"WAIT! PLEASE, DON'T DO THIS! HAVE MERCY!"

  The figure, clad in battered armour, reached out in a frantic plea, his fingers grasping at the air as if to stop the inevitable. His sword lay forgotten by his side, and his voice trembled with raw fear, cracking under the weight of desperation.

  "T-THIS WORLD CAN BE OURS! ALL OF IT."

  He flung out a trembling hand, gesturing to the vast expanse around him—grand, endless… and utterly ruined. Corpses littered the battlefield. Smoke curled in the distance.

  Whatever world he spoke of was already long gone.

  A man stood over him, his grin cold and sharp, capable of cutting deeper than any blade. He loomed above, his presence heavy, the weight of his authority emanating from the simplicity of his words.

  "All your struggles, all your sacrifices... And yet, this is how you fall. How... disappointing," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

  "I could have your head, but what use would that be?"

  His blade pressed against the pleading man's throat, slicing away any last shred of hope.

  "What use?" he repeated, almost to himself.

  The sun caught the edge of his sword, glinting as if savouring the moment. Then, with one swift, merciless motion, he—

  "CUT!"

  And just like that, the illusion shattered.

  The director's voice boomed across the set, and everything came to a halt.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

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  "What do you call that? Huh? Acting? Surely not. Because that is not acting, you bloody imbeciles!" He was not a kind man.

  "All of you are too stiff. No emotion. I need to feel your suffering. SUFFERING!"

  With an exasperated sigh, he rubbed his temples.

  He took a seat in his director's chair, and with directorial flair, he gestured to the camera crew and the actors.

  Now, before you get the wrong idea— I don't play the guy with the badass grind and badass sword.

  ...

  I'm not the guy pleading for mercy, either.

  Hell! I don't even get a line.

  I'm one of the dead guys littering the battlefield, actually, just over there; if you squint hard enough, you can see me.

  A nameless corpse.

  Just another piece of scenery, lying motionless on the floor while the real characters soak up the spotlight.

  You'd think being a corpse is easy, right?

  Wrong.

  Do you know how hard it is to stay perfectly still while someone else monologues about the tragedy of existence over your lifeless body?

  Do you know how many times I've had to play dead just to have a sword accidentally poke me in the ribs because some rookie actor doesn't know how to stage fight?

  And let's not even talk about the discomfort.

  This armour?

  Fake.

  The dirt?

  Real.

  The ground? Hard as a rock.

  My back is screaming, my leg fell asleep twenty minutes ago, and I swear to the gods, if we have to restart this scene one more time, I might actually die! For real this time.

  The crew shuffled back into position.

  The director, still sitting, raised his hand in the air, the weight of the entire production resting in that single moment of stillness.

  "And… from the top."

  Everyone held their breath.

  I exhaled, shifting ever so slightly to find a more comfortable way to be dead.

  Then—

  "Action!"

  And just like that, the story began again.