Narration POV
Sinbad was slammed against the ground, his back hitting the hard-packed earth with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. Even as an awakened, he could do nothing against the man standing over him. Though 'man' was perhaps misleading—Commander Dragul wasn't much older than Sinbad himself, just half a year his senior.
Two spears found themselves at Sinbad's neck, held by two other awakened soldiers. Their steel tips gleamed in the harsh sunlight, a hair's breadth from his skin. He could feel the cold metal almost kissing his throat with each breath he took.
The village had gone silent. The usual sounds of children playing, women talking, and the distant crash of waves against the shore had all been swallowed by the tension of the moment. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"I'm Dragul, the commander of the Western Region military unit," the young commander announced, his voice carrying across the gathered crowd. He stood tall and proud in his polished armor, the insignia of his rank catching the sunlight. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore down on Sinbad. "You have been sent draft papers by the military repeatedly. Present yourself within three days."
Sinbad stared up at him, defiance burning in his golden eyes despite his vulnerable position. A smirk pulled at his lips, reckless and bold.
"What if I refuse?" Sinbad said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
BAM!
Dragul's boot connected with Sinbad's jaw, the sound of the impact echoing across the village square. Sinbad's head snapped to the side, blood and spit flying from his mouth. The villagers gasped collectively, someone stifled a scream, but no one dared to intervene.
At that exact moment, Yunan arrived at the edge of the gathering, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him. His normally placid expression gave way to concern as he watched the soldiers surrounding Sinbad, who was now struggling to right himself despite the spears at his throat.
"You don't have the right to refuse," Dragul answered, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "This is an order from the military. The will of the Parthevia Empire is absolute."
Yunan began to step forward, his hand instinctively rising as if to intervene, but he caught himself. Instead, he turned to a woman standing at his side, her hands clasped anxiously over her heart.
"Why are they being so harsh on him?" Yunan asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
The woman wrung her hands, her eyes never leaving Sinbad's prone form. "Sin has been ignoring draft notices for months now. He burns them, tears them up... but it seems they've finally come for him in person. The military is desperate for new recruits, especially awakened ones."
The crowd murmured among themselves, their voices a blend of fear and resentment. Some looked away, unable to bear witnessing Sinbad's humiliation. Others watched with undisguised hatred for the soldiers who had come to take away another of their own.
A young boy, no more than seven or eight years old, suddenly broke free from his mother's grasp. His small face contorted with fury, he charged towards the soldiers.
"Let him go!" the child yelled, his voice breaking. "Leave Sinbad alone!"
Before he could reach them, an invisible force, pushed against him. The boy tumbled backward, falling hard onto the dirt. Tears welled in his eyes, not from the fall, but from the helplessness.
Dragul barely spared the child a glance. "Calm down, boy. Just wait five more years or so. After that, you'll be of service to your country as a soldier."
The boy's mother rushed to him, gathering him into her arms as tears streamed down her face. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs as she held her son, both of them kneeling in the dust.
Sinbad watched the scene unfold, and something inside him snapped. His teeth gnashed together, fury igniting in his veins like wildfire. With a swift movement that caught the soldiers off guard, he grabbed one of the spears positioned above his neck. The steel tip sliced into his palm, blood welling instantly around the wound, but Sinbad didn't flinch.
In one fluid motion, he wrenched the spear from the soldier's grip and sprang to his feet. Using the momentum, he swung the butt of the weapon, connecting solidly with the second soldier's ribs. The man grunted in pain, staggering backward.
The remaining soldiers tensed, hands flying to their weapons. But Dragul raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks. His eyes remained fixed on Sinbad, curiosity mingling with contempt in his gaze.
Sinbad let the spear fall to the ground with a hollow clatter. Blood dripped steadily from his palm, each drop staining the earth beneath him. His chest heaved with exertion and rage as he stared down the commander.
"Be of service?" Sinbad asked, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. "Who do you think we are?"
"Just as I said," Dragul began, unmoved by Sinbad's display. "It's normal for people to serve their country. You citizens are an important resource for the war against the Reim Empire. Your lives belong to Parthevia first and foremost."
"We are not tools for war!" Sinbad roared, his voice carrying across the village square. The veins in his neck stood out as he shouted, his injured hand clenched into a fist despite the pain. More drops of blood fell from his palm, staining the already damaged earth. "My father was sent to war and never came back."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word, memories of his father's last moments flashing before his eyes—the proud man kneeling in chains, scarred body exposed, the sword they'd sent back in place of his body. Sinbad swallowed hard, pushing past the lump in his throat.
"So were all the other men in this village," he continued, gesturing to the surrounding homes where only women, children, and the elderly remained. "I'll never join the military! I'd rather die here than be a pawn in your pointless war!"
The soldier who still held his spear took a menacing step forward, his weapon aimed at Sinbad's heart. But before he could advance further, voices from the crowd rose up in support.
"Exactly! Sin is right!"
"The war only makes us suffer!"
"Stop fooling us with your lies!"
"How many more sons must we sacrifice?"
"Return our husbands first!"
As the crowd grew bolder, their voices rising in a chorus of anger and defiance, the seven other soldiers who had been keeping the villagers at bay raised their weapons threateningly.
