Armor And Gunpowder by Gade_Gad Pleron is a fantasy novel, a 17 years old boy, happens to chance upon a relic of the World’s largest war, A Knight’s cross. Though the boy was no history enthusiast, the cross was something he once heard from his history teacher, while in deep thoughts, a flash could be seen between the clouds as it neared towards the boy’s head, a stray bullet, taking the boy to another world. Read Armor And Gunpowder Blurb Below.
Armor And Gunpowder Blurb
Pleron wasn’t known for his historical curiosity. At 17, his days were a whirlwind of schoolwork, part-time shifts at the local bakery, and stolen moments with his friends, carving their names into the ancient oak overlooking the town. History class was a dull drone of dates and names, a monotonous background track to his daydreams.
One sweltering afternoon, however, history collided with Pleron’s reality in a way he never imagined. He was rummaging through his attic, a treasure trove of forgotten odds and ends, when a glint of metal caught his eye. Half-buried under a dusty trunk was a tarnished silver cross, its edges worn smooth by time. An inscription, faded but still discernible, ran along its arms: “For Valor – The Great War.”
A vague memory flickered in Pleron’s mind. A droning lecture from Mr. Davies, his history teacher, about the World’s Largest War, a conflict so colossal it reshaped the world. Knights, Mr. Davies had mentioned, were a relic of that era, symbols of a bygone age. A strange fascination gripped Pleron as he held the cross, a tangible link to a past he’d never truly considered.
Lost in thought, Pleron barely registered the sudden crackle of thunder echoing through the dusty attic. A flash of white light, blinding and intense, erupted above him. It was then a searing pain pierced his skull, and the world dissolved into a cacophony of noise.
He awoke to the metallic tang of blood and the damp chill of earth. Disoriented and blinking away spots, he sat up, wincing at the throbbing pain in his head. He found himself sprawled on a grassy field, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and cordite. The sky above was a bruised purple, streaked with angry red gashes. In the distance, the thunderous roar of cannons and the staccato rattle of gunfire painted a horrifying picture.
Pleron was in a warzone.
Panic clawed at his throat. How did he get here? Where was the dusty attic, the comforting scent of old books? As his eyes adjusted, he took in the scene around him. Soldiers, clad in a strange mix of leather armor and metal helmets, charged across the field, their faces grim and determined. They wielded archaic rifles alongside glinting swords and axes. This wasn’t a history book; it was a living nightmare.
A guttural scream tore through the air, and Pleron’s gaze fell upon a fallen knight. His armor, a magnificent blend of steel and leather, was bloodied and dented. A plume of crimson stained the grass around him. The knight clutched a shining sword, its ornate hilt bearing an uncanny resemblance to the cross Pleron had found.
Driven by a strange sense of compulsion, Pleron scrambled towards the fallen knight. The world around him blurred – the deafening gunfire, the screams of the dying – as he reached the knight’s side. The knight’s eyes fluttered open, surprise flickering across his battle-weary face.
“You shouldn’t be here, boy,” he rasped, his voice weak.
Pleron, his voice thick with fear, stammered, “How did I get here? What’s happening?”
The knight, his breath coming in shallow gasps, managed, “The cross… it’s a bridge… between worlds…” He coughed, then continued, his voice laced with urgency. “You… you hold the key… warn them… the coming darkness…”
With a final shuddering breath, the knight’s grip slackened, and his eyes glazed over. Pleron, tears stinging his eyes, clutched the fallen warrior’s sword. Its weight felt strangely familiar in his hand, a sense of purpose replacing the overwhelming fear.
He didn’t understand how he’d arrived in this war-torn world, but the knight’s dying words echoed in his mind. He was here for a reason, a reason tied to the relic from his attic. He had to find a way to warn them, whoever “them” was, of the coming darkness.
Grief and determination hardened Pleron’s resolve. He was no longer a scared teenager, but a boy thrust into the heart of a conflict far beyond his comprehension. Armed with a knight’s sword and a relic from another world, Pleron rose to his feet, a lone figure amidst the carnage, ready to face the unknown. The Great War, a distant echo in his history class, was now his terrifying reality, and he, a boy from a forgotten attic, was about to become an unlikely hero.
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