Michael awoke to the sound of an explosion, his mind groggy, disoriented.
A rush of panic surged through him as his eyes snapped open, frantically scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.
"We’re under attack!"
Screams rang out, barely audible over the thunder of more explosions.
Instinct took over.
He shot up from the bed, snatched the olive-green mage robe draped nearby, and threw it on in one fluid motion. Fingers trembling, he fastened the hood into place and stumbled out of the tent.
A sea of white tents spread before him, illuminated by flickering flas. The scent of burning wood and damp forest earth assaulted his nose, blending with the acrid bite of scorched magic in the air.
"Water Division! Contain the fires!"
"Earth Division—fortify the periter!"
Barking voices rang out in every direction, commanders shouting orders to stabilize the chaos. Mages poured out of their tents, springing into action with military precision—completely ignoring Michael as he stood there, frozen in shock.
What the hell? Where am I!?
His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to piece together the situation.
Before he could make sense of anything, a middle-aged man strode up beside him, his face pale but composed, eyes sharp.
"General, the Bishop’s forces have attacked," the man reported, his voice tense with urgency.
"I can see that, Major."
The words left Michael’s mouth—but they weren’t his words. The voice was deeper. Commanding. Foreign.
And yet... it had co from him.
"et the attack at the southern border," he continued, his tone sharp and decisive, "but keep the second and third battalions in reserve until I get a full status report."
The Major nodded quickly, bowing his head before turning on his heel.
"Yes, General. Right away."
"Now go," Michael added, watching the man disappear into the smoke and chaos. "That wily bastard probably has more tricks up his sleeve."
As the Major vanished into the night, Michael turned toward the horizon. Crimson flas painted the sky, licking upward like serpents. Magic clashed in the distance—pulses of light and heat crashing like waves against the edges of camp.
His stomach twisted.
This can’t be real.
He was standing in the middle of a warzone, dressed in robes he didn’t recognize, issuing commands he didn’t understand.
But worse than the chaos... was the helplessness.
He couldn’t move—not truly.
He could see. He could feel. He could sense everything the body experienced—the bite of the wind, the heat of the flas, the weight of the robe—but he couldn’t control any of it.
His fingers wouldn’t twitch.
His feet wouldn’t budge.
He was a prisoner trapped behind the eyes of this "General."
What in the hell is happening?
"Status report, General," a soldier called out, approaching quickly.
"Go ahead."
"Five thousand enemies are massing at the southern edge of the camp. If we don’t send more reinforcents soon, the shield might fail."
"Nonsense," Michael’s mouth replied with a scoff. "The barrier can withstand even a tier-eight spell. Unless the Bishop himself appears, we’ve nothing to fear."
He paused, then smirked.
"And if he shows up... I’ll be there to greet him."
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw them—three violet rings glowing nacingly on the General’s left wrist, each one brimming with unfathomable power. A surge of energy pulsed through the body he inhabited, so imnse it made his own experiences with mana feel like child’s play.
It was as if he held infinite power at his fingertips.
Three violet rings!?
Just who is this man?
Even the king—the strongest mage on the continent—possessed only two violet rings. Yet this General... he stood above even that peak.
Before Michael could dwell on it, the General’s eyes narrowed, his lips parting in a small gasp.
Floating just above the translucent shield protecting the camp was a crimson glow—an ominous blood-red figure suspended in the night sky. Though distant, it was unmistakably visible to those below.
"General..." the soldier beside him muttered, his voice thick with panic.
"He really ca?" the General said, brows furrowed—but to Michael’s surprise, a chuckle escaped him a mont later.
Without responding further, the General stomped his foot, and a sudden lightness overtook Michael.
Their body rose.
They ascended swiftly, the wind rushing past, the battlefield shrinking beneath them. In re seconds, they reached the shield’s peak—and instead of slowing down, the General surged forward, passing through the barrier as if it didn’t exist.
The sensation of flight was surreal—weightless, powerful, free.
But Michael could not enjoy it.
They stopped abruptly.
