Zephyr fell silent, unsure of what to say.
Should he tell the man that this was just a dream—one he would soon wake from?
Or should he lie and fabricate some story?
After a few seconds of thought, Zephyr replied simply,
"I don't remember anything."
The bald man raised an eyebrow.
"You don't even remember your name?"
Zephyr answered automatically,
"I remember only my name—Zephyr.
The rest of my memories are a blur."
The burly man nodded thoughtfully.
"Hmmm… perhaps you took a blow to the head.
But that still doesn't explain why you were lying in the middle of the Empire's desert."
Zephyr took the chance to ask,
"What is this 'Empire' you're talking about?"
The man replied with a grunt,
"Well, if you really lost your memory, I suppose telling you what you once knew won't hurt. Maybe it'll jog something loose."
He sat more comfortably and began speaking,
"Listen closely, Zephyr. The world we live in has three massive continents. We're in the largest—the Northern Continent, known as Razek's Continent, named after the first emperor who united it under a single empire: Razek the First.
He and his bloodline ruled for thousands of years with absolute power… until their dynasty collapsed for reasons only a few still know.
Zephyr listened intently as the man continued.
"After that, the once-mighty empire shattered into multiple empires and kingdoms. Nations fell, others rose to take their place… and so it has been for millennia.
Where we are now is a desert on the borders of an empire called Sky Dusk. It controls many smaller kingdoms under its rule.
As for us, we are mercenaries—the Black Skull Company—and we're headed there on a special mission.
And that's your crash course in history."
"Thank you," Zephyr replied, trying to process the information.
Suddenly, Commander Arlond sat near the fire, dropping a piece of cooked meat wrapped in animal hide onto the sand.
"Time to eat, kid," he said, handing Zephyr the meat.
"Eat well and head to that tent," he added, pointing toward a makeshift structure near the flames. "We've got a long road ahead tomorrow."
Without waiting for a reply, Arlond stood and walked away.
Zephyr sat down, chewing slowly. The taste was disturbingly real.
Why does everything feel so vivid?
When he finished eating, he stood and entered the tent. It was barely a square meter wide, made from stitched-together animal skins.
He lay down on the rough ground, shut his eyes, and prayed to wake up in his bed back home… and end this nightmare.
Hours passed.
As the first rays of sunlight painted the sky, Zephyr's eyes opened to the noise of mercenaries shouting and preparing for departure.
His body was drenched in sweat from the desert heat, and dread crept over him.
Why didn't I wake up?
Is this real? Not a dream?
How can something feel so terrifyingly real if it's not?
His mind spiraled with grim thoughts.
He remembered the previous night—the pain from the wolf attack, the nausea, the agony in his broken arm and bruised shoulder, the overwhelming realism of the meal he had just eaten.
Has my reality… changed? Did I really get pulled into another world?
The thought sent chills through his body.
His heart pounded violently as sweat dripped from his forehead.
He sat up, clutching his uninjured hand as he chewed nervously on his fingernails.
How will I survive here?
These mercenaries… they seem dangerous. What will they do to me?
And that wolf from last night… someone said it was a "Level One Shifter." What does that even mean?
He trembled, mumbling to himself incoherently—until a voice snapped him out of his spiral.
"Hey, kid! Time to move. We've got a long march ahead!"
A tall, broad man stepped into the tent. He had long hair, a thick beard, and a scar running from his ear to his jaw. A bow was strapped to his back, and a quiver of arrows hung from his waist.
It was Zakrox, the deputy commander.
"Oh, you're awake. Good."
His presence snapped Zephyr back to reality. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
I need to stay composed… or I'll die here.
Zakrox extended a hand toward Zephyr's good arm.
"Let me help you up."
He pulled Zephyr up with surprising ease.
"I heard from Jones that your name is Zephyr… and that you've lost your memory?"
"Yes," Zephyr said quietly, "I don't remember anything else."
"Fine. Here's the short version."
Zakrox's eyes narrowed like a hawk's.
"I'm Zakrox, second-in-command of the Black Skull Mercenaries.
We do anything for coin—murder, theft, raids—you name it.
Our leader is Arlond, the one you saw last night killing that shifter like it was nothing."
As he spoke, the air grew heavy.
He placed a hand on Zephyr's shoulder.
"We saved you because the captain showed mercy.
But if you get in our way, you'll regret it.
We won't let you eat our food and drink our water for free.
Prove you're worth something—or you're out. Understood, boy?"
With each word, the weight in the room grew heavier, crushing.
Zephyr could barely breathe. Sweat poured down his face.
He felt like he was facing something far more terrifying than last night's wolf.
"Y-yes… I understand," he stammered.
In a blink, the pressure vanished—as if it had never existed.
Zakrox suddenly smiled.
"Good. We understand each other.
Now get out here and follow me."
He turned and left.
Zephyr scrambled after him, heart pounding.
What the hell was that? Even the wolf didn't scare me that badly…
Outside, the camp was in chaos. Mercenaries hurriedly packed up tents and loaded supplies onto their horses.
Near the fire, Zakrox pulled a skewer of roasted meat and shoved it into Zephyr's hand.
"Eat your breakfast. We move soon."
Zephyr nodded quickly and began eating, afraid to anger him.
He noticed Zakrox walking over to Jones—the man who saved him last night—and pointing in Zephyr's direction while speaking softly. Jones nodded in response.
While chewing his last bites, Zephyr noticed the bow on Zakrox's back.
That arrow… last night… was it him who saved me from the wolf's jaws?
Soon, the tents were down, horses saddled.
Jones approached with his horse and, without warning, grabbed Zephyr by the waist and lifted him easily onto the saddle behind him.
"Hold on tight, kid."
Seconds later, a sharp whistle echoed—and the mercenaries galloped forward.
Zephyr gripped Jones's cloak tightly, terrified of falling off.
What will become of me in this strange world?
And so, beneath the blazing sun and endless sky, Zephyr's journey began—not by choice, but by fate.
With nothing but fear in his chest and questions in his mind, he rode into a world that would either break him… or forge him into something new.