The evening sky burned crimson, casting a gloomy golden light over the half-dead city. It had been an hour since the last explosion echoed from the battlefield. Since then, only silence remained—a silence like a giant tombstone marking the end of a massacre.
Riven sat on the floor near the window, staring blankly outside. Beside him, Mira slept soundly under a thin blanket that covered her small frame. Her breathing was calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging in Riven's mind.
He knew it was dangerous.
He knew he should stay.
But guilt gnawed at his chest like a starving rat. He had come all this way, risked his life, only to return empty-handed? No. That was too pathetic. Too pointless.
Slowly, he stood up. He took the worn black cloak hanging from a nail near the door and wrapped it around himself. He glanced once more at Mira, making sure she was still deep asleep. Without a sound, he opened the kitchen window and slipped out like a shadow reluctant to leave the night.
The evening breeze carried the smell of smoke, soil, and blood. The scent of war not yet fully extinguished.
Riven walked quickly, past the deserted dirt road, down the hill, skirting the edge of a field now abandoned. Along the way, his mind kept calculating worst-case scenarios: patrol soldiers, enemy survivors, or even beasts drawn to the scent of corpses. But he pressed his fear down with resolve. He'd lived too long in fear. It was time to risk a little more for something tangible.
He arrived at a small hill ideal for scouting—a grassy mound overgrown with thorny shrubs. From there, he had a clear view of the battlefield below.
And what he saw struck like a blow to the gut.
Corpses.
Thousands.
They lay scattered haphazardly, like broken dolls tossed carelessly across a field. Some were scorched, their bodies blackened and blistered, barely recognizable. Others were sliced clean in half, intestines spilling like dead snakes. A few looked as though they were simply asleep—save for the bloodstains on their chests or necks, betraying their end.
Trees had been split. The ground cratered from blasts. War carts lay broken and burned. Tattered flags stood crooked in the soil. A thin mist hung in the air, carrying the stench of death strong enough to sting the throat.
Crows and carrion birds were feasting with glee.
Riven raised his binoculars and began to observe carefully.
Several red-clad soldiers—troops from the Belmore Kingdom—were still there. Not many, only twenty-six. He counted them one by one. They seemed to be checking the bodies, making sure none were alive, or simply collecting weapons and supplies.
"Bastards," Riven muttered. "Those are my weapons…"
He watched as one soldier lifted a gleaming longsword from a corpse's hand and tossed it into a horse-drawn cart. Another found a well-maintained battle axe, admired it briefly, then passed it to a hauler.
The cart slowly filled with valuables—swords, leather bags, iron shields, even military boots.
All Riven could do was clench his teeth behind the tall grass.
They were taking all the good stuff.
Night crept in. The last light faded behind crimson clouds, and the soldiers finally prepared to leave. With two carts and a squad of horses, they moved off the battlefield, kicking up dust and creaking wheels as they went.
Riven waited.
He counted the minutes. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
When the silence was absolute, he slowly stood and began descending the hill.
His steps were cautious, barely making a sound. Though the field seemed empty, he knew danger could still lurk. The Belmore forces were likely still watching from their fortress.
But the urge to bring something back—anything—was stronger than his fear.
He reached the center of the battlefield.
The stench hit him instantly, making his stomach churn. He covered his nose with part of his cloak and began checking the corpses one by one.
The first body was a young Arkham soldier with an unrecognizable face. His helmet was cracked. Sword gone. Nothing useful.
The second, a middle-aged man, half his body burned. A small leather pouch hung from his waist. Inside—just a crumpled map and a prayer note. Worthless.
The third was a severed hand still clutching a knife. Riven gently pried it loose—a steel dagger, engraved. Sharp, though bloodstained. He slipped it into his cloak.
He moved from corpse to corpse, crouching, patting, turning over, retrieving anything salvageable.
A short sword with a hairline crack. Still sellable.
A leather bag with a few intact arrows.
Silver coins inside a dead officer's trousers. Riven's hands trembled as he pocketed them—not from guilt, but from cold and exhaustion.
A snapped longbow—useless, but smeltable. A single metal glove. Three throwing knives. A neck dagger with dried blood.
Every item was weighed carefully. Shape, condition, weight. He could only carry the best. The most valuable. His load was limited.
Time passed.
The sky turned a deep violet. Night wind swept the land, carrying eerie sounds—snapping twigs, fluttering cloth, or maybe just tricks of the mind.
But Riven did not stop.
He continued searching amid death. Because for someone like him, a single weapon could mean food for a week. A single coin, a chance at one more day alive.
And hope, no matter how small, was the only thing worth gambling for when you had nothing else.
As Riven focused on scavenging, his hand had just gripped the hilt of another dagger half-buried in wet soil. But something made him freeze.
In the corner of his eye—just a flicker—he saw it.
A man's corpse… moved.
Slowly. Barely noticeable. But real.
The corpse's fingers twitched.