The rotten smell filled his mouth and nose, as if someone had stuffed a smelly rag into his lungs.
Alvin Wright opened his eyes suddenly, and saw a gray sky.
He lay among the piles of debris - broken knight's lances, rusted plate armor, broken shields, and things... That should not exist on any human battlefield.
An eyeball the size of an adult's fist was staring at him from a position three inches from his face.
Those are the devil's eyeballs. It has shriveled and turned black, but the ferocious appearance before birth can still be seen.
Al didn't move.
The first reaction forged by a century of battlefield life is not fear, but assessment.
He completed his judgment within three seconds:
1. He is not dead.
2. He was lying in a garbage dump, which was composed of a mixture of human equipment and demonic remains.
3. His body... Is wrong.
He looked down at his hands.
Those are young hands. There are no scars, no calluses, and the knuckles are long and pale—this is the hand of a seventeen-year-old boy, not the hand of the old marshal who commanded a million troops and killed the demon prince on the seventh level of the abyss.
Memories came flooding back.
Not one memory, but two.
