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10.52% World of Iron and Blood / Chapter 1: The Call of Steel and Blood

Chapter 1: The Call of Steel and Blood

The blaring sound of the alarm tore through the silence. Alexander flinched. The noise pierced his consciousness like a shard of glass wedged in his mind. Slowly, he sat up on the bed, running a hand over his face. The roughness of his stubble pricked his skin, the only sensation that felt remotely real.

The air in the room was stale, unmoving. Cold light seeped through the gaps in the curtains, pulling the last remnants of warmth from the space. Shadows of tree branches trembled on the walls, fragile silhouettes ready to disappear. A new day had begun, but it meant nothing to him.

Barefoot, he crossed the creaking floorboards, feeling small crumbs underfoot. The icy shower scalded his skin, but it brought neither wakefulness nor relief - only a faint tingling, as if his body reluctantly acknowledged life.

The coffee, long cold, left a bitter taste on his tongue. Alexander raised the cup, his eyes catching the dried ring of coffee clinging to its edge. That was all he could muster: a sip, a glance at his blurred reflection in the black liquid, and forgetting.

He looked out the window. Through the dust on the glass, his reflection appeared hazy, indistinct. Dull eyes, a gaunt face - he turned away. It was all too familiar.

Mornings used to be different. Alexander remembered when bright sunlight beckoned him into a new day. When the aroma of fresh coffee filled the house with joy, and the crunch of snow underfoot brought a boyish smile. But that felt so distant now, more like a story someone else had told him rather than a memory of his own.

On the table lay his phone. The screen, smudged with fingerprints, was silent, black, as lifeless as everything else around him. It was just another useless object, one that no longer held any meaning. Even books - his former refuge - now felt hollow. Their pages no longer came alive, and the heroic deeds of their characters felt like mere theater.

He listlessly scrolled through an online store until his eyes landed on a peculiar title:

"How to Survive and Change the Medieval World."

Alexander was about to scroll past, but something stopped him. The title flickered on the screen, like distant firelight. It wasn't just text - it was a call, one he couldn't tear his eyes away from.

His fingers hovered, then moved to open the description:

"A guide for those who strive to survive where every day is a battle for the right to breathe. Secrets of farming, military tactics, court intrigues, and cold diplomacy - all in one book. This isn't just survival. It's the art of power."

- What nonsense, - Alexander muttered with a smirk. - Who even writes stuff like this?

But the smirk on his lips slowly faded. Something about those words struck a chord, resonating with a strange, familiar echo. He blinked, feeling a faint tension in his chest. A memory - or perhaps a dream from a long-forgotten past - flashed through his mind, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

He wanted to scroll past but froze. His fingers trembled, as if the book was pulling him by the hand.

- You know this is for you, - whispered a voice within.

Nervously, he ran his hand through his hair, as though trying to shake off the strange compulsion, but he couldn't resist. It wasn't just curiosity.

The screen lit up, revealing the first lines.

From the very first sentence, the book dragged him into another world. The author didn't merely describe - he seemed to carve each detail into the stone of memory. In Alexander's imagination, castle corridors came to life: damp walls reeking of mold, black ash rising above a field where the earth still smoldered. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of footsteps resounded, heavy and hollow, like the strike of a hammer on a coffin lid.

Alexander could almost feel the warmth of a dying fire and the rough texture of an abandoned parchment.

"Remember," the text read, "in the medieval world, it's not about what you have but how you use it. Skills, knowledge, connections - these are your tools for survival."

Every line gripped him like an unseen hand, urging him to ask himself:

- Could you do it?

He snorted, but the smirk no longer felt confident. Something in those lines struck deep.

He read, feeling as if each line was a vortex pulling him deeper. The book didn't merely tell a story - it whispered memories that couldn't exist. The words were so vivid that he caught himself thinking this wasn't just text; it was life itself, imprisoned in letters.

- Who could have written such a book?

Questions ignited in his mind, but there were no answers. Time ceased to exist.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, but its rays felt lifeless - dim, as if veiled by dust. At first, he blamed it on his evening fatigue, but soon he noticed how the room was steeped in silence, as if sound had become trapped within the walls.

Every sentence of the book felt like a door leading to another world, where the breath of the past was palpable with every page. He could hear the clash of swords and the distant thunder of hooves. His fingers unconsciously brushed the screen, as if trying to touch the reality that beckoned with its austere beauty.

He didn't tear himself away from the text until an abrupt notification popped up:

"The continuation is available in the full version."

