I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

"Big words," the elf sneered, leveling his blade at Lucy with slow, deliberate precision, "from pick number 4000. And from a lowly human, no less."

The blade shimmered faintly with runes—ancient symbols that pulsed with a soft blue glow against the enchanted steel. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

His posture was casual, almost lazy, but every muscle was coiled beneath his lithe frame, ready to strike like a serpent.

The battlefield raged behind them—explosions of magic lighting the horizon, and screams carried on the wind—but in this narrow clearing, it felt like the world had gone quiet.

Lucy's jaw tensed, muscles working beneath his skin. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, but he said nothing at first.

'So... the tales of the great Lucy are already spreading.' The thought was bitter as bile in his throat.

He met the elf's gaze, cold and unwavering, refusing to be the first to look away.

"If I may ask," he said evenly, voice calm but laced with steel, "why do you want to kill me?"

The question caught the elf off guard. His smirk faltered, perfect brows lifting slightly, as though it had never occurred to him that his target might inquire about his motives.

Then the answer came—sharp, but honest, cutting through pretense.

"I was ordered to by my god," he replied, tone tightening. "But..." his eyes narrowed, hardening like amber in sunlight, "I would've done it anyway. For what you did to my people."

The words struck Lucy like a blade between the ribs—unexpected, precise, and painfully revealing.

He didn't flinch—he didn't allow his expression to change—but inside, his fury deepened, spreading through his chest like dark water filling a well.

Not at the elf.

At her. Seraphine. For using him as a weapon without consent or explanation. For making him complicit in destruction before he understood what he was fighting for.

He could still feel the phantom heat of the village she'd erased with a divine blast—the screams that ended too abruptly, the ashes swirling in supernatural winds, the terrible silence after where life had thrived moments before.

His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles whitened, fingers shaking with restrained emotion.

"I'm not like my ancestors," he said quietly, his voice low and heavy like a storm waiting to break. "Whatever you think I am... you're wrong."

There was no pride in his voice. No plea for understanding, either.

Only the truth, and the growing fire beneath it—a conviction that burned hotter than any spell he could conjure.

"But aren't you?" the elf asked, his smirk returning like a crack in a perfect mask. He gestured lazily with his free hand. "Didn't you just promise I would die?"

His voice dripped with irony, but there was something sharper beneath it- something almost accusing.

Lucy didn't flinch. Instead, he shifted his weight, lowering into a battle stance—feet steady on the obsidian ground, hands open at his sides.

"I did," he said. "And you will."

A pause. The wind howled through the battlefield behind them, carrying cries of war and magic alike.

"But that doesn't mean I'll enjoy it."

The words came out steady, sincere in a way that cut through the battle performance, revealing the human beneath the warrior.

The elf's smirk faltered slightly, as if the answer rattled something in him. His grip on the sword twitched—almost imperceptibly—but then the cold smile returned, sharper now.

"Well," he replied, raising his blade with a smooth, practiced motion, "I will."

And then he lunged.

The space between them vanished instantly in a flash of motion. It was fluid, brutal, and elegant, like a dance choreographed by death.

Lucy twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow, the movement requiring every ounce of his newly honed reflexes.

He dropped low, boots skidding on blackened earth, and rolled under a second slash that would have opened him from shoulder to hip.

This wasn't just a skilled opponent; it was a formidable one.

Lucy had trained relentlessly for the past two weeks. Pushed to the brink by Seraphine's brutal expectations, his body was broken and rebuilt daily until sweat and blood became his constant companions.

But this elf, who bore no general's insignia, no marks of special rank, was keeping up with him with insulting ease.

No, Lucy realized as the elf's blade clashed against his arm guard.

'He's not keeping up. He's leading this fight.'

The elf was dictating the rhythm, controlling the tempo with the confidence of a maestro. Every movement forced Lucy to react rather than act, always a half-step behind, always defending.

