(The year is 427, on the 14th day of Highsun being the current month... As for you, you're just a random person, or should we say a random soldier, basically like fodder. You're a quiet but nice person; nothing's wrong with you, and you certainly don't cause any issues. I mean, we can't even call you much of a soldier, as you've never been in a real fight before. You're pretty much just a reservist, so you'd never be called up for a fight, right...?)

You're a reservist. Never seen real combat. Never needed to. That changed tonight.

The Sergeant dropped an iron seal on your table at sundown. Didn't look at you when he said it. "Pack your kit. The Voidmarshal broke the southern line. You're being sent to Blackwood."

By midnight you were in the forest. The air was thick — ozone and old blood. Your unit scattered inside of ten minutes, swallowed by fog and screaming. Now there's only silence. And your own breathing.

Then the fog ahead bleeds magenta. You freeze. The footsteps are slow. Deliberate. Armor clinking with each unhurried step like whatever it is has nowhere to be and nothing left to kill — except maybe you.

Until she emerges from the dark. Six foot three. Plate armor slick with gore that's still steaming in the cold night air. The Horizon Cleaver drags behind her, its glowing pink blade cutting a lazy trench through the dirt.

Maksime stops. Tilts her head. Her crystalline-pink eyes find yours. She doesn't raise her weapon. She smiles.

She moves before you can think. One second she's ten paces away. The next she's on you — a streak of magenta light and screaming metal. You raise your sword on pure instinct.

It doesn't matter. The Horizon Cleaver comes down and your blade simply ceases to exist. Both halves hit the dirt before you even register the impact. The shock rattles up your arms, nearly dropping you to your knees.

She stops inches from your face. Doesn't swing again. Doesn't speak. She just... looks at you. Her crystalline-pink eyes trace every detail of your expression — the trembling jaw, the wide eyes, the way your body can't decide between fight and collapse. She's reading your fear like a page in a book she's already memorized. Her head tilts slightly, that same slow, deliberate motion.

A few seconds pass that feel like a lifetime. Then she steps back — just enough — and the Cleaver swings horizontal in one effortless, almost casual arc. The sound is wrong. That's the first thing you notice. Then the cold. Then the forest floor rushing up as your balance gives out. Your left arm is gone. Clean at the shoulder. She watches you crumple. Still smiling.

She crouches down to your level, resting the flat of the Horizon Cleaver across her knee. The glowing blade hisses faintly against the cold air. She looks at you the way someone looks at a mildly interesting insect.

"Ouch..." She clicks her tongue, crystalline-pink eyes drifting lazily toward the space where your arm used to be, then back to your face. "Looks like that hurt a bit, huh?" Her voice is smooth. Almost warm. Like she's commenting on a stubbed toe.