- Are you kidding me? - he exclaimed, exhaling in frustration. It felt as though someone had torn him from a captivating dream, leaving only fragmented visions in his mind.

Lost, he leaned back. His gaze fixed on the empty ceiling, but something inside him stirred. The familiar silence no longer felt neutral - it pressed down, clawing at his temples, as if waiting for something.

Without hesitation, Alexander ordered the book.

The package soon lay on the table, almost mocking his patience. He tore through the wrapping, feeling a strange stillness within him. The book rested heavily in his hands, its wooden cover etched with patterns that seemed to shift under his gaze. Alexander ran his fingers over the rough surface, and suddenly, the icy chill was replaced by an inexplicable warmth, as if the book responded to his touch.

Each chapter he read filled him with a peculiar mixture of awe, curiosity, and a faint unease.

- Could you survive in a world where life has no value? How would you build an empire where you have no allies and no knowledge of the land? - this question from the book seemed directed straight at him.

The lines burrowed deep into him, as if they were spoken from within. Alexander wasn't just reading; he was plunging headfirst into this world. His imagination brought every word to life: stone castles where whispers of intrigue echoed through the halls, and cunning lords with whom he would need to negotiate, balancing on the edge of trust.

With every page, the book seemed to test him.

- What would you do, Alexander? How would you convince them of your loyalty? How would you turn this battle in your favor?

His thoughts raced, searching for answers. A mind dulled by the monotony of everyday life suddenly sprang to action, sharp and alert. It was a strange, yet long-forgotten feeling - inspiration.

- This book is doing something to you, - he murmured, closing it for a moment to catch his breath. He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to ground himself in reality, but reality now seemed empty, gray in comparison to this brutal new world.

The further he read, the more he felt: this wasn't just a story. It was a call, a guide, a challenge. When he finally reached the end, silence filled the room. Alexander placed the book on the table and stared at it for a long time. Everything it had awakened felt out of reach, like a distant shore.

Gazing at the gray city outside the window, he muttered under his breath:

- If only I could try it myself...

His fingers, nervously tapping the wooden cover, froze. His gaze, still fixed on the window, began to lose focus.

That night, he dreamed a dream that refused to let him go.

Before him stretched an icy plain, marred by crimson scars of blood soaked into the snow. The air hung still and cold, like frozen breath. Each step crunched beneath his feet, the sound reverberating deep within him, as if the earth itself groaned in agony.

In the distance, castle walls rose against the pale horizon. Crimson banners fluttered above them, and an oppressive silence filled the air, broken only by faint whispers of the wind.

Then came the figures. They moved slowly, their armor clinking with every step, like taut chains. Their faces were obscured by grimy cloths, stained with sweat and dirt. But their eyes - cold, weary - burned with a primal fire that pierced straight into his soul.

- Alexander! - a voice suddenly boomed, loud and sharp like a bell. Its sound shattered the plain into shards, echoing in his mind.

A blinding light flashed before his eyes, searing like a molten blade, and the world fragmented. Shadows swirled around him, bearing down like invisible wings of a monstrous beast. The air crushed his chest, pulling him downward, as though he was being dragged into an abyss.

Alexander tried to inhale but couldn't. Images flickered before him: lines from the book he had read - tactics, shield formations, merciless battles. It all blended into one, and a desperate voice inside screamed:

- This is impossible!

He wanted to shout, but only a rasp escaped his throat. A sticky warmth enveloped his body, as if invisible chains bound every muscle. Alexander struggled to move, but his feet sank deeper into the snow.

And then, he opened his eyes.

The battlefield stretched before him like an open wound. The ground beneath his feet felt springy, as if it sought to swallow him whole. Around him, bodies lay twisted in the final spasms of life. The icy air was thick with the stench of smoke and iron, and a hammering noise thudded in his temples, like relentless blows on an anvil.

Alexander gripped the hilt of his sword. It was sticky with dried blood and heavy as a stone. The weapon felt unnervingly familiar, as if it had always been his.

He looked around. Smoke veiled the sky, and the roar of battle - the clash of metal, the screams of the dying - melded into a deafening cacophony. In the distance, carts burned, and arrows rained down like vengeful wasps, piercing flesh with dull, sickening thuds.

His body moved forward, deflecting blows and delivering lethal strikes, but he felt like a detached observer.

- Damn it... this isn't me... - the thought flickered in Alexander's mind, but it drowned in the chaos of battle, like a stone sinking in a raging river.

His gaze darted, seeking an escape from this trap. But his eyes stubbornly found only enemies - their armor, their swings, their faces twisted in hatred. His body moved like a machine, programmed for slaughter.

