The old knight stood at the walls of an old, battered castle, a place he had called home for three decades. He placed his helmet on the wall, a dented mess that was giving him more headaches than protection. He looked on the once green field, now a mixed sea of fallen brothers and fallen outsiders, a colorful mix of grey plating, the glint of chainmail and the brown leather of those worse off, all splattered in blood and broken by the occasional fire, be it a flaming arrow or not quite burnt oil just below. It wasn't over - there were many pockets of combat still going, and the cries of war were loud behind him. His brothers in arms had already gone below, fighting the intruders, no doubt to the last man. He lifted a dented, bloodstained gauntlet and clasped it on the broken edge of the wall before him. His other arm followed, holding a now red and chipped blade that was brand new just before the siege. How had it come to this.

It didn't matter, he decided. It was all the same in the end. The emperor was going to die sooner or later. He had sworn an oath beyond death against the southern dogs and the ones across the sea. But really, it was the very world that was fucked up. Always a war. Always tension. He consigned himself to a life in service, and these were his dues. His and all the other poor fucks-

A searing red mask came over his eyes as a quite different intruder pierced his abdomen, a long, flat one that had somehow made it under his plating. With a roar, he lifted his sword arm and gave a mighty swing in the direction of his assailant, and with pained but grimly satisfied eyes watched as he completely removed the arm of his assailant and buried the blade partway into the man's upper chest. The man, wore leather armor, a smooth yet bloodstained face and a terror in his eyes the knight had come to associate with all his enemies in this war. He toppled off the side of the wall, and the knight yanked hard on the blade, avoiding a similar fate himself with a flick of his wrist perfected by many years of training. He growled and spat at the whelp's corpse below, a spit he noticed was a little redder than it should have been. Two more followed, and at the end of the wall section, in the tower he had seen slay hundreds of enemies, he saw yet another boy enter with a bow. Kids. He was fighting fucking kids. He didn't even get the honor of being stabbed by a man of skill.

He slashed at the first to arrive, who had the brains to stop advancing, but not enough to avoid a clean red line that went across his leather-clad chest as though he was wearing nothing at all. The boy screamed at him - perhaps it was supposed to be a war cry - and lifted his short sword. The knight reached out and clasped the arm in an iron grip, and threw him over the edge as well. He ignored the boy's screams and focused on the next assailant, an older man with a determined expression armed with a long spear. Not even a fight... he thought as he swung his blade with excessive force to drive the man back. His reflexes were draining, as was his skill, all in the steady stream of blood from his side. He pressed on, determined to make his final kill swift. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bow-armed kid poking his bow through an arrow slit. The shaky arrow tip. He'd long lost his shield, but he dismissed the threat altogether, opting to charge at the spearman with a deep, throaty growl. The man parried better than the others, but a wrong move on his part saw the spear cleaved in half. A moment of weakness, exploited by the tip of his sword into the man's neck. Grim satisfaction filled his eyes, in sync with the dull gloss that came over the eyes of his opponent. And then the arrow came, piercing the knight's bare neck.

The man stumbled back, immediately clutching the arrow. His eyes wandered, seeking his assailant, before seeing the terrified eyes of the boy in the tower. He made it, the knight thought as he tumbled to his knees and lost focus of the tower. All was blurry. He looked at his other hand, which had lost the blade at some point moments ago. He saw ten digits... twenty digits... four...

He'll make a great marksmen. The kid'll be a great marksmen... the knight thought as he slumped forwards with his hand still at his neck. A fire rose at the edge of his vision, a stark contrast to the gray mass, and the blue mass above it. It all became a shifting sea of color, no more coherent than his thoughts. And then his eyes stilled, and saw nothing at all.