I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

Lucy stared in disbelief at the place where the village once stood.

A blackened stretch of land now replaced it—obsidian cracked like scorched glass beneath his boots. Once dry and dusty but full of life, the vibrant orange earth had been erased, transformed into something lifeless and foul. The air reeked of burning ash and finality, thick and acrid as it clawed its way down his throat.

His stomach twisted.

A watery sensation rushed into his mouth as the image of the Dragonkin father hugging his son flickered behind his eyes, frozen there like a cruel painting burned into memory.

'They were right there... now they're just gone?'

The thought barely finished before he collapsed to his knees and vomited.

The sound was raw and messy—his body reacted in pure rebellion to his mind's refusal to accept. He hunched over, retching on the molten-black ground, hands trembling, bile steaming on the obsidian.

'Is this what I've agreed to fight for?

Billions—gone in a blink, wiped away like dust.

This is Seraphine's utopia?'

His eyes burned as tears welled up, blurring the devastated land before him. Slowly, shakily, he looked up—past the heat, past the shimmering waves of divine residue—up toward her.

Seraphine's projection loomed high in the sky. She sat regally on her throne of light, white and gold flowing around her like an eternal flame. She looked untouched by war.

But her face—her face shattered Lucy's expectations.

He had imagined indifference. She was a goddess, after all. One who had just annihilated a village, no, an entire population, without a single word of warning.

But instead, she looked broken.

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, so hard it drew blood that traced a crimson line down her otherwise pristine chin.

She whispered something. Soft. Fragile. Most wouldn't have heard it over the aftershock of destruction.

But Lucy heard.

A whisper etched in grief, like a mother mourning her children.

"I'm sorry... I'll revive you when I gain control, I promise... so wait. Please wait."

Lucy didn't know how to feel.

The goddess's actions should have painted her as a monster—cold, unfeeling, divine cruelty wrapped in silk. And yet there she was, crying. Mourning the very lives she had just extinguished.

The contradiction churned in his gut like rot.

It didn't make sense.

'If she regretted it, why did she do it at all? Why wipe out an entire village—children, families, peace—only to mourn afterward?'

He turned his gaze to the opposite side of the field, where Ithriel's towering form hovered above his army like a statue carved from ice and steel.

Ithriel didn't shed a tear.

There was no remorse on his face, no twitch of regret in his posture. If Seraphine grieved, then Ithriel hadn't even noticed.

Lucy's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into the obsidian glass beneath him.

And then he noticed something else—eyes.

All around him, soldiers from every race—Dragonkin, Beastkin, Elves, Giants, Ogres- were staring at him.

Not with horror or pity, but confusion.

Like his reaction was the strange one. Like grief didn't belong here. It's as if a human wasn't supposed to feel this much pain.

'Am I the only one seeing this for what it is?' Lucy thought.

Then Llarm's hand extended into view.

The usual playful grin was gone. He looked different now—older, quieter, eyes shadowed with something he rarely showed: weight.

"It's okay, Lucy," he said softly, low and oddly reverent. "What they died for is essential. They know it too."

Even as he said the words, they trembled with quiet sorrow.

But they didn't soothe anything.

Lucy slapped Llarm's hand away and rose shakily to his feet, face twisted in disbelief.

"Essential?" he snapped. "You think that makes it okay? That their deaths mean nothing?" 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

His voice echoed across the glassy field, sharp and ragged.

"They knew? They didn't even know what was coming! You call that meaningful?"

The silence that followed was tense and heavy.

And somewhere beneath it, the crack in Lucy's faith had begun to spread.

But before Llarm could respond, a voice rang out—not his.

It was hers.

The Goddess.

"Children," Seraphine said, her voice trembling with grief. "Most of you understand why this had to be done. But for those who don't, I'll explain."

Her gaze swept across the army but settled—unmistakably—on Lucy.

His stomach turned, anger flaring in his chest.

"The world would have collapsed," she said softly. "It could not withstand both their presence and ours. But this is not the end for them. I swear on all I hold sacred, I will bring them back, once I gain control."

Her words were honeyed with sorrow, a promise soaked in remorse.

"So fight," she urged, voice rising. "Fight for yourselves. Fight for me. Fight for them."

Lucy wanted to believe her. The sorrow in her tone felt genuine, and the pain in her eyes wasn't faked.

But it wasn't enough.

'They didn't have to die.'

He clenched his jaw, shaking with anger. Yet somewhere, buried beneath the rage, a quiet voice inside him whispered what he didn't want to hear:

'Maybe they did.'

This war was beyond anything he had imagined—beyond reason, beyond justice—gods waging battles on worlds not built to survive their presence. Mortals caught in the crossfire of cosmic ambition.

And yet, it didn't dull the rage. It only sharpened it.

'They call humans evil,' he thought bitterly. 'They see me as a monster. But what are they? Murderers of billions, cloaked in purpose.'

The thought thundered through him like an avalanche.

And then, another voice broke the silence.

Darfin.

He stood tall at the front of Seraphine's army, his golden hair and solemn expression conveying the same sadness that lingered in the goddess's eyes.

"Soldiers," he called out, voice clear and commanding, "now is not the time for pity."

His blade gleamed as he raised it high.

"If you care about their lives... then act. End this war. Kill the enemy."

He thrust his sword toward Ithriel's forces.

Without hesitation, Seraphine's army erupted into a roar.

Five thousand battle cries. Five thousand footsteps pounding the scorched earth. The five races surged forward like a tidal wave of fury and grief.

And across the battlefield, Ithriel's army answered in kind.

Another roar.

Another charge.

Two divine forces hurtled toward each other—worlds colliding beneath burning skies.

And Lucy, caught in the eye of the storm, stood frozen, motionless, as the armies of gods and mortals surged around him.

The ground beneath him quaked with the stampede of five thousand feet. Dust and ash swirled through the air in suffocating clouds. Metal clanged against metal, battle cries echoed like thunder, and the scent of blood was already in the wind.

Still, he stood statue-like, while chaos erupted on all sides.

The rage still pulsed inside his chest like molten iron, scorching every breath, every heartbeat. But through the inferno, one thought cleaved through the smoke and confusion like a blade of clarity:

'If I crush Ithriel's army... how many lives will I save?'

It wasn't forgiveness.

It wasn't understanding.

It was survival.

His fists clenched so tightly his nails bit through skin. Blood dripped between his fingers, hot and red against the obsidian earth. Slowly, he rose, shoulders trembling, and breath ragged, as if lifting the weight of the dead with him.

His gaze snapped upward, piercing, pale gray, cold as winter steel, locking onto the throne that floated high above it all. Onto her.

Seraphine.

She hovered above the battlefield like a divine ghost, bathed in white and gold light. Her hair flowed in perfect stillness, untouched by the storm beneath her. Yet tension and regret were in her expression.

Her light blue eyes met his across the vastness, and for a moment, the war seemed to vanish.

They stared—two souls shaped by death and destiny—silent, unmoving.

Like twin blades hovering at the edge of a clash, both trembling with purpose and pain.

Her lips parted slightly. Perhaps to justify herself, or offer one final push of encouragement.

But Lucy was done listening.

With a sharp breath, he turned, shoulders squaring, legs coiling like a spring, and ran.

Into a sea of flashing steel and roaring fire.

He wasn't running toward glory.

He wasn't running for her.

He was running for something he hadn't named yet—something fierce and trembling and human.

But whatever it was, it would be written in blood.

The war had begun.