I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

Llarm had carried him to safety, though "safety" felt like a cruel joke. The ground beneath Lucy was warm with residual heat from spells, sticky with blood that had seeped into the cracks of the obsidian. Llarm hadn't even faced him toward the fight.

From what Lucy could tell, he was about fifty feet away from Tara and Fenara. Far enough to barely feel the tremble of their blows in the soles of his boots, but close enough that no other soldiers dared approach. It was a dead zone—no-man's-land carved out by sheer power.

'Is there anything more embarrassing than being a helpless cripple on a battlefield after challenging a general?' Lucy's bitter thought rang hollow. He tried to smirk and laugh at his misfortune, but the gesture died on his cracked lips.

There was nothing funny left in him.

Not after watching billions die. Not after feeling the wet, hot spray of a man's blood on his face. Not after screaming through torn lungs as his own body was torn apart by divine force.

'Damn it, I need to move.'

He clenched his jaw, trying to force sensation into his limbs. Nothing. His muscles refused to respond, twitching uselessly beneath the weight of trauma and shock. A dull, pounding ache echoed in every inch of his bones, like his very marrow had been fractured.

The air reeked of scorched flesh and sulfur. Every breath tasted like blood and burning. The distant roars, screams, and war crashes were muffled behind the ringing in his ears.

He was alive. But only just.

But Lucy wasn't the kind to give up just because the odds spat in his face. His body might be a shattered husk—but that didn't mean he was out of the fight.

He had magic.