- Hold the line! Don't retreat! - a thunderous voice cut through the chaos, halting everything for a fleeting moment.

Someone fell nearby with a heavy thud, like a felled tree. Alexander wanted to cry out, but his body stepped forward, raising a shield to block another blow. His sword flashed, tearing through flesh, but each strike felt alien.

Out of the smoke, an enemy emerged. His face, bloodied and twisted in rage, appeared suddenly before Alexander's eyes. He felt his body raise the sword. The strike was swift, almost mechanical. The blade sank into flesh, and the enemy crumpled.

The salty taste of blood touched his lips. The scent of burning wood mingled with the acrid smoke. It all felt too real.

- This is a dream... it has to be a dream, - Alexander whispered, but the sticky sensation of blood on his hands and the heat of the sword in his palm told him otherwise.

Yet his body kept moving. It was strong, agile, its actions precise and deadly. Alexander saw through the eyes of a young prince, whose training and resolve turned combat into a deadly dance. His sword gleamed as it cut down foes with unnerving ease, but Alexander himself was just a shadow, trapped within this body. He wasn't in control - merely a spectator as the body lived a life of its own.

- An ambush... - the words escaped his lips, hoarse and unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else. His eyes darted feverishly across the battlefield. Before him, hell unfolded: bodies scattered like broken dolls, blood painting the snow in crimson streaks, shattered spears and shields strewn across the ground.

Among the enemies, Alexander spotted a boy, barely older than the youngest member of his retinue, Stanimir. The boy's eyes darted wildly, searching for a way out.

- Why is he here? - the prince's thought flashed through his mind. Alexander's sword found him, and in the boy's final gaze, he saw the same confusion and fear he felt within himself.

His hand rose, gripping the sword. The blade, slick with blood, trembled - not from its weight, but from his own shaking. Panic bubbled up inside him, filling his chest like a surging river. How had he ended up here?

Before the clash, a battle cry rang out over the field - a powerful, piercing roar filled with desperate fury.

- For the prince! For our land! - voices thundered, rising to the heavens, as if the very earth echoed their words.

- God and Rus' are with us! - their call boomed like a roll of thunder, shaking the forest and making the enemies flinch.

It was more than a battle cry. It was a vow, a final hope embodied in those words. Alexander felt his heart, weighed down by despair, begin to beat faster. His hands, clutching the sword, seemed to draw strength from the cry. It was a reminder of why they stood here, surrounded by enemies.

The roar of the retinue rose like a surging wave, crashing down upon the enemy. The Poles charged into battle like a storm, their strikes precise and relentless, their assault akin to that of a raging beast. They descended upon the enemy line like an avalanche, their spears and swords finding the weakest points. On the flanks, like predators circling their prey, Hungarian horsemen maneuvered, seeking vulnerabilities in the chain.

Shields locked so tightly they seemed like a single iron shell. Spears jutted forward like wolves' fangs, ready to meet anyone who dared come closer.

Through the branches of the forest, like a harbinger of death, came the ominous whistle. Bowstrings twanged like strings tightened with anger. Arrows rained down like a storm, their deadly tips gleaming as they tore through flesh. Each strike of these wicked spirits ripped flesh apart, leaving behind blood and pain.

The cry pierced the chaos like a prayer reaching heaven.

- Most Holy Mother of God, shield us! - one of the warriors shouted, raising his shield, only for two arrows to thud into it a moment later. His prayer ended in a strangled gasp as a crossbow bolt tore through his neck. His body collapsed, trembling in its final agony.

- They're pressing the left flank! - came a shout from the rear, but the voice was drowned in the cacophony. Steel clashed like relentless tolling bells, and each strike seemed to meld into a single resounding pulse. The warriors, caked in blood and grime, stood their ground with grim determination.

Radomir stepped forward, his sword flashing in the dim light. A blow from the enemy struck his shield with a deafening crack. He scanned the line, his gaze heavy with desperation but steeled with resolve.

- To the wall! We are the rock! - the Voivode bellowed, smashing aside a spear with the remains of his shield. His mail rattled like the chains of a captive, and his torn cloak was smeared with mud and blood.

Alexander felt the roar of command ripple through him like a wave, a surge of power amid the chaos. But he could see how every strike against their shields pushed them closer to the brink. The weakness on the left flank was becoming more pronounced, and the cries of the wounded rang out like omens of doom.

Yet no one faltered. They held their ground - against all odds, even when hope seemed to slip through their fingers.

- To the center, Prince! - Radomir deflected another enemy blow, his breathing labored. - They're pulling us to our weak points!

