A searing pain coursed through his body, like his very soul was being ripped apart. Zong-Un's eyes flew open, and he gasped for air. But it wasn't the hospital room he saw. Instead, he found himself in a strange, unfamiliar world.
He was lying on a cold, damp earth, surrounded by the sounds of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded. Zong-Un's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend his surroundings. He looked down at his hands and saw they were no longer frail and weak. They were strong, muscular, and scarred.
A figure approached him, clad in leather armor and carrying a sword. "You're awake," the figure said, offering Zong-Un a canteen of water. "Drink this. You look like you've been through hell."
Zong-Un took the canteen, his mind racing with questions. Who was he? Where was he? And what was happening?
As he drank the water, he noticed the figure's gaze lingering on his face. "You're not from around here, are you?" the figure asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
Zong-Un's thoughts were a jumble, but one thing was clear: he was no longer Kim Zong-Un. He was someone else now.
"Who am I?" Zong-Un asked, his voice rough from disuse.
The figure raised an eyebrow. "You're Zen Blackthorn, a soldier in the Ashen Legion. And you're lucky to be alive."
Zen Blackthorn. The name meant nothing to him, but it felt...familiar.
As Zen struggled to piece together his fragmented memories, the sounds of battle grew louder. The figure handed him a sword. "Time to earn your keep, Blackthorn. We've got a war to win."
Without hesitation, Zen charged into the fray, his sword slicing through the chaos. He fought with a ferocity that surprised even himself, as if he'd been doing this all his life.
But amidst the bloodlust, a question lingered: who was he, really?
*To be continued...*