Yselle barely breathed as she crouched behind a thick bush, her fingers digging into the damp earth. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she struggled to make sense of what she was witnessing. Was this really not some kind of elaborate action movie set? A historical reenactment? A very, very realistic VR simulation, maybe?
She peeked through the gaps between the leaves, eyes widening as the man she had—God help her—kissed, moved with terrifying precision. His sword sliced through the air in a silver blur, cutting through his enemies as if they were nothing but paper. The sharp clang of metal against metal rang in her ears, followed by sickening, wet sounds of steel piercing flesh.
One of the armed men lunged at him, aiming for his side. With a swift pivot, the man deflected the attack, sidestepped, and, in a single, fluid motion, drove his sword straight through his opponent's chest. Blood splattered out, turning the dry grass a dark red. Yselle pressed a hand over her mouth, her stomach churning. She had never seen real violence before—not in person.
But it didn't stop there. He moved like a storm, striking, slashing, cutting down every enemy in his path with effortless grace. The other men barely had time to react before he was already upon them. He blocked the hit, twisted his blade, and disarmed his opponent before delivering a fatal slash across the throat. The man gurgled, falling to the ground, his eyes wide with horror.
Yselle could only watch, frozen in place, as bodies dropped one by one. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the ground beneath them soaked up the red blood of the fallen. The whole scene was a total mess, but Yselle kind of thought it was cool in a weird way.
And then it happened.
A body landed near her hiding spot with a sickening thud. Yselle flinched so hard she lost her balance, tumbling backward. Her hands braced against the ground as she scrambled away, but her gaze was locked onto the fallen man's face—his eyes, once filled with anger, now lifeless and glassy.
The stench of blood hit her, sharp and unmistakable. She knew that smell too well. Her frequent nosebleeds had made her oddly familiar with the scent of iron, but this—this was overwhelming. Thick, fresh, and real. The crimson pool spreading beneath him left no room for doubt.
Yselle swallowed hard, her pulse erratic. "This isn't a movie set," she muttered under her breath. "No way."
Her mind raced. If this wasn't a set, then what was this? Had she been transported back in time? To another world? Another dimension? Theories collided in her head, each one more ridiculous than the last.
She had never been the type to obsess over fantasy novels or historical dramas. While her colleagues spent their lunch breaks squealing over transmigration stories and swooning over fictional princes, she had rolled her eyes and focused on her deadlines. She didn't read novels. She didn't daydream about falling into one.
Yet here she was.
She looked up, eyes searching the sky. "Goddamn it," she whispered. "This is what I get for standing under a sketchy glowing rift."
The fight wasn't over. The clang of steel and the grunts of battle filled the air, but this time, something was different. One of the men broke away from the chaos—his eyes locked onto her.
Yselle barely had time to react before he started running straight at her.
"Oh, come on!" she shrieked, scrambling to her feet. "What the hell do you want with me?! He's your enemy! Go fight him!"
Her feet pounded against the uneven ground as she ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The man was fast. Too fast. She could hear him closing in, the weight of his steps heavy behind her. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed, but she didn't dare stop. She zigzagged, hoping to throw him off, but it was useless.
She wasn't going to make it.
Just as she braced for the inevitable, a sharp cry echoed behind her.
She turned just in time to see her pursuer jerk to a sudden stop, his body trembling. A sword had pierced clean through his torso, his own blood dripping onto the dry earth beneath him.
Yselle's eyes traveled up to meet the gaze of the man who had saved her—or, at least, taken down her attacker. Blood was all over his face, but his dark eyes gave nothing away as he pulled his sword out with a nasty, wet sound. The dying man crumpled to the ground.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then the man turned his sword toward her.
Yselle's breath hitched. "H-Hey," she stammered, raising her hands. "Let's talk about this—"
He didn't say a word. Just kept staring at her. The kind of look that made it impossible to tell if he was deciding whether to walk away... or stab her next.
He's not actually gonna kill me, Yselle thought, her pulse thudding in her ears. Right? That'd be insane. I haven't done anything. Just unarmed and confused.
Which, honestly, was kind of the issue.
She couldn't fight. She could barely run. Her only defense so far had been a solid mix of panicking and shouting, and maybe some half-baked sarcasm when she wasn't on the verge of passing out. Running hadn't helped. Talking wasn't doing much either.
His voice was cold, sharp as his blade. "Any last words?"
Yselle swallowed. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She should have been terrified. And she was. But she was also exhausted, irritated, and entirely over the insanity of this situation.
So instead of begging for her life, she exhaled sharply and glared at him.
"Move the damn sword."
The tip of the blade didn't waver.
Yselle didn't move, staring at him while the reality of her situation finally sank in.
For a second, there was only silence.
Then the corners of the man's lips twitched, almost as if he were amused. But before he could say anything, Yselle's vision blurred. The world around her tilted.
Ah, crap. Not now…
Her legs gave out. She barely registered the feeling of falling before everything went black.