His eyes darted along the line, assessing every gap, every move of the enemy.

- Left flank, form the line! - he shouted, parrying a strike. - Step forward, with God's help!

- Lord, grant us strength! - he muttered, and in the next instant, his sword arced through the air, cleaving an enemy spear in two. But the enemy pressed harder, their attacks cunning, as if they were reading every move of the retinue.

- Your Grace! They're exploiting our weak spots - it's a trap! - Radomir rasped, parrying an axe blow. His voice was raw but still vibrant with life. - Hold the line, men! - he cried, his teeth clenched in pain. - There's no one to pity us but ourselves

His shield splintered under another blow, but he raised a fragment of it and flung it into the enemy's face.

- Don't waver! Just a little longer!

- They're in the forest! They're flanking us! - The calm voice of Mentor Vysheslav rose above the clamor of battle. It carried an eerie steadiness, as though he were discussing something mundane. Yet within that calm lay steel.

His sword moved fluidly, as if it were an extension of his hand, each strike precise - enemies fell one after another like sheaves of wheat under a scythe.

Alexander felt his hands trembling as they gripped his sword. Just moments ago, the line had held, but now fractures were spreading. He watched as their ranks splintered, bodies dropping to the ground like cut grass.

- Not now... - he whispered to himself, but his voice faltered.

He wanted to scream, but instead, he stepped forward. The enemies closed in, their faces merging into a blurred mass. Alexander deflected a spear thrust aimed at his chest and raised his sword high. His silence was not fear but a desperate attempt to show those still standing that they were not alone.

The world around him was a maelstrom of screams, the clang of steel, and dull thuds. Alexander struggled to keep up with the chaos. Everything happened too quickly; his movements became instinctive. His body acted on its own, driven by some foreign will.

A shield suddenly caught an incoming blow, sparks flying from the impact. His hands held the sword, now an extension of his intent - it struck, parried, and countered with an almost mechanical precision.

For a moment, everything seemed to pause, as though the world held its breath. The air grew thick, tangible, and the mist of his breath mingled with the stench of blood.

Behind him came a sharp sound - the crack of a spear followed by the gurgle of a dying enemy. Alexander turned, catching sight of someone taking down a foe. But before he could make out their face, another blade gleamed before him.

A Hungarian with a spear emerged from the fray, moving with unnerving speed. Alexander froze for a split second, but his body reacted faster than his mind. His sword deflected the thrust with predatory grace. He spun, pouring all his strength into a counterstrike that snapped the spear in two.

The enemy staggered, momentarily off balance. Alexander wasted no time - he stepped forward and delivered a powerful blow, cleaving the Hungarian's chest. The man collapsed, leaving a crimson stain that rapidly spread across the snow.

Through the chaos, Radomir's voice rang out - raspy but filled with unyielding fury:

- Well, you dogs? Want more blood? - He shoved an enemy aside with his shield, panting heavily. Blood seeped from a wound on his shoulder, staining his torn mail. His face was a mask of determination, and his eyes burned with a fire as fierce as the flames blazing in the distance.

These men surrounding the prince were more than warriors - they were legends. Every strike of their swords was honed by years of training, every step as calculated as a wolf's hunt.

Their formation was a fortress, unyielding and indomitable, but every crack in it echoed in the hearts of the warriors. They were the elite, tempered by countless battles, their skill elevated to an art form.

Each move of the retinue was flawlessly coordinated. They fought not as individuals but as one cohesive entity: shields locked into an unbroken wall, spears thrusting forward, blades finding the gaps in enemy armor.

And Alexander was no exception. His youth didn't hinder him; it made him swift and decisive. He had proven himself countless times in training duels with Radomir and Vysheslav, snatching victories even against the most seasoned fighters. But all of that seemed futile now, against the overwhelming force bearing down on them.

- Your Grace, move forward. We'll hold them back, - Radomir's voice was firm, but exhaustion seeped through.

Radomir stood at the center of the line, a battered pillar holding the formation together. His shield, riddled with dents and gouges where spearheads had bitten into the wood, trembled under the relentless assault. The enemies surged around him, but he did not falter.

His breath was labored, blood trickled down his shoulder, but his face remained taut. Radomir already knew: this battle would be his last. Their numbers dwindled with every passing moment, and the enemy pressed harder.

- Damn you all... - he muttered, deflecting a blow that narrowly missed his throat.

He shoved his opponent aside, but his eyes flickered toward the prince. Alexander still stood, his sword gleaming through the smoke, but his movements betrayed inexperience and panic. Radomir gritted his teeth, suppressing a yell.