Hovering just ahead was the crimson figure, now fully visible: a tall man draped in blood-red robes, a pointed hood exaggerating his already imposing stature. Shadows clung to him like armor, making it difficult to see his face—but that didn’t matter.
Michael felt the danger.
It wasn’t the man’s size that disturbed him. It wasn’t even the deep red of his robes.
It was the aura—a thick, cloying, almost filthy presence that seeped from his being. It pressed down on Michael’s soul, making it recoil instinctively, like prey before a predator.
"It seems you’re desperate, Bishop," the General said coolly, a smile tugging at his lips.
Michael could hear the confidence in his voice—feel it coursing through the General’s veins. It was intoxicating. Unshakable. As though this terrifying figure was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Is he really that confident? Michael wondered, trying to suppress the dread rising in his chest.
"Markus," the red-robed man replied, his voice sharp and mocking. "You are such a fool."
He tilted his head back and laughed—a sound so hollow and twisted it seed to warp the very air around them. Michael felt it in his bones: madness laced with malice.
Irritation flared in the General’s chest—but it was tempered quickly, buried beneath a seasoned warrior’s discipline.
Just as Michael felt their mouth open to deliver a retort, sothing unexpected happened.
The man in red clenched his fist—and punched himself in the chest with a violent crack, the sound of breaking bones echoing through the sky.
A violent cough followed. Three glowing red drops of blood spilled from his mouth.
He clapped his hands together, catching the blood mid-air—the gesture ritualistic, deranged, final.
"Y-you maniac!" the General growled, thrusting his hand forward, mana already coalescing at his fingertips.
But it was too late.
In the space before the red-robed man, a massive violet magic circle burst into existence—its ancient runes glowing with terrifying radiance, spinning and locking into place with a deafening hum.
In the next mont, an intense force began pulling in the surrounding mana—ripping it straight into the magic circle.
Michael felt the mana within the General’s body stir violently, pressing hard against his ridians, as if trying to burst free from its restraints.
Below, the protective shield surrounding the camp wavered, resisting for only a few fleeting seconds... before it collapsed entirely. Its mana reserves drained in an instant—consud.
The magic circle spun faster, ravenously devouring the ambient energy like a black hole. The air around them warped, becoming thick and unstable. The very fabric of space trembled.
"I—Impossible!" the General shouted, voice cracked with disbelief.
Michael could feel it. The shock. The despair. All the confidence that once radiated from the General vanished the mont that monstrous magic circle had taken form.
A resounding roar tore through the sky—so loud, so deep, that it rattled Michael to his core. The aura bleeding from the circle was like nothing he had ever felt.
It was sinister and divine, majestic yet malevolent—an overwhelming contradiction that made his soul tremble.
Michael felt insignificant, like a speck of dust standing before a primordial mountain—one that had awakened after eons, hungry and wrathful.
Then...
The center of the circle ripped open—like cloth being torn by invisible hands.
From the dark, two obsidian-black claws erged—curled around the edge of the tear.
With one simple motion, the creature pried the rift wider.
A surge of chaotic mana burst outward, flooding the space around them. The very air shimred with instability. But the General didn’t move. He stood frozen, his body trembling uncontrollably as he stared at the growing void.
The red-robed man, his work complete, stared at the portal with awe. A satisfied smile crept across his face... before he slumped forward—lifeless, falling from the sky like a discarded puppet.
The General didn’t even glance at him.
All attention was focused on the breach—on what was erging.
First ca two twisted horns, curling like blades of darkness. Then a humanoid face, completely pitch black, pulled itself into view—its expression unreadable.
But the eyes...
Two blood-red eyes glowed with malevolence, locking onto Michael with a hunger that made his breath catch.
W-what the fuck is that!? Michael scread internally, heart thundering in raw terror.
Then it struck.
One of the monstrous claws—once holding the tear open—lunged forward with blinding speed.
Before Michael could react, it wrapped around his body.
A crushing pressure exploded through him. His ribs snapped. His limbs buckled. Every bone in his body shattered beneath the monstrous grip.
The pain was instant. Blinding. Paralyzing.
He couldn’t even scream.
And just as the General’s mouth began to open—
CRUNCH.
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