"Stop," Dragul commanded, his voice cutting through the clamor. "Put down your weapons."
The soldiers hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, before reluctantly lowering their spears and swords. They remained vigilant, however, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of trouble.
Dragul took a step closer to Sinbad, his golden armor reflecting the light that reached it. Though they were of similar age, the commander had a different feeling to him.
"Sinbad, you have a mother, right?" Dragul asked, though his tone didn't suggest he was expecting an answer. He let the question hang in the air, watching as Sinbad's expression shifted, uncertainty creeping in alongside the defiance. "Rejecting military duty is a major crime. Remember that your mother—no, this whole village—will be guilty too."
Sinbad's blood ran cold, the implication clear. The threat against his mother, against everyone he cared about, struck deeper than any physical blow could have.
"You people know about the Tower, right?" Dragul continued, his voice carrying across the now silent square. "Our seers say that the way to communicate with the gods is in that tower. We have to obtain it, no matter what. That's an order from the king himself—your Supreme." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Sinbad, in the end, your father too went to war for this nation, didn't he?"
As he spoke, Dragul unsheathed his blade slowly, the metal singing as it left the scabbard. The sunlight caught on the polished steel, reflecting into Sinbad's eyes.
"Remember that," Dragul finished, his voice soft but laden with threat.
With those parting words, the crowd parted like a sea, villagers scrambling to get out of the way as Dragul and his soldiers began their march away from the village. No one dared to meet their eyes as they passed.
In the wake of their departure, a heavy silence fell over the village. It was as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Sinbad stood rooted to the spot, his injured hand hanging limp at his side, blood still dripping steadily from the wound.
A child—the same one Sinbad had given fruit to the day before—broke free from the crowd. Tears streamed down his dirty face as he ran to Sinbad, wrapping his small arms around the young man's leg.
"Don't go, Sinbad," the boy sobbed, his voice muffled against Sinbad's trousers. "Please don't leave us."
Sinbad remained silent, the only sound from him the soft dripping of blood from his wounded palm. He stared at the retreating backs of the soldiers, his mind racing with impossible choices and bleak futures.
The weight of the child clinging to his leg felt like an anchor, tethering him to the village and everyone in it. But Dragul's words hung over him like a sword, ready to drop at any moment.
How could he protect them all when the enemy was the very country they lived in?
Later that day, as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, Sinbad sat with his back against a home, carefully wrapping a bandage around his injured palm. Yunan stood by his side, watching silently as Sinbad worked. Both were lost in thought.
Finally, Sinbad broke the silence, his voice filled with helplesness.
"Going to the military now means going to the Tower, to find the gods or whatever," he said, his eyes fixed on his wounded hand. "Over ten thousand people went in there, and no one came back—not even the saint who led them. It's also called the Hole of Death." He finished wrapping the bandage, tearing the excess fabric with his teeth. "I can't die yet," he added, his voice hardening. "For my mom and everyone else in the village."
Yunan studied Sinbad's profile in the fading light, noting the tension in his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes. Despite his youth, there was something undeniably powerful about him—something that drew others to him like moths to a flame.
"Can't you get out of the draft?" Yunan asked, though he already knew the answer.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Sinbad replied, frustration edging his words. "Refusing the draft will result in death, and probably not just mine. We can't defy military orders." His fists curled involuntarily, causing blood to seep through the newly applied bandage as the wound reopened. "If I get drafted, I die. If I refuse the draft, I die—and maybe take everyone with me. The war has no end in sight." His voice dropped to a bitter whisper. "This country has gone to the dumps. It's finished."
Sinbad's eyes closed, unable to bear the weight of the unfairness any longer. The world seemed to be closing in around him, options dwindling with each passing moment. Until Yunan's voice broke through his spiral of despair.
"Then you should go to the Tower."
Sinbad's eyes snapped open, disbelief written across his features. "I told you—ten thousand people went there and di—"
"You said this country is finished," Yunan interrupted, his calm voice belying the gravity of his next words. "Then you should become king."
Sinbad's eyes widened, shock rendering him momentarily speechless. For just a second, his father's face seemed to overlap with Yunan's, the same unwavering belief shining in both their eyes.
"Change this country and the world with your own hands," Yunan continued, his voice steady and sure.
Sinbad stared at Yunan for a long moment, then let out a laugh—short and hollow, tinged with disbelief.
"Hahahaha. You're kidding, right?" His laughter died as quickly as it had come. "Me? A king? That's impossible."
Again, Yunan's words made Sinbad pause.
"'Humans and oceans, both are like waves. There's no wave I can't overcome.' Right?" Yunan echoed Sinbad's own words back to him, a small smile playing at his lips as he placed a hand on Sinbad's shoulder. "Accept your fate and overcome it. You know what to do—go to the Tower. There's something there that you want."
Yunan then began to walk away, his slender figure silhouetted against the setting sun. His shadow stretched long and distorted across the ground, seeming far larger than his frail body should cast.
"Yunan, who exactly are you?" Sinbad called after him.
Yunan didn't turn back, but his words carried on the evening breeze, as if the world accommodated his whims.
"I'm just a traveler."