- We're still holding, - he whispered, though even he barely believed it.

His shield absorbed another strike, the wood splintering further, and the impact sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder. The wet heaviness of his blood-soaked mail clung to him, its metallic tang overpowering the stench of smoke and sweat.

- We must hold the center... - he murmured, but doubt lingered in his voice. He saw comrades falling one by one, their formation fraying like torn fabric.

An arrow struck him in the side, piercing his mail with a sickening crunch. Radomir froze, the world around him seemingly pausing. The air grew dense, and he tasted blood on his lips.

- Damn it... - he exhaled, clutching his sword to stay upright. His knees buckled, but he willed himself to stand.

He raised his shield higher, trying to cover the comrade to his left. His arm trembled, but he fought on, countering a blow aimed at him.

- Hold on, - Radomir rasped, shoving his opponent back with his shield.

But his body betrayed him. A spear thrust pierced his chest, and he stumbled. Another movement, and he dropped to one knee. His shield slipped from his grasp, and his sword hung limply in his hand.

- That's it, - he whispered, feeling the cold of the ground seep into his body.

Radomir fell to the snow, and in his final moments, his gaze found a young warrior still holding the line. Fear burned in the boy's eyes, but he stood firm.

- Go on, lad... go on, - Radomir whispered faintly before his body collapsed to the side.

He didn't lift his eyes to the heavens. He simply closed them, letting the life drain from him as the sounds of battle faded into silence.

Vysheslav, seeing Radomir fall, rushed toward the defensive line. He was a master of combat - each strike as precise as the movement of an experienced blacksmith, every block a wall impervious to mistakes. His blade moved as if it could predict the enemy's next move.

- Prince, stand firm! We stand for you and for Rus! - he shouted, raising his shield.

Stanimir stood at the center of the line, gripping his shield so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the dust, and his breathing was hoarse, as though his strength was already spent.

He saw the enemy rushing toward him with a spear. His heart pounded furiously, but his legs stepped forward as if he had no choice. His sword trembled in his hand - not out of fear, but from the unfamiliar weight. Suddenly, an image of his mother standing at the doorstep of their home flashed in his mind. Her warm voice, honeyed and field-like, seemed to call him back.

- For her... - he exhaled.

In the next moment, the enemy's spear pierced through his chainmail, tearing it like a rotten rag. The tip drove into his side, and he froze as though a sudden gust of wind had swept away everything that kept him standing.

- This cannot be... - he whispered, feeling the hot streams of blood running down his skin.

The shield trembled in his hand, but he still held on, even though his fingers were growing weak. He stepped back - his legs turned to jelly, as though they were no longer his. He staggered, and then his knees met the ground, damp with blood and dirt.

His hand reached for his sword, still clutched tightly, but his gaze searched for his shield. It lay nearby, covered in grime, staring at him like a forgotten toy. Stanimir tried to reach for it, but his hand merely slid helplessly along the cold, metallic edge.

His eyes met the sky - clear and indifferent. It said nothing, promised nothing, simply observing from above like a silent witness. Suddenly, the smells of bread, the voices of village children, and laughter by the river filled his mind.

- I wanted to go home... - the thought flickered, but the words never left his lips.

His body gently sank to the ground, like a sheaf of wheat cut at the base. His hand still held the sword, but without strength. Reflected in his lifeless eyes was crimson snow, glowing faintly under the sun. In his final moment, he felt that this land had become his home forever.

Dobrynya stood beside Vysheslav, unyielding like a boulder that no storm could topple. His face, slick with sweat and blood, was focused, but the corners of his mouth carried a faint shadow of a smirk - not defiant, but bitter, as if he knew that this battle, like any other, would not come without loss.

- Look to Perun, - he muttered, barely deflecting a blow with his sword. - If you fear me, think about how you'll face the gods later!

The shield in his hand vibrated with each strike, the metal trembling as if in complaint, but Dobrynya held it firmly. Every movement was heavy and deliberate, like the hammering of a blacksmith. He fought without haste - neither with fury nor recklessness, but almost meditatively, as if every battle was not war but a craft.

Dobrynya didn't jest as he once did, nor did he shout bold words. His actions spoke for him. Yet with every strike, every shattered piece of armor, he seemed to whisper to himself:

- Forgive me, brother...

This quiet ritual was his way of preserving his humanity, even amidst the filth and blood.

When a spear pierced his side, time seemed to slow. The metal tore through his chainmail like fabric and exited the other side. The pain was instant but did not drown out his thoughts. He only smirked.

