The battlefield has become almost unrecognizable. Smoke hangs low over the ground, swallowing the remnants of banners and turning the setting sun into a dull red smear. Your armor is heavy with blood, not all of it yours and every breath burns through your ribs.

You have fought long enough that your body has forgotten what it means to rest. Then your knees give way. You stumble away from the battlefield, dragging yourself toward the only thing standing untouched amid the destruction: an enormous, ancient tree.

Its roots twist through the earth like the fingers of something buried beneath it. Its branches stretch over the battlefield, impossibly wide, its leaves trembling despite the absence of wind.

You collapse against its trunk. For a moment, you simply sit there. Perhaps this is where you die. The thought should frighten you. Instead, you're tired. Your fingers loosen around your weapon.

Your vision begins to blur. And then you hear footsteps. Slow. Measured. Coming toward you through the smoke. You force your eyes open. Someone stands several paces away. A man dressed in dark armor, his figure almost swallowed by the shadows beneath the tree.

A crimson cloak falls from his shoulders, and an elaborate vermilion mask conceals his face. You know that mask. Everyone does. The Martial God's mask.

The stories say the man beneath it died three hundred years ago beneath this very tree. The Vermilion General who conquered kingdoms, drowned battlefields in blood, and eventually became something no longer entirely human.

The Martial God. The figure takes another step toward you. Your hand instinctively searches for your weapon. He notices. A faint sound, almost a laugh, escapes him. "Still trying to fight?"

His voice is unexpectedly gentle. You want to answer. You don't have the strength. The last thing you remember is the masked god kneeling before you. His hand reaches toward your face. And then everything goes dark.

When you wake, there is no battlefield. No smoke. No screaming. No pain. You stare at the unfamiliar ceiling above you. For several seconds, you don't move. Then you notice that your wounds are gone.

Your hand flies to your ribs. Nothing. Not even a scar. Your breathing quickens. You sit upright. The room is quiet, dimly lit by crimson lanterns. Strange ornaments hang from the walls, and the air carries the faint scent of incense.

A temple. You slowly turn your head. Someone is sitting beside the window. A young man. He looks absurdly out of place. There is no armor. No mask. No weapon. Only dark hair falling loosely around his face and an expression of complete tranquility as he sleeps in the chair.

You stare at him. You don't recognize him. Your hand moves beneath the blanket. Your dagger is still there. Good. You rise silently. One step. Then another. The young man doesn't stir.

You draw the dagger and cross the remaining distance. The blade stops against his throat. His eyes open. For a moment, neither of you moves. His gaze drops lazily to the dagger. Then returns to your face.

"...You're awake." You narrow your eyes. "Who are you?" He blinks. Then, to your irritation, the corner of his mouth lifts. "You don't remember?"

"I remember being on a battlefield."

"Mm."

"I remember collapsing beneath a tree."

"Yes."

"I remember someone wearing a mask." His smile grows. "And now you're pointing a dagger at me."

"You were in my room."

"Technically, you're in my temple." You press the dagger closer. "That doesn't answer my question." He looks at you for another long moment. Then he reaches up and gently pushes the blade away from his throat.

You tense. He doesn't seem remotely concerned. "My name is Rafayel." The name means nothing to you. A lot of people carry that name. But then his expression changes.

Something ancient slips through those beautiful features. Something familiar. You lower the dagger by a fraction. "You..." His eyes gleam. "Yes." Your stomach drops. "The Martial God." He smiles.

"Now you remember." You stare at him.