Prospect For Reincarnation: From Common Fodder To Calamity

(A/N: This is the only chapter written in First Person).

"Please, I beg of you! Please spare my family! I'll do anything! I'll give you anything!" the man whom I presume is a husband to the quivering woman behind him, and a father to the ghastly pale boy of probably no more than ten years, clutching his arm viciously, screams.

I sigh.

There is nothing this man can offer me that can change his fate, after all, I am after his and his family's lives.

His pleas only make me grip my saber tighter.

Let me get this over with.

The longer they stare at me like this – with terror and dwindling hope – the more upset I become. But I do not show it with my face.

I raise my saber and take a step forward, an action that the man before me responds to by burning away the pathetic, torn visage he has had on all this time, and donning a feral one.

A desperate one.

He lunges at me while calling for his wife and son to escape, but his attempt, while admirable for a common man, does not amount to much.

I seize him by the neck of his tunic, knock him against the wall, and jam my saber violently into his chest.

The odd look he gives me now – one of shock – without a single word leaving his mouth, melts against the heartless demons that I carry. I have seen endless templates of the same face for twenty years.

I am numb to it.

Behind me, the man's wife lets out a blood-curdling screech at the sight of what I have done and heaves a wooden chair which she bashes into my back. She hits me repeatedly in the name of her husband, while her son backs away in horror, his eyes planted on his father's quivering figure.

I wish I can find enough sympathy to care, and reason enough to not deliver the same cruel fate on these two.

I don't.

The woman's head rolls a moment later, while her husband's body, no longer pinned to the wall by my saber, slumps to the floor.

The boy who remains is frozen stiff.

I imagine he can't quite process the image of his mother's head standing upright by the stump of its neck on the floor, staring him dead in the eye.

For a moment, I think he will go mad, but he doesn't. He sits motionlessly as I behead him too.

I sigh.

Am I to say "Job well done" now?

I set to leave the small house when a croaking voice calls out to me.

"C-curse y... you."

I turn my head.

The man. He still has breath enough to speak, though I can see that he is quickly fading.

"Curse you! Spawn... of evil!"

His words mean nothing to me. I've heard countless versions of them.

Before he passes, I give him the same response I've given to all those who came before him.

"Blame my King. I'm just a messenger."

As I make my exit, a fellow soldier, decked in the same unimpressive silver set of armor as me, gives me a nod, cackles with glee, and throws a flaming torch to the thatched roof of the house, setting it ablaze.

I watch for a moment, as greedy gold and crimson devours the shelter, before following the dozens from my platoon all around the village, killing and burning in a cycle that almost feels unending...

Inescapable.

*

We've returned to camp.

There wasn't much to do today.

No skilled warriors from our foes' side could have predicted that foot soldiers like me would be sent to eradicate small villages in their nation while they were forced to weather the tide of renowned warriors from our side.

To be honest, neither side cares for the 'general kind.'

His Majesty often rebukes taking prisoners.

That is an outlook you must adopt to thrive in his army.

I can't say I have been proud to soak it up as well. It's become a part of me, yet I'm different from my comrades, at least those who rank higher than me.

They are all bloodthirsty fiends that turn fierce in the presence of skilled enemies and innocents alike. It is as though evil spirits have replaced their souls.

I don't believe in the supernatural though.

That evil is all just human.

The stark difference between how most of them, arrive as recruits and how they devolve into madmen is nothing short of a miracle. I should know. I have served for twenty years in His Majesty's army without promotion.

It's all I have.

My life was nothing before this.

I grew up well, with loving parents.

I had friends, and ambitions, though nowadays I find it hard to recall what they were – both of them.

What I do know is that I lost everything I had one day and only got to keep my life intact.

I imagine that the same cruelty I just served hours ago was the cause – I can't quite remember – and perhaps I got devoured by it.

Is this my way of making up for it? Giving life a rude hand gesture by exacting the same fate on others?

Is it just me venting my worthlessness?

Perhaps not.

I feel nothing when I do it.

It's kill or be killed.

I am the King's servant, sworn to his service.

I've already made peace with the possibility of dying in battle.

Dying a worthless death.

I bear no animosity.

The camp is as messy, as rancid, and as disorderly as you can imagine. At least that is how it looks for a lowly foot soldier like me. I have no aptitude for growth, so I remain as a fifty-five-year-old veteran among younglings – with no name of his own, only several mocking monikers.

Still, I am quite knowledgeable. While thousands of the same rank have died, I have managed to master simple tactics and basic combat techniques that flirt best with Lady Luck.

All in all, it isn't that bad.

*

It's night.

The usual brawls can be spotted here and there.

I've eaten my bowl of the nasty goop that qualifies as a foot soldier's staple food.

I'm ready for bed.

Ready for another day in the cruel cycle.

I remember falling asleep, but something wakes me up. There's a noise, for one.

Then there's something heavy on top of me, and something sharp lodged into my throat.

One of the soldiers is lying on top of me, and his knife has found its way into my neck.

I start to choke.

The pain is as excruciating as I imagined it to be when I inflicted it on others.

I instinctively try to drag the knife out while pushing the soldier away. It's no good. The man is limp. He's dead.

Another soldier standing a few paces away turns and walks off.

I want to struggle.

I want to resist.

But what's the point?

I'm done for.

Besides, do I really want to wake up tomorrow and continue to carry out the ambitions of a wealthy, vicious man who doesn't give a damn about all that I do in his service?

No. I don't.

Ah, it hurts. It hurts so bad!

Blood spews from my mouth.

It tastes worse than I remember.

Well, I suppose it's a fitting end.

No glory. No honor.

I die as collateral to a stupid brawl.

I actually manage to let out a ridiculing laugh in this state.

What a worthless existence.

.

.

.

Something's setting off a bright light.

Is it the sun?

No.

I died.

I died, right?

Definitely.

I try to open my eyes.

I can't.

I don't think I have eyes, or a body for that matter.

There's only darkness and that flashing light over yonder.

What is this?

Then an answer comes.

This same flashing light broadens and an oddly inhumane voice cries joyously:

|Welcome to the carriage towards 'Prospect For Reincarnation'!|

|You will formally be referred to as 'Incarnate ^8001' from now on!|

|Please try to keep your wits, if you have any, and choose wisely as you pass along!|

|Happy trails!|