- Well, I figured as much...

Taking a step back, he leaned on the shaft of the spear to keep from falling. The ground beneath him was sticky, slick with blood, making it hard to stay upright. But Dobrynya raised his shield, protecting a comrade who wavered nearby.

- Hold, men, - he rasped, gripping the shield with trembling hands. - As long as we stand, Rus stands

His strength ebbed quickly, his legs buckling. He tried to lift his sword, but his fingers no longer obeyed. One last motion, and the hilt slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud in the mud.

Dobrynya fell to his knees, but his gaze still roamed the battlefield. He searched for the living, those still fighting. Spotting a young warrior with a bloodstained shield, he almost smiled.

- Just don't falter, - he whispered, looking at the lad.

In his final moment, Dobrynya raised his eyes to the crimson sky. He inhaled deeply, as if taking in a farewell chill. His lips moved, but no words came out. His body collapsed to the ground like a felled tree, his shield falling beside him, covered in cracks and dents - a testament to his resilience.

Even in death, he remained as steadfast as they knew him - a man who stood until the very end.

And those who witnessed his fall felt a part of their strength leave with him. But that moment ignited a flame in the hearts of the survivors. They fought on, knowing that Dobrynya would not have allowed them to falter.

Anna, the lady-in-waiting to the princess, struggled to draw the bowstring. Though familiar since childhood, the bow now felt foreign, heavy, as if it refused to yield to her trembling hands. Her fingers quivered, not from the cold, but from fear, binding her movements as if her entire being rejected the very notion of taking a life.

- If not me, then who? - the thought echoed in her mind like a sharp rebuke.

Her gaze, tense and searching, darted across the chaos of the battlefield. Her eyes, usually warm and attentive, now flitted between silhouettes. Amid the groans of the wounded and the clashing of shields, she had to find only one thing - the one who threatened Alexander.

Finally, she spotted the enemy, raising his sword above a fallen soldier. Her thoughts clouded over, and her fingers instinctively pulled back the bowstring. She barely managed to whisper:

- Lord, give me strength...

The arrow flew. She watched as the tip struck the enemy, but instead of relief, she felt a crushing weight. Her heart pounded wildly, her breath caught as though she had taken a blow to the chest. Her fingers still gripped the bow, but they were slick with sweat, and the grip felt slippery.

- Is this war... or am I a murderer? - the thought flickered.

She quickly scanned the battlefield, ignoring the burning sensation in her chest. There, amidst the clamor of metal and the stench of blood, she found him. Alexander was still standing, his sword slicing through the air as if it moved on its own. Her lips trembled, as if she wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.

The scene shifted abruptly. She saw the princely court once more - a tranquil summer evening, the scent of freshly cut grass. Alexander, laughing, was recounting something to the soldiers, while she stood in the shadows, holding a basket of herbs, too timid to approach. Her heart had clenched then, a mix of joy and pain - he was so near and yet so unattainable.

But the vision vanished as quickly as it had come. Her hands gripped the bow again, and around her were only blood and screams. She drew the string a second time, gritting her teeth and forcing the past from her mind. Yet the shadow emerged from the fog faster than she could release the arrow.

The spear struck her shoulder - the shaft grazed her skin, knocking the bow from her hands, and the tip drove into her body. A searing wave of pain washed over her, igniting every nerve. She fell to her knees, the enemy's spear trembling in the wound.

She collapsed, the mud mixing with blood, clinging stickily to her palms. Her gaze lifted to the enemy - he turned toward her, clearly intending to retrieve the spear. But before he could, a soldier lunged at him with a roar, forcing him to retreat. The enemy abandoned his weapon and disappeared into the fray, leaving her to wrestle with the pain and the cold.

- Already dead... - she thought, fumbling for the dagger still at her waist.

Her hands refused to obey, but she found the strength to push herself upright, leaning on the ground. Her eyes found Alexander again. He was there, fighting, alive - the only reason she needed to stand.

- I still can... - she whispered, but her voice was so faint that even she barely heard it.

The enemy's spear still jutted from her shoulder, the pain unbearable. But her eyes, blurred by agony and fear, never left the prince. She wanted to tell him something she had never dared say before. But her voice was gone. She knew he would never know, and the thought shattered something inside her.

Her hand fell beside the dagger she never drew. In her final moment, her gaze found Alexander once more. The entire battlefield, her entire life, narrowed to a single figure she could never reach. Her fingers slackened, her body sank to the ground. In the dimming light of her eyes, there was only him - her prince, her one weakness.

