Matteo awoke to the sharp sound of screeching in the distance.
His eyes snapped open. He was lying in dirt—cold, damp, pine-needle-laced earth. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, carried by a wind that whispered of death and something worse.
Where was he?
Just moments ago, he'd been in Greybridge. The city. The bar. The snow.
Was this a dream?
His fingers curled around something solid in his right hand.
A pistol.
Sleek, unfamiliar, yet warm—as if it had just been fired.
Before he could even process the thought, a firm slap landed on his back.
"C'mon, soldier!" a voice barked behind him. "Get your arse to the barracks before that thing gets back!"
Matteo spun around.
They were in a dense pine forest—cold, dark, and ancient. Above them, two moons hung side by side in the sky, one silver and one crimson. Both unnervingly close.
Definitely not Earth.
And the man who'd grabbed him?
He looked like he'd stepped out of a fantasy novel.
Mid-twenties. Golden hair swept back. A lion's aura surrounded him—confident, commanding. He wore battle-scarred plate armor adorned with a silver crest of a flaming crown. A sword hung from his waist, and a red cape fluttered behind him in the cold wind.
"Captain! We gotta move!" a soldier shouted from deeper in the trees.
The golden-haired man nodded, then turned to Matteo.
"C'mon, soldier! On your feet!"
Matteo stood—more out of instinct than understanding—and followed.
They ran.
Through the trees, over frost-covered roots, beneath the haunting cries of something massive in the distance.
And yet, the captain in full armor was just as fast as the others.
Eventually, they broke through the woods and arrived at what could only be called a war camp. Torches lined muddy paths between tents and barricades. Soldiers in mismatched gear patched wounds, sharpened blades, or prayed quietly beside fires. The scent of smoke and blood saturated the cold night air.
"David! Report!" the captain barked.
A tall, lean man jogged over, sword strapped to his side and face grim. His armor bore the same crest.
"Sir! The Western Division has fallen to the Titan! At this rate, the last bastion won't last till dawn. And a horde of monsters has breached Baseline Charlie."
"Bloody hell," the captain muttered. His jaw clenched. "That's not good…"
He turned.
And his eyes landed on Matteo.
"You," he said, pointing.
"Uh... me?" Matteo blinked and pointed at himself.
"Yes, you, soldier. Take a team and scout out Baseline Charlie. Find out how bad it is. Report back."
Matteo opened his mouth to object—then stopped.
He looked down at himself.
Dark leather gear. Padded tunic. Black gloves. The same silver crest on his chest as the others wore on their shields.
He blended in.
His outfit looked like it belonged to a scout or rogue. Practical. Light. Fast.
That's why no one questioned him.
He looked like one of them.
"Now move! Get your equipment from the supply tent over there," the captain pointed to a small tent near the camp's edge. "Come back when you're ready. I'll assign your squad."
Matteo nodded and turned to go—but the weight in his hand reminded him of the pistol.
He glanced at it again, then raised it slightly toward the captain. "Do you have bullets for this?"
The captain paused mid-command. Squinted. "What kind of weapon is that?"
"You've… never seen a pistol?"
"I've seen magic wands, crossbows, and flame-hurlers. But nothing like that." He sounded genuinely curious. "Sorry, soldier. You're on your own with that one."
"Noted."
Matteo turned away and checked his pockets.
Inside were three spare clips of ammo for the pistol.
And… the Mask.
Somehow, it had come with him.
The smooth, faceless porcelain with its wide red grin felt cold against his fingers. It looked like it was laughing. Mocking. Waiting.
"Ohoho, look who woke up in Hell's reenactment LARP!"
A familiar, high-pitched voice echoed inside Matteo's skull.
"Not now," Matteo muttered under his breath.
"Aw, c'mon, you're in another world, buddy! This is a dream come true! Magic! Swords! Moonlight! Biceps! Blood! Big scary monsters!—"
"Shut up."
The mask chuckled but fell silent—for now.
Matteo clenched his jaw, shoved it back inside his coat, and returned to the captain.
"I think I'm already best equipped," he said. "I'll manage."
The captain raised an eyebrow but didn't question it.
Instead, he gestured to three figures standing nearby.
"Your team. Swift squad. They're quick, good with their blades, and they know the terrain."
One by one, they stepped forward.
A tall, broad-shouldered woman with twin daggers strapped to her thighs. Her face was painted with red streaks beneath her eyes.
"This one's Mira. Silent, deadly. Don't flirt with her."
Mira grinned, cracking her knuckles.
"Next—Elric. Bowman. Tracker. Bit of a drunk, but he sees like a hawk."
Elric gave a lazy two-fingered salute, already chewing a blade of grass.
"And lastly—Lena. She's new, but don't underestimate her."
Lena looked barely twenty. Slim build, dark cloak, determined eyes.
Matteo nodded, "I'm Matteo."
The captain clapped Matteo on the back. "Baseline Charlie's two miles southwest through the woods. Get eyes on the breach and return fast. If you see the Titan—don't engage. Run. Understand?"
Matteo nodded.
And then he asked the question he was dreading:
"…Just how big is this Titan?"
The camp went quiet for a second.
The fire cracked.
Someone muttered a prayer.
The captain looked him dead in the eyes. "Taller than the highest building you've ever seen."
---
Minutes later, Matteo and his squad slipped into the trees.
The wind howled through the pines.
Branches creaked above like bones in the breeze.
Every step forward felt like a step deeper into something ancient and wrong.
His pistol was warm in his grip.
The mask pulsed faintly from his coat pocket.
And in the sky above, two moons watched in silence.
Whatever world this was—
It had already started to break.