Macon hit the ground hard. The air was thick, heavy, tinged with the faint metallic tang of blood and the earthy scent of damp soil.
He blinked. Not his room. Not his world.
A low murmur of voices threaded through the shadows. Tent flaps fluttered against the canvas, revealing glimpses of armor, weapons, and weary faces.
He sat up slowly, every movement measured. His chest tightened at the memory of the scar—the one that had disappeared days ago. Now it was back, faintly etched across his ribs, pale but real. It didn't hurt. Not yet. But its presence pulsed beneath his skin, a quiet warning.
He ran a hand over it. Smooth. Cold. Enough to remind him why he was here.
Fine, he thought. If this keeps invading my life, I'll find out why. I'll figure it out.
---
The camp buzzed with muted activity. Soldiers moved about, repairing gear, sharpening blades, murmuring prayers under tattered banners.
Yet none of them looked at him. None bowed. None called his name.
Macon froze. Every other time, they had recognized him instantly—General Macon. Loyal eyes had followed him, voices had hailed him. But now? Nothing.
A cold thought struck him: this time, the scar hadn't pulled him in fully. He was here, but only half-formed—present enough to walk among them, but not present enough to be seen.
Almost like a ghost.
Good, he thought grimly. Maybe this is what I need.
---
A small flicker caught his eye. On a wooden post near the camp center, a symbol glowed faintly. Not fire. Not torchlight. It hummed, subtle, almost imperceptible. His chest throbbed in response.
The scar pulsed in tandem.
This wasn't coincidence.
He stepped closer, careful not to draw attention—though there was no need. To the soldiers, he was invisible.
The symbol shifted, twisting like smoke caught in a draft. He reached out, fingertips hovering. A jolt ran through his arm. His scar tingled. The other world had a touchpoint here—a gate—and it responded to him.
A voice echoed—not aloud, but in the hollow of his mind.
"Come… find the truth."
Macon froze. The voice wasn't menacing. Not exactly. But it carried weight, centuries of expectation folded into a single pulse of intent.
He swallowed. "Alright," he whispered. "Let's see what you want me to know."
---
He moved like a shadow, keeping to the edges. Every step felt uncanny, familiar. The soldiers didn't speak his name, didn't acknowledge his presence. And yet… he felt their devotion.
A fleeting flash struck his mind. Men lining up, swords raised, waiting for orders he hadn't given. The memory burned like a candle in reverse, illuminating a life that wasn't his—yet undeniably was.
He shook his head. Not now. Focus.
Macon ducked into a clearing just outside the main tents. The trees loomed overhead, branches twisted like skeletal hands. The wind carried whispers, fragments of conversation he didn't recognize. There, across a stone pedestal, lay a sword.
Nothing extravagant. No inlaid gold. No filigree. Yet it called to him.
The moment his fingers grazed the hilt, the world shifted. Not visibly. Not audibly. But inside him, something clicked. Memory. Instinct. Power.
This sword knows me, he realized.
He yanked his hand back. The scar flared faintly beneath his ribs, warmth traveling through him, a tether linking this world to the one he had left.
A chill ran down his spine. If he stayed too long, would his body reject him again? Wake him on Earth, screaming, bleeding, alone?
But the pull was insistent. The sword—this world—was calling. And he was no longer willing to ignore it.
---
Macon explored cautiously, following symbols etched on trees, stones, and posts. Each glow resonated with the scar, guiding him deeper into the forest. His footsteps were light, reverent, as if the earth itself demanded respect.
Shadows shifted in his vision. Figures watched, then retreated. This world didn't acknowledge him fully, yet it responded in subtle, persistent ways.
A sudden movement froze him. A black bird launched into the sky, wings cutting a streak across the canopy. The nearest symbol pulsed brighter. For a heartbeat, he swore he saw it open—a doorway, fleeting, ephemeral, just wide enough to glimpse beyond.
He blinked. Gone.
A low hum resonated from his chest. The scar throbbed, connecting him to the fading portal. He put his hand to it instinctively.
I'm part of this. I have to be.
---
Hours—or minutes, time warped—passed. Every corner held more symbols, subtle clues, questions.
Why him? Why this scar? Why both worlds?
One stone marker bore faint inscriptions in a language he didn't know. As he stared, flashes hit him: armies marching, smoke rising, the same face—his—commanding soldiers with calm certainty he'd never known in this life.
Beneath it, faintly glowing, was the scar again.
This is why I was chosen.
Not all answers would come today. Not all were meant for him yet. But the scar—the scar was a map, a key, a connection. He didn't need soldiers to know. He didn't need anyone to believe. He just needed to follow it.
---
Twilight descended. The forest dimmed. The glowing symbols faded to embers. Macon rested his hand on a gnarled tree trunk, looking down at his chest.
The scar: still there. Smooth. Pale. Quiet. But alive in some impossible way.
I can't ignore this anymore.
He clenched his fist. I'll find out. I'll understand. Cross back and forth a hundred times if I have to.
A wind stirred the leaves. Shadows shifted. Then, in the distance:
A horn. Low. Resonant. Ancient. Calling.
Macon's heart jumped. The pull intensified beneath his skin. The horn wasn't just sound—it was a summons. A warning. A reminder.
He straightened. The forest felt alive, aware of him, testing, probing. Yet he didn't flinch.
I'll go where I need to, he whispered. I'm ready.
The scar pulsed faintly, acknowledging his resolve. The forest quieted.
The pull had only begun.
Macon's journey had started in earnest. The other world welcomed him—but the answers were still out of reach.
And deep inside, he knew: he would not be alone in searching.