I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

"Where... am I?"

Lucian’s voice echoed, weightless, into the black.

He was floating. Suspended in what looked like a void—an endless expanse of ink. There was no ground, sky, or horizon—just blackness, infinite and cold. Yet, strangely, he could see. Not with his eyes, exactly—but with something deeper. The darkness wasn’t blind. It shimmered faintly at the edges, like oil on water, as if reality here bent differently.

It reminded him of something Eri had told him once, when she described the realm she passed through to resurrect herself—a space between life and death, between thought and forgetting.

But this felt... wrong.

Wrong in a quiet, suffocating way. Like he was wrapped in something that didn’t want him to move.

Then, pain slammed into his head.

"Ghh—!"

He winced, clutching his forehead. His pale hand brushed through wet, tangled strands of black hair, slick against his skin.

The headache pounded like drums behind his eyes—deep, rhythmic, blinding. With every throb came a flash.

Images.

Flying through the sky.

The illusion—his friends dying by Caelgorr’s hands.

The Grey Sea swallowing him whole.

Carlos shivering. The surface almost within reach.

He groaned. "What the hell happened...?"

There was a gap in his memory—something missing. He almost remembered breaching the surface, but the memory frayed and dissolved the moment he tried to hold onto it. It slipped from his grasp like smoke through his fingers.

His gut twisted.

Llarm, Gindu, Fenric. They’d been unconscious. Their bodies limp and vulnerable.

Eri—he remembered her breaking free of Caelgorr’s illusion and swimming to the surface by herself.

And Bruma grabbing hold of Llarm and Gindu.

"Are they still alive...?" he muttered, the words tasting sour in the empty air. "Did they make it?"

With no way of knowing, panic clawed at his throat, and the silence pressed in.

"I need to get out of here," he growled. "Is this another illusion?"

Lucian took a sharp breath and did what he always did when lost: he fought back.

He clenched his fists, and violent, molten atomic radiation stirred inside him. He pushed it through his bloodstream like wildfire. At the same time, he called upon the Crucible of Grace, divine and brutal, letting both forces collide inside him.

Agony struck.

His muscles tore, organs liquefied, bones cracked, melted, and reforged in the divine crucible—pure pain shaped into power.

He gritted his teeth. Blood leaked from his nose.

But nothing changed.

The void remained.

"Damn it!" he roared inside his mind, breath ragged. "How the hell do I get out of this fucking place?!"

Then—

A light.

It was a flicker at first, but it grew.

A bright, white glow shimmered before him, roughly five feet tall. It wasn’t blinding in size, but its intensity burned the shadows away. The contrast was instant and jarring. The void recoiled from the brightness, and Lucian turned his face, eyes squinting.

The air shifted.

Then came a voice.

Soft, Angelic, and Calm.

It glided through the void like a song made for him and him alone.

He knew it instantly, in the way you know warmth after cold and light after dark.

Something he cherished.

"Hello, my sweet boy."

Lucian’s eyes widened.

The radiant light vanished, and in its place stood a woman—serene, ethereal, and unmistakably real. She hovered effortlessly on the void’s invisible floor, as if the emptiness bent itself to her presence.

Her black hair flowed like water disturbed by a gentle breeze, drifting weightlessly around her face. Soft brown eyes met his, warm and tender. Her skin was pale like his, smooth and ageless, and though she wore no armor or crown, she radiated quiet strength.

Lucian’s breath caught in his throat.

"...Mom?" His voice cracked, and a tear slipped down his cheek.

’I confirmed this wasn’t an illusion... so how is this possible?’ he thought, stunned, as she stepped forward and brushed the tear from his face with a hand that felt real. Cool and delicate—smaller than his own.

But the tears didn’t stop.

"My precious Lucy," she said, her voice gentle, musical. "You always had such a kind heart... but please, don’t cry."

He reached for her, needing to feel. His large, calloused fingers wrapped around her slender hand. Cold. Fragile. Familiar.

He didn’t let go.

"How could I not?" he whispered, choking back a sob. "This is the first time I’ve seen the real you in nine years."

Her expression shifted. Her brow furrowed slightly. "The real me?" she echoed, puzzled.

Lucian hesitated.

How could he explain it? That he had died? That he was drafted into some divine war, had slain hundreds—maybe thousands—of soldiers? That he was fighting abominations, the latest of which had taunted him with her image as bait?

He opened his mouth to try—but she spoke first.

"Oh... yes. That." Her voice didn’t waver, but sorrow flickered in her eyes. "That devil using me like that... it was cruel. But you did so well, Lucy. You stayed strong."

Lucian blinked. His brow raised in disbelief. "You... you know about that?"

She nodded, slow and somber.

"I know everything about you, Lucy. I’m your mother. I’ve been watching you ever since..." She trailed off, her gaze dimming with memory. "...that day."

They didn’t have to say it aloud. They both knew which day she meant.

The day everything shattered. The day she and his father were taken from him.

Lucian lowered his head, his shoulders trembling. More thick and hot tears welled in his eyes. "I wish that day had never happened," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I wish we could just... go back. To how things used to be."

He leaned into her shoulder, pulled her close, and buried his face against her. She smelled faintly of lavender—like old blankets—like home.

She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation.

"Me too, Lucy," she said softly. "Me too."

And then, he broke.

Everything he’d been holding in—anger, guilt, fear, grief—it all came spilling out at once.

"I can’t do it, Mom!" he sobbed.

She held him tighter. "Do what?"

He clenched his eyes shut. Images flashed in his mind like blades—every life he’d taken. Every scream. Every dying face.

"How am I any better than the man who killed you?" His voice cracked. "I’ve killed so many people in such a short time. I’m a monster."

The last word hit him like a punch to the gut.

Monster.

But her hands moved to his hair—long, tangled, still damp from the water he didn’t feel anymore. She stroked it gently, just like she used to when he was little. Her touch was steady. Loving.

"Shh... quiet now, Lucy," she said. "You are not a monster. You’re the kindest boy I know—put into an impossible situation. And you’re doing so well."

She paused. Her hand lingered on his cheek.

"We don’t have much time, sweetheart. If you want to say anything to me, say it now."

Lucian looked up at her, eyes rimmed red.

"I love you," he whispered.

She leaned back and looked him in the eye. Her mouth parted as if to answer.

And he saw it.

The shape of her lips: "I love you, too."

But the words that came out weren’t hers.

They were cold, familiar, and wrong. Words that had haunted his nightmares for months now.

"Come find me."

Lucian’s heart dropped.

His mother’s figure flickered—shimmering like a mirage, dissolving into particles of white light. He lunged for her, trying to grasp her arms, hold her for just one more second—but she was already fading.

"No—wait!" He yelled, but she was already gone.

Then—pain.

A spike of searing agony drove through his skull. He screamed, clenching his fists, body writhing in the formless dark.

He shut his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was underwater again.

Freezing, silent, crushing.

His body burned from oxygen loss, and his head felt like it was about to implode.

And directly under him, jaws opened wide—rows of serrated teeth spiraling inward like a tunnel of death.

A leviathan.

And he was already inside its reach.