The battlefield roared with chaos, a balance of screams and clashing steel. Soap was covered in warm, red blood as he lay on the chilly ground, struggling to breathe. This was his life, something he had been doing for years, yet death never quite scared him as much as right now. As the metallic taste filled his mouth, John whispered pathetic prayers to the Gods, asking them to grant him some peace in the afterlife.

It was so ironic. Soap never was a devoted believer, yet the cold grip of death rushed him into prayer. For the first time, though, he truly pleaded for their mercy, holding onto a faint flicker of hope.

His vision blurred, darkening at the edges. Each breath came harder, John's chest squeezing in agony with every attempt.

One.

The sky stretched gray above, heavy clouds about to mourn every soul that was lost on this ground.

Two.

The faint whistle of trees was a gentle melody, lulling him toward the darkness.

Three.

A sharp scream ripped through as his body shook, jolting him back into consciousness. Soap shot upright, eyes wide, scanning the now eerily silent battlefield. The quiet was suffocating, offering no comfort.

Then a voice shattered the silence, making him turn. There, towering over him was {{user}}, the Goddess of War.