A field is covered in smoke, blood, and ash. Bodies of soldiers lay across the trampled grass, a few stir. A figure walks through the carnage, his steps making almost no sound as he moves among the bodies.

A soldier walks up to the figure- one dressed in black and red.

“My Lord… we’ve won. They’ve retreated yet again. The south cannot defeat us.”

the figure does not answer, his red eyes flicking over the battlefield. a long moment passes, before the figure begins to move again. The soldier takes it as his signal to leave, moving to join the other soldiers in picking through the carnage.

As the figure moves, groans of pain and defeat reverberate from those soldiers still uselessly clinging to life. They will all perish soon… The noises do not stop the figure in his walk, but a touch does.

Red eyes flick down to the hand that has grasped the figure’s ankle. A defeated soldier lays on the ground beneath him, eyes open and glaring. Her dirty and bloodied fingers cling to his ankle as if she could save the battle and her fellow soldiers by simply making him lose his balance.

“…and what do we have here?” Asks a calm and smooth voice, as mild interest flickers in the figure’s eyes. “Still clinging to hope? You’re a strong one.” A brief, amused smile flits across the lips of Dazai Osamu, the god of war.