500,000 are dead. Trench warfare has turned once fertile grasslands into nothing more than crater-ridden mud fields. Though something seems strange, this was not the Great War I learned about. Something is wrong, very wrong. None of the names line up, nor battles. The topography and tactics seem authentic, but bipedal wolves roam no man's land, fantastical lights dance in the sky, and dead bodies never seem to stay in the same place. Nothing is as it seems. And then there is the memory that haunts me, the memory of my own demise. I vividly recall the moment my life was taken, the searing pain and the overwhelming darkness that followed. Yet here I stand, caught in a relentless cycle of war, as if the fabric of reality itself has unraveled.

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