Draft, by volunteer

If I've learnt from those previous two days, that terrible school genocide or my forcible impressment into this fantasy world's military, it's that I must make the most of what I can control. The death of those children, out of my hands. My own enslavement, well, if I do anything I will surely face death, and my two other fellow Americans may also face imprisonment and interrogation.

What can I learn from such pathetic things? I should learn how to defend myself against any possible attack, not to be slaughtered by mere toddlers who haven't learnt to use their damn powers. I also learned during this morning exercise was truly useless the lesson was. It's useless, pointless, and utterly useless, I swear.

When a mage takes control of their body, it means that the mind will be temporarily paralyzed. Their actions become sluggish, their breathing shallower, and they begin to sweat profusely, which means that they've given up all thought to defend themselves. This is not to forget the issue of arcane recoil, which causes rupture of the blood vessels. I could barely only rationalize why these foolish mages go so far, until I was told that this arcane recoil is recoverable. In other words, whatever pain the recoil inflicts, the wound will slowly heal as the world repairs itself. Supposedly.

I wonder what's more superior - guns or magicks?

When the first rifles were produced, the hierarchical class of peasants and nobles was turned on its head. Entire masses of nations were mobilized and became directly concerned with not only the conflicts of their kings, but even the conflicts of the masses. Gunpowder is not scary because it kills, but because it has the power to change entire countries. This is why the ancien regime fought against the revolution.

Magicks, on the other hand, is still much in line that of knighthood and kings. It does not even the playing field of militiamen against professional knights. Mages and knights are whole entire professions - careers - and requires a life's study to truly master. Strangely, us "heroes" are an exception, and have become on par with apprentices, but as for the greater population at hand, I've yet to see those outside of the academy to conduct any sort of magicks.

Perhaps, these arcane spells are only limited to that of the milk of knowledge - a lucrative "potion." The ruling class or the military most likely saw it fit to keep such high-value weaponry exclusive to their own loyal aides.

But the majority of them were never trained and simply made use of what they had in their possession. This entire academy is a fucking playground. They don't know bloodshed. I'd reckon they kept these mages sheltered, and merely sent the peasantry to do their own work.

Alas, these are all postulations.

I got up from my drinking stupor, and finally walked out that combat range. Yes, I was still drinking, had too much, and passed in the middle of an active firing zone. Do I care? No. The instructors didn't even bother touching me; they're just a bunch of scared bitches. I am a "hero" after all. If they think I'd care, then it's obviously a waste of time to train me.

I make my way back to the main academy, and ran into the goth chick. Somehow, she's able to maintain all that makeup on top of that weird pioneer uniform.

She waves at me, tired. "How was the combat range?"

"Uh." It was shit. "Educational. How about yours at that library."

She laughed. "I can't read! I tried applying the same translation magicks, but I couldn't get them to make sense. Apparently, the process is complicated and not that simple. I just went and looked at picture books."

"Uh-huh. Were those pictures pretty and all?" I pivoted our walk towards the carriage.

"Eh, not really. They looked like rough sketches and the ink kinda clashed with each other. All the scenes involved a bunch of war and soldiers and skeletons."

Is that seriously it? "Did you at least learn anything of this world."

"Well uh-," an awkward grin breaks across her face, "-not really? It's a work in progress."

Fu-u-uck me. "Do you even know what 'ghouls' are?"

"Well, yeah, they're the monsters we have to defeat?"

I hasten my pace, and break off from her. Am I the only one taking this shit seriously? These kids are fucking children, why can't they understand? We need to act now, or else we're doomed. The moment they realise that these kids will never be able to defeat the enemy, they'll give up fighting and will surrender. The army of corpses in the forest will come for them, and kill them all!

"Hey! Wait up!" She yells.

Fuck off woman. Fuck the war; fuck this world. Fuck them all. It's only natural that they want the upper hand, the ultimate victory. I can't blame them for wanting that, but they don't know terror.

There I mount into the carriage, and I flick a link of translation magick at the coachman. "Hey! Take me to the ghouls!"

