the door.

Thud!

The villager and the broth bowl crashed to the floor. Scalding liquid splashed everywhere. The bowl shattered, shards slicing through the floor as steam rose.

Silead pinned the villager’s back to the ground with his knee, one hand at his throat, the other twisting the arm back. The motion was quick, brutal—a final push fueled by raw survival instinct.

“Don’t scream—or you’ll die far faster than me.”

His voice was low and hoarse, spoken right into the villager’s ear.

The man turned red and struggled, trying to speak, sputtering:

“You... you misunderstood—I'm just trying to help... I didn't mean to hurt you—”

His plea was cut off by a shout from outside—

“Hey! John?!”

“What’s going on?!”

Someone had heard the crash—and now two villagers wielding wooden spears burst in, eyes wide with alarm, scanning the room.

But what they saw froze them—

In the center stood Silead, clad in jagged iron armor, tall and silent like a midnight specter, holding the villager by the throat like a ragdoll.

“Take one more step, and he dies.”

Silead spoke quietly, voice heavy as iron. His gaze cut through them.

The villagers froze—and backed away, terror flooding their faces.

“Let go of John!” one of them finally barked—yet their feet didn’t move.

Silead’s eyes glowed from the gaps in his armor as he herded them backward, sealing off the corner behind him like a beast ready to spring.

John’s face was tomato-red, limbs flailing in the air—but Silead held him unyielding.

Silead pressed John toward the door, the clang of his armor and the thud of his iron boots echoing ominously.

Suddenly, one of the villagers pulled a black bone flute from his belt—

Shrieeek!!

A piercing, alien tone erupted, like a night crow’s scream or a beast’s wail in the wind. The sound bombarded the room, tearing through the night, even reaching the village beyond.

Silead’s expression changed in an instant.

He reacted with blinding speed: stepping forward and striking—but the flautist rolled aside just in time behind the door.

The flute’s scream persisted—like an ancient war signal reverberating through the night.

“Damn it!”

Silead roared. He hurled John toward the flautist, then lunged forward himself. His fist slammed into the door like a hammer blow—wood splintered and the door groaned under the impact.

The villager with the flute was knocked down. The shriek finally ended—but—

The whole village was waking now.

From outside: barking dogs, shouts, pounding feet, metal clashing. Someone freed a blade, another drew a bow, everyone alarmed.

“It’s that man from yesterday! He’s gone berserk!”

“To the west hut!”

“Lock the exits! He can't escape!”

Silead burst through the door. His eyes burned, every armor plate trembling with wrath. He knew the next step was to charge straight out.

But at that moment—

Beyond the house, another bone flute sounded—this time with clear rhythm. This wasn’t a warning—it was a call.

“...Raises the net?”

A cold realization hit him.

These villagers were not simple farmers. They were organized, trained, tactical. They’d prepared for the unexpected —a contingency for anomalies like him.

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