The Twice-blessed Paladin

A Forgotten Battlefield

Darkness.

Then pain. A hollow, deep ache—not of flesh, but of something deeper.

The paladin's first sensation is pressure. Heavy, suffocating weight all around him. Dirt. Stone. Earth. He is buried.

His instincts scream for survival. Move. Dig. Escape.

He doesn't question why he feels this urgency—he simply reacts. His hand jerks upward, fingers scraping against compacted soil. His body is stiff, unfamiliar. As if time itself has forgotten it. He flexes his hand—and then stops.

His bones.

Not skin, not muscle. Bone.

A jolt of horror floods through him, but panic must wait. The weight of the ground is crushing, and survival comes first. He claws his way upward, fingers digging deep into the packed earth, forcing his body to move despite the unnatural stiffness. Inch by inch, he pulls himself forward.

Then—air.

His hand breaches the surface, and then his arm. He drags himself free, breaking through the dirt, gasping out of instinct despite having no lungs to fill. Cold night air rushes over his body.

He collapses onto his back, staring at the sky. The stars are unfamiliar.

A hollow sense of dread creeps in. Where is he?

Or rather—when is he?

Slowly, he pushes himself upright. His fingers brush against the dirt-covered armor still clinging to his frame. It was once gleaming silver, but now it is rusted, cracked, and barely holding together. His sword—a great blade that once bore divine inscriptions—lies half-buried beside him, its runes faded.

He grips the weapon and forces himself to his feet. His body does not feel right—there is no heartbeat, no warmth, no fatigue. Only emptiness.

Then he catches a reflection in the broken remains of a rusted helmet lying nearby.

A skull stares back at him.

His skull.

His breath hitches—but there is no breath. No lungs. No flesh.

Only bone.

His mind recoils, fragmented memories flooding back. He was Sir Aldric Valthorne, Paladin of the Radiant Dawn, sworn to the God of Life. He fought in the Great War to protect his kingdom, and he remembers his final battle—charging into the fray, cutting down foes, feeling divine light course through him—

And then darkness.

He should be dead. He was supposed to be reincarnated into a new life. Why is he like this?

A surge of anger and confusion wells up. He needs answers.

And he knows exactly where to find them.

He kneels, gripping his rusted blade, and closes his eyes—though they are empty sockets.

"Great One, my lord, the Radiant Dawn… I call upon you. I do not understand what has happened, but I am your servant still. Please, answer me."

For a moment, silence.

Then—a second voice, deep and chilling, speaks instead.

"Hah! I told you he would call out first. You owe me a favor, old friend."

Aldric's eyes snap open as the air around him shifts. Reality bends, and two divine figures manifest before him.

On one side stands a figure of golden radiance, his armor immaculate, his presence warm and commanding. The God of Life, the Radiant Dawn.

On the other, a cloaked figure wreathed in shifting shadows, his voice both amused and ancient. The God of Death, the Veiled Reaper.

Aldric grips his sword, stepping back on instinct. Why is the God of Death here?

"Peace, Aldric," the Radiant Dawn says, his voice calm yet hesitant. "You are still my champion."

"But also mine," the Veiled Reaper adds, grinning. "And therein lies the complication."

Aldric's hollow voice echoes with barely contained rage. "Why am I like this? I was to be reincarnated, not—this." He gestures at his skeletal form.

The gods exchange a glance before the Radiant Dawn sighs. "We… made a mistake."

Aldric stares. "A mistake?"

The Veiled Reaper chuckles. "Oh, indeed. You see, reincarnation requires divine power—and we, ah, lack that."

Aldric grips his sword tighter. "What do you mean you lack power?"

The Radiant Dawn's expression turns grim. "Two hundred years have passed since your death, Aldric. In that time… we have faded."

"Mortals have forgotten us," the Veiled Reaper says. "No prayers. No worshippers. No temples. We are mere shadows of what we once were. We barely had enough strength to pull you back from death. But reincarnate you? That was beyond us."

Aldric feels something cold settle in his hollow chest. Two hundred years. His kingdom is gone. His god's name erased.

His entire reason for existing—forgotten.

For the first time since awakening, true despair takes hold.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" His voice is hollow. "I cannot live like this."

"You can still serve," the Radiant Dawn says, stepping forward. "If you help restore our names, if you spread our faith once more… our strength will return."

"And once we're strong enough," the Veiled Reaper says with a wicked grin, "we can finally reincarnate you properly. If you so choose."

Aldric stares at them both. The offer is clear—if he makes the world remember them, he will regain what was lost.

He bows his head. "Then I will walk this path. I will spread your names. And when the time comes…"

He grips his sword with renewed purpose.

"I will claim my true rebirth."

The gods fade, leaving Aldric alone once more—but no longer without purpose.

He looks toward the distant horizon. The land is unfamiliar, the world changed.

His first step? Finding civilization.

But he knows this much—he cannot go as he is. If mortals see a walking skeleton, they will attack him on sight.

He kneels and gathers what he can:

He tightens his broken armor, concealing most of his skeletal form.

He wraps a tattered cloak around his body, pulling the hood low.

He takes his rusted greatsword, though its divine glow is gone.

He will walk the world as a nameless knight, hiding his true nature—until the time is right.

With one last look at the battlefield where he fell two centuries ago, he turns and begins his march.

A new legend is about to begin.

And this time, the world will not forget.