The battlefield lay still, a scene of utter desolation.
The fires continued to rage, casting sickly orange light across the broken landscape. The scent of smoke, charred flesh, and spilled blood clung to the air, suffocating all but the lingering stench of death. But amidst the ravaging inferno, there were no cries of anguish, no desperate clashing of steel, no fervent prayers.
There were no more prayers.
The Holy Order had been crushed.
The flames licked the sky like the tongues of hell, and yet the vast expanse beneath them seemed colder than any night, colder than the deepest abyss. The silence was deafening, the kind that rings in the ears long after the storm has passed. There was no struggle left. No fight remaining.
There was only Kael.
He stood in the heart of the ruin, untouched, as if the destruction had never dared to come near him. His coat, dark as midnight and shimmering with silver threads that caught the firelight, hung perfectly around his form. Not a single stain, not a drop of blood, tainted his figure. His red eyes reflected the flames—no longer with the hint of satisfaction or pride that one might expect of a conqueror, but with a kind of stillness. A quiet certainty. He was the storm that had passed, and now, the world would forever remember its wake.
Before him, kneeling, was Lucian.
The Hero of the Holy Order.
Once, Lucian had been the beacon of righteousness, the Chosen one. His very name had been synonymous with virtue. His armor had gleamed like the sun itself, a testament to the divine powers he served. His sword had been raised against the forces of darkness with the fervor of a thousand saints, and his eyes had burned with the light of justice.
Now, he was shattered.
His once-pristine armor was a ruin—dented, cracked, and battered. The golden plating had dulled, caked in mud and blood. His cape, which had once flowed behind him like a banner of hope, now dragged in the dirt, heavy with the weight of the battles lost. The bright blue of his tunic had turned dark with the staining blood of his comrades. His hands—shaking, trembling—dug desperately into the earth beneath him, as if trying to claw away from the weight of the world. His forehead pressed against the soaked ground, as if praying to a god that had long since turned its back.
But there was no god left to answer.
Kael's voice cut through the thick silence, low and final, each word weighted with a meaning that seemed to pull at the very fabric of existence.
"Stand."
Lucian's body trembled, a spasming response to the command. But his body did not obey. His arms remained limp, his face still pressed into the dirt. The ground beneath him seemed to rise, smothering any last ounce of hope that might have still flickered in his chest. He was a hero no longer.
Kael's voice came again, this time softer, but carrying an undeniable weight of finality that seemed to make the very earth tremble.
"I said… stand."
Something in Lucian stirred. A remnant of his former self. A glimmer of the man who had once led armies, who had once held the sword of righteousness high. His fingers twitched. His spine, though weary and broken, fought to straighten. Slowly, painfully, he raised his head.
His eyes were no longer the bright, unwavering flames of conviction. They were hollow. His once unshakable gaze had turned to nothingness. His face, once full of hope, was now marred by defeat.
"I…" His voice cracked, the words tumbling out like broken glass. "I… lost?"
Kael's lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. The smile of someone who had seen this countless times before.
"Lost?" Kael repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Lucian, you weren't defeated. You were obliterated."
Lucian's breath grew shallow, his heart pounding in his chest. The words cut deeper than any blade. The weight of them pressed down on him, crushing every shred of his former identity. He had been a hero. He had been a symbol of hope. And now, he was nothing.
Kael took a single step forward, his presence overwhelming, consuming everything around him. He was the storm. He was the end.
"You placed your faith in gods that never answered," Kael continued, his voice smooth and cold. "You led an army that perished without meaning. You believed yourself a hero—look at you now."
Lucian's breath hitched. His hands clenched into fists, but the rage within him felt hollow. It had no