Lucy ducked under another strike, sweat already clinging to his brow, soaking the collar of his tunic.

This wasn't going to be easy.

As the duel raged on, the battle around them no longer felt distant or separate.

Lucy and the elven warrior were no longer isolated in their clash—now, they were just one thread in a tapestry of chaos.

Warriors from both sides had closed around them, locked in their desperate struggles. The rhythmic clang of metal striking metal rang out like war drums, underscored by screams and the sickening sound of blades meeting flesh.

Blood slicked the ground, turning the black obsidian earth into a treacherous, glistening battlefield.

Lucy's focus began to fray at the edges. His body still moved—dodging, weaving, muscles responding on instinct—but his mind flickered to his surroundings.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Gindu, locked in a brutal skirmish against another Dragonkin. Their heavy blows rang like cannon fire, scales flashing in the light of nearby magical explosions.

A few yards beyond, Eri spun with grace and savagery, clashing against one of her kind—a blur of motion, brown, and steel, her feline reflexes a dance of death amid the chaos.

And farther ahead, titans clashed.

Four generals.

The golden-scaled Dragonkin of Ithriel's army slammed into Seraphine's crimson-scaled general, their roars echoing like thunder as magical energy crackled around their massive forms.

Beside them, the tiger-striped Beastkin general of Ithriel met Seraphine's Cheetah general in a flurry of strikes, each faster and more violent than the last.

Their battle tore the earth asunder, sending tremors through the battlefield that radiated outward like ripples in a pond.

One of those tremors reached Lucy just as he pivoted to avoid a blade aimed at his throat.

His footing slipped on blood-slicked obsidian, boots losing traction for just a fraction of a second.

And that second of imbalance cost him dearly.

The elf seized the moment, stepping in with supernatural speed. His foot crashed into Lucy's abdomen—an explosion of pain that sucked the air from his lungs and sent stars dancing across his vision.

The impact launched Lucy backward like a ragdoll thrown by a petulant god.

He hit the ground hard, rolling and tumbling across the obsidian terrain for ten feet before finally skidding to a halt, skin abraded and raw.

Dust clouded around him, filling his nostrils and coating his tongue. His chest ached with each desperate breath. His vision spun and doubled.

But he gritted his teeth, tasting blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek, and slammed a fist into the ground as he forced himself to his feet.

But the moment Lucy pushed himself off the ground, rising to one knee, the elf was already there, having closed the distance with that same impossible speed.

The blade came in fast, too fast for human reflexes.

A wide, ruthless arc aimed straight for his neck, the enchanted steel singing through the air. No time to block. No time to dodge.

And then, everything shifted.

A sudden gust, violent and sharp as a knife's edge, slammed into his side with physical force.

Lucy wasn't standing in the same place anymore.

He stumbled back, off balance and disoriented, wind roaring past his ears—the blade missed by a hair's breadth, cleaving empty air where his throat had been a heartbeat earlier.

His hand shot to his neck, fingers finding skin intact, chest heaving with adrenaline and delayed fear.

Across from him, the brown-haired elf blinked in confusion, staring at his sword like it had betrayed him.

What the hell just happened? Lucy thought—before realization dawned with crystal clarity. Llarm.

Of course. His loudmouthed, self-proclaimed hero of a friend. Llarm, who stayed with the support squad, had saved him with a perfectly timed gust.

Lucy exhaled, lips twitching into a grin despite the dire circumstances, a spark of warmth in the cold reality of battle.

'You damn idiot... You saved me.'

Far off in the rear ranks, he could already imagine Llarm shouting something ridiculous like "You're welcome, peasant!" or "The hero arrives in style!" with his insufferable, endearing confidence.

Lucy rolled his shoulders, muscles protesting but responding. He clenched his fists until he felt the power gathering in his palms like living heat and shot forward again with renewed determination.

'I'll make sure not to waste the hero's efforts.'

The battle was far from over, but for this moment, at least, death had been denied its prize.