He marched along the wasteland. Wearing a worn robe with armor underneath, he used his sword like a cane. On his shoulder cape was the regalia of the Dove of Thorns and the Snake of Woes. The dove symbolized the hope of walking through thorns and the Snake symbolizing the patience of a snake. The sky was covered in dust. The lone man could barely see the road he was walking.

"Ah," the man muttered. He felt his foot slipped and slowly he slid down where his back hit the sandy and rocky ground. His eyes reflected the sunless sky. How long has he been walking aimlessly through this desert of false hope? Images of old comrades who fought with him appeared before his eyes. The bittersweet journey has led him to this false desert.

Hope was his opium and this addiction made him crawl through many deserts just to reach this place. He had to give up the love of her life to reach this place. They placed such forlorn hope to them knowing that he was merely marching aimlessly.

How many has he fought? How much flesh did his sword cut in this desert? How many men and women of different tribes did he kill for this? "Where are you?" mouthed the man with his face slightly contorted. He stood up from where he fell and marched again. A gust of wind made him raise his cape, his weary eyes looking dimmer every second.

He came across a field of bones. Armors, weapons, and even skeletons of horse could be found. He sidled to the corpses and started to search the tools. He ransacked their satchels, bags, and bandoliers for anything that might be useful. He found three throwing knives, a quiver filled with rusted bolts, and a bible that has its pages torn and was barely eligible to read.

The thing he was praying that he'll found was not there. He looked at the dusty sky with empty eyes. His dirt stained face and scars showed the expression of someone who was tired. The light in his eyes resembled the eyes of a fish. His kneeling figure was basked with a bit of light. The light from the skies made his hopeless eyes gleam.

"Ah," he mouthed. His tongue was dry. Speaking would make him open his mouth, causing whatever liquid left on his mouth to evaporate. His tongue has already dried, he couldn't feel any saliva. His eyes were dry and he could barely see because of it. His thoughts were like a storm. Memories kept on appearing as they flash upon his eyes. Men of nations went to war for the sake of different things.

He went to war simply out of anger. He fought as a bleak walking rank-and-file soldier and marched through many battlefields out of anger. He found himself in the army of generals and heroes and held back demons that numbered thousands along with his fellow soldiers. He was a fodder for the heroes who needed the time to attack the Castle of The Overlord of the Demons.

The Heroes won. The light was the sign of that. He thought that they have failed. He marched the wasteland because he didn't want hope to fade. But the light alone made his weary body stop fighting. His body fell back and his arms spread on the sand. He took a long deep breath and closed his eyes. He wanted to rest...

...

A wind blew to the east. A carriage pulled by camels slowly trek through the sand, the camel's feet leaving a trail. The caravans that have sleds instead of wheels slowly moved. There were men and women who covered their heads in clothes stained with sand and dust sitting inside the carriages, some are walking with sticks. The caravan master sat in the driver, his mustache moving as he licks his mouth, his hand carrying a canteen. He looked up, watching the skies and where the sun positions itself. It was his job to make sure the caravan reaches its destination. "Caravan Master," said the driver. He pointed his finger forward. "Desert Walker"

The Caravan Master lifted his brows. His eyes darted to where the finger of the driver was pointing. He saw a tanned young man with slightly grey hair, his garb was quite odd, his outfit seemed like it didn't belong to a desert walker. "Wake him up," the caravan master gestured at one of the guards, his eyes pointing at the fainted young man. The guard sighs, he then dismounted and started to where the young man, his boots dragging the sand. The guard squatted near the young man. He took out his canteen and poured it on the young man's head.

The young man jolted as water entered his nostrils and mouth. He tilted forward and took a deep long breath as if he surfaced from the water. His eyes scanned the surrounding, finally landing to the guard and the caravan. He then looked up at the sky and his eyes widened, his eyes tearing up. The guard's face distorted into a frown, he trailed his hand on the young man's shoulder, "Glad that you're alive?"

The young man nodded. "I am. What is the Year?" He said with his hands curled. The guard replied, "Imperial Calendar, the Year 1501."

"I see," the young man's eyes pointed down. He looked at the caravan and then the guard. "I was heading to Oasis, got robbed by bandits. They should be on the south by now. So may I join the caravan? I'll work if I have to."

The caravan guard's jaw tightened. He spun and eyed the caravan master whose arms were folded, his chin lifted as he observes. "This man wants to join us, master."

"If he can feed the camels and distribute the food then let him."

"You heard the caravan master," the guard stood up, extending his hand. "You'll work for us until Oasis City. Feed the camels and distribute the rations. It should be easy."

"Thank you," the young man pulled himself up. He followed the caravan guard who sauntered back to the caravan. He saddled up and looked up as the caravan started moving. Looking up, the young man's eyes gleam. "I really went back to this time where it all began."