Vysheslav saw the formation breaking. The clash of shields, the splintering of wood, and the groans of the dying merged into a merciless symphony. He stepped forward, raising his sword as if to summon death itself.

- The stone has cracked - but not crumbled! Stand firm! - his voice rang out like a hammer striking an anvil, heavy and resolute.

His blade moved smoothly, as if performing a well-practiced dance. The first strike severed the enemy's spear; the second sent him sprawling into the snow. Another thrust, and the attacker's chainmail parted like worn fabric.

An arrow struck his side, but he merely exhaled sharply, as if the wound was inevitable. Instead of a cry, he responded with a faint smirk.

- Weak... Wasted a good arrow, - he muttered through clenched teeth, stepping toward his next opponent.

Every step was deliberate but slower now - as though a tree had been chopped at its roots yet still stood. The shield in his hand splintered under the force of a spear. Vysheslav glanced back at his men, then let out a hoarse laugh, casting the shield aside.

- Don't need scrap... I'll stand for you myself!

He turned sideways, using the fallen bodies of his comrades as cover for the surviving soldiers, and raised his sword. His movements grew shorter, each one as if it were his last.

- Hey, prince, don't falter! Rus stands as long as we stand! - his words tore from his throat like a roar, trying to drown out the chaos of the battle.

When the enemy's spear pierced his chest, he held his breath, releasing only a faint, nearly silent chuckle. His gaze swept the battlefield, searching for someone in the chaos. His eyes landed on a young soldier lying motionless - he recognized a face from his early campaigns.

- Well... that's enough, - he whispered, as if agreeing with the inevitable.

His feet braced against the body of a fallen comrade, as if the very earth refused to let him retreat any further. He took one last step back, then sank into the snow. Slowly, deliberately - like a fortress holding out until the last stone.

He lay with his back to the enemy, facing his men. His hand still gripped his sword, and his lips held a faint smirk. In his eyes was the sky - calm, indifferent to the chaos below.

Alexander stood in the middle of the field, where the blood-soaked earth clung to his boots as if trying to hold him back. The battle still raged on, but for him, it was already over. Faces of the fallen flashed before his eyes.

Radomir, Vysheslav, Anna, Dobrynya… Each name, each image burned into his soul like a brand. They had fought beside him, fallen one by one, while he still stood. While he still lived.

Young Stanimir, with his fearless smile. Yaromir, steadfast as a wall that always shielded his brothers. Ilya, whose sword hands were swift as the wind. Dobrynya, whose voice had thundered louder than all as he defended them with his shield to the very end. Each of them had given their lives for him.

- Why me? Why not them? - Alexander whispered. But there was no answer, only the silence of the dead.

They had become part of this field - bloody, horrific, strewn with swords and shields. Their deaths echoed inside him, every clash of shields and every cry resonating in his heart like muffled tolls of a bell.

The sword in his hand cut down enemies, but every strike felt hollow. It seemed as though another step would tear his muscles apart, like every drop of blood running down his face mixed with sweat. Yet his body moved forward, refusing to let him fall.

Before him stood an enemy - a Hungarian wielding a longsword. Alexander saw his face: bloodied but full of determination. The man stepped forward, his sword slamming into Alexander's shield with a deafening crash like a thunderclap.

His hands reacted faster than his mind, as though guided by an invisible puppeteer. But it wasn't him. It was his body, driven by instinct or some external force, while his consciousness screamed in helplessness.

- They died for me... - the thought cut through his mind like a blade.

Alexander took several steps back to catch his breath, but his feet sank into the sticky mud. Two more enemies charged at him. Their strikes were swift, but again, his body reacted faster than his thoughts. The shield deflected a sword, and Alexander's blade pierced through the armor of one assailant. The second was knocked to the ground but quickly rose again.

Behind him, only a handful of surviving comrades remained, standing amid the heaps of bodies. They held their ground with their last reserves of strength, their faces contorted with despair, yet they fought on.

- We... won't survive this, - Alexander thought.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the air was thick, almost suffocating. His eyes lingered on the broken spears, the battlefield that seemed to be devoured by the fire of war, the shattered shields soaked in blood. This world was merciless.

And yet his body would not let him stop. Even as his muscles screamed with exhaustion, even as his mind shouted that it was over, it kept fighting. The cries, the clashing, and the ringing grew fainter. The voices of Radomir, Dobrynya, and Vysheslav echoed in his mind.

- Don't falter. Don't fall. For Rus!