He nods, and starts driving towards the outskirts of town. The academy left our view, and we pass through scenic amounts of urban aesthetic. The classical concrete complexes and planned roads gave way to rustic woodlands and pasture as we drove further to the outskirts. The crowds of consumption and merchantry were soon replaced by the transit marching of military.

It takes hours to travel, but such is natural for a backwards fantasy world.

One of the returning units catches my eye. It seemed like they were one of the folks being relieved of duty, but judging by their spoils, it was more like a triumph. There by those men of gambesons and halberds followed a horse-pulled cage. In that cage was some half-violent, half-defeated humanoid. It shook the cage apart with its deformed hands, and cackled anguish from its lime-white jaws. Its mottled robe held deep scratches and necrosis. The humanoid seemed rotten. I gag on the air. Fucking digusting, I smelt its putrid reek.

The formation halted when they noticed us and quickly sat down. The troop lead approached me. "Ell te, hero." He saluted.

I return his salute, and quickly cast a translation link. "Good evening. What's that there in that cage?"

"Oh, he's another casualty that arrived yesterday from the front line. He's been here awhile, but we found him wandering and wounded. His name is... is... uh... it's..." The trooper knocks on his visor. "Tiberius? That sounds familiar to me. Anyway, his armour is pretty badly broken, his arm reeked of ghoulish necrosis. At the time, he seemed like a proper human, but now... at least we caught him before he completely morphed."

I felt sorry for this poor, pitiful man. Even if this Tiberius has no idea what happened, he's certainly in agony, trapped in that curse.

On the other hand, my translation seems to be improving! "So pray tell, trooper, can you summarize to me what a ghoul is?"

"It's a man-monster from the east," the trooper frowns, "and they can eat anyone and anything they come in contact with. They have very strong senses, their strength is far beyond ours and their magic is almost unlimited. The only reason they haven't killed many of us and our comrades is because they're weak from lack of food. They're not dangerous, and most are harmless.

"Unless if you're alone, like poor Tiberius."

So they're zombies. "Has it been like this for months? Their starvation, I mean."

"For a couple years, actually. It's just now tha-." The trooper continues explaining, but every word leaving his mouth was heard mute.

The silence fell upon my ears like a heavy blanket. Why isn't he saying anything? I'm waiting for his explanation. Is he trying to spare my feelings? Or something? I don't know. But that doesn't make me any less curious. Why would a soldier be afraid to speak, and then refuse to talk? Did I say something wrong?

I hear an oscillating bell ring throughout my eardrums. An ear ringing - tinnitus. Streams of red iron drip from my ears.

Oh shit, I'm deaf. Did my translation link recoil? That shouldn't happen! I try focus myself once more, listen closely to whatever voice I can sense, yet there was no feeling but rather silence. Shit! My eyesight goes black, my pupils pushed out of their sockets. I fall unconscious. My body leaves the carriage itself, swinging itself into the pull of magnetic gravity, and there with a thud I crash upon the stones of the highway.

As I lay there, the soldiers scramble to help me. But in finality, through the crowd of kinder samaritans, from his prison, there stood a ghoul awake and staring into my eyes. Its gaze strikes right through my heart and my soul. A shiver rippled through every bone within my flesh, as if tearing my organs from my body.

The ghoul knows, and alas it shrieks.

The blood in my veins turns cold. The screams of pain echo through the sky and the clouds. My head throbs, and a terrible migraine crashing in behind my eyelids. Each memory, pain, fear, sorrow, and joy, all were all laid out in my mind. Every single thing. I suffocated on sheer mental strain. The blood in my veins freezes over. There was no blood circulating, there was nothing flowing within my system, there was no oxygen, and I'm drowning and dying in metaphysical water. Everything around me was white, except for the ghoul who stood shrieking straight into my soul.

And I sat there, soaking in a pool of not my blood, but from a unit that once stood there. Bodies of soldiers laid scattered about, blood dripping into the highway stones.

Recovering from shock, I stand up and there a shotgun fall from my thighs.

I left that shotgun back at home.

And there I notice, each body strewn about displays exit and entrance wounds. Ballistic wounds.