This is the COMPLETED (but un-edited) prologue of the first book. The one I posted above is the prologue of the second book but was made so that you are unable to recognize the characters.
====================================================
Prelude - The Silence of War
An eerie wind passed by his eyes. He felt unbearable pain, but yet he does not scream. Opening his bloodstained eyes, he can see the corpse of a fallen comrade. The brown hue in his eyes tainted by the scars of war in which can be counted the many times he should’ve died, but missed death by the closest millimeter of a heavy blow. The body on top of him rolled towards his legs as he lifted his head, slowly enduring the pain that went throughout his body. He wiped both of his eyes with his left arm, as his right arm is numb from being buried under the corpses that lay about. He opened both of his eyes this time, watching the sun that never seemed to shine. Blood started to flow into his right arm again, but his legs never seem to return to him, not even the slightest twitch from his leg muscles. The soldier used his arms to push himself against the hard stone wall behind him. As he rested, he looked about at his misshapen figure. The breast plate is dented in several places, his arm plates missing, his leggings so far dented inward that it stopped its flow of blood. He gave a disappointed sigh, as he sat alone in the graveyard of the streets of Keilich.
He grunted as he tried to slip off his leggings. The chainmail never came out right, because every few inches he had pulled out, he felt something warm sliding down his legs. When the leggings slid off, his left leg is revealed bending in the other direction. His right leg seemed fine except for the scars that he just made. The soft wind blew by again, this time, with a more peaceful calm. Everything is quiet. Everything is dead.
The soldier began to recollect about what happened earlier. He was parrying against a rebel, a desperate one at that. He looked back onto the pile of the fallen and found his foe’s body, his mouth gaping open, holding onto the sword which pierced him through the stomach, the very same blade which the soldier fought him with. He approved of the way his enemy died, an honorable fight for ideals; a rightful way of life on the path of arms.
Another vivid memory haunted him, another person, a friend, shielding him from a mortal blow. The memory played over and over again like a broken record. He could do nothing but cry in between his arms as his friend fell from the killing blow. War brought nothing to him, brought nothing to his friend, his loved ones, to anyone, and yet, he is fighting in one. He thought about how hypocritical he lived and his reason why he chose this path. The slideshow of battles he fought since the start of the war five months ago never stopped playing in his head. Wasn’t he fighting to protect? Every battle he went into, he was timid and naïve, always looking for a way out or the fastest way to die. What was his reason for living? Was it to fight for his ideals? Or was it to die right here on the battlefield where everyone’s life is at stake?
A pleasant wind, as soothing as silk, blew into his face, never leaving him behind. The soldier remembered that after every battle, this wind would soothe his soul just by passing by, blessing him with hope before or after a battle, telling him, “Everything will be alright.”
The clanking of footsteps echoed across the neighborhood. A soldier in the distance catches him lying against the wall, barely holding on to his failing life.
“We got one here! Hurry and get the medics!”
A few more came to his aid, each hurrying over to his location. He felt relieved, that it wasn’t his turn yet, that he still had something to do, that he would continue his fight. He closed his eyes, still breathing slowly.
His left leg was lifted up. Another person tells him, “This will hurt quite a bit, but it should be fine in the end.”
A crack and snap can be heard, but he still tried to endure the pain without letting out the scream and yells stored inside. He opened his eyes as the medic began to wrap his leg in bandages around with a block of wood to keep his leg straight.
“Feeling any better?” the medic asked.
He replied in a gruff voice, “Not really, but it helps seeing my leg normal again.”
“Good to hear,” said the medic. He points at two others, “You two will help carry him out.”
The other two nodded and quickly began to lift the injured soldier onto his feet, but the medic shouted, “Hey! Not too fast! He’s still injured!”
The two nod again and went away slowly from the search party. The buildings pass by slowly at the pace of the two men, each either blackened from smoke or fire or they were in rubble from the constant barrage of cannons. Scorched earth appeared in the places that were once green, giving the city an ashen texture. More soldiers were seen walking in pairs, each cleaning up the mess that lied about. In some streets that he was carried through, corpses from both sides were lined neatly so they can be properly buried later on.
“Where’s your tag?” said the man carrying him on the left.
The injured soldier remembered someone prying it off his neck, trying to suffocate him after being ambushed inside another person’s home. He shook his head in reply.
“Ah, that’s bad, you might be deemed a traitor in some cases you know?” the soldier on the left said again, “Your name at least?”
“Dylan…Dylan Faust.”
“Ah, a survivor of the Vernier Legions eh?” he said as he looked at Dylan’s emblem, “Well, you seem to be one hell of a lucky bastard! Oh and before I forget, my name is Eizak, a member of the Corsairs 31st Legionnaire.”
“And I’m Yuan, same division,” said the other soldier.
“We been through more than ‘ya Dylan, you just haven’t seen the worst of it,” Eizak said with a smile.
The two continue to talk, but with each passing second, Dylan continues to succumb to his drowsiness, and then, he passed out.
“…don’t worry… everything is going to be fine.”
Those words would repeat themselves in the abyss of his mind. A man sits alone with Dylan on a hill, his friend’s face enshrouded in light. He repeated the line as he turns to face Dylan, who was lying on the grass. Dylan remembered being told these words by him. He remembered being shown the peaceful nature of the world, the reality that once was, the verdure world in which the trees would be blown by the pleasant wind, echoing the words of hope over and over. This world exists within the deepest desires hidden within him where he can be at peace, the last haven before he wakes up to the hell he has to live through.
Dylan replied to the man’s words, “Yes… everything is going to be fine…”