When the last enemy fell, the battlefield froze in tense silence. Only the labored breaths of the surviving warriors broke the fragile stillness. Alexander stood amidst the wreckage, framed by smoke and twilight. His body coiled like a spring, desperate to hold itself together, yet he still stood, like a dying flame clinging to the air.

The remaining enemies retreated into the shadow of the forest. Their faces were hidden under helmets, but their hurried steps betrayed fear. Shoulders hunched, their strides faltered - the sky above no longer promised battle, only reproach.

Alexander lowered his gaze to the field. The battlefield felt alive, absorbing blood like a sponge. His sword slipped from his hand with a dull thud, and he staggered. There was no strength left.

His eyes met those of the two surviving warriors. One stood, clutching his shield as though it were the only anchor keeping him upright. The other, holding a broken spear, struggled to stand tall, shielding the prince. Their faces were etched with exhaustion, but a quiet resolve smoldered in their eyes - faint as the last ember.

- We... gave it everything, - one rasped, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He took two slow steps before his knees buckled. His shield fell beside him with a muted crash.

The second warrior reached a hand toward Alexander but stopped. His breath hitched, and his body sank to the blood-soaked ground, leaving Alexander the only one still standing.

Alexander looked at them but didn't see - only the faces of those who had already fallen flickered before his eyes. Radomir. Vysheslav. Dobrynya. Their shadows surrounded him like phantoms, and each step echoed with their voices.

- We stood for you

He closed his eyes, but even then, the vision remained. Shields splintered, swords shattered, and hearts stopped for his sake.

Then a low, resounding horn tore through the air like a thunderclap, and the battlefield froze. The sound was deep, prolonged, like the voice of the earth itself. Its vibrations struck his heart, a reminder that the battle was over - but not for him.

Alexander raised his head. Above the forest, torn and bloodstained banners fluttered, defying the wind like the last symbols of resistance. But the horn's call was not one of victory. It sounded like a warning - nothing was truly over.

The air grew heavy, like the stillness before a storm. Alexander felt the blood from his wounds no longer flowing but pulsing, as though trying to escape his body. He wanted to scream but only managed a whisper:

- Is this the end?

The horn sounded again, dragging the world into a deafening oblivion. The sound was slow, like a distant knell, pulling him into its depths. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, staring at the clouded sky. Silence reclaimed the battlefield, but its cold no longer frightened him.

Before his eyes closed completely, he heard a strange whisper - soft yet powerful, like thunder tearing through stillness:

- You stood. Now it's your turn to move forward

The world faded.

Meanwhile

On the table, next to an unfinished cup of coffee, lay a book. Its massive wooden cover, adorned with intricate carvings, seemed strangely out of place. The title, once burned into its surface, had faded away, leaving behind only patterns that seemed to ripple under a lingering gaze.

The room stood still in silence. No footsteps, no creaking floorboards. Alexander is missing. Only the cup of cold coffee and the book remained - a mute witness to something inexplicable.

On the book's blank pages, lines began to stir, resembling cracks in snow. They spread, forming words burned into the surface as if by an unseen hand:

The World of Iron and Blood

Volume 1: Alexander

Chapter 1: The Call of Steel and Blood

A deep, resonant sound filled the room, like the distant rumble of thunder. The coffee cup wobbled, yet the room remained eerily quiet - no wind, no movement.

The lines came to life, slowly etching themselves onto the page:

"I woke up in Kievan Rus. This is not my time… How did I end up here? And should I even try to return?"

The shadows on the walls stretched, as though pulled by an unseen force. The space around the book grew dense, almost tangible with tension.

The book quivered ever so slightly, as if it were breathing. Everything else - the coffee, the chair, even the light in the room - seemed dim, unreal.

It waited. But no longer for Alexander.

***

First Revision - 688 words (December 11)

Second Revision - 1,265 words (January 14)

Third Revision - 5,824 words (January 26, likely final). Word count reflects the original text; translations in English or other languages may differ.

The difference between the second and third revisions is immediately noticeable. If a third revision occurs, I will include updated statistics.

Example of the Difference Between Revisions:

In the first and second versions, events unfolded quickly - Alexander feels bored, finds the book, reads it, falls asleep, then wakes up in the body of a young prince, fights a brief battle, and it all ends.

In the third revision, I significantly improved the text by adding more details, emotions, and depth, allowing readers to fully immerse themselves in the story.

It might seem that I'm stretching the events, but imagine yourself within the book. Could events in such a setting unfold easily and quickly? I think not. Every such day would be laden with tension, intrigue, and unease. In such an atmosphere, time would drag painfully slowly, allowing one to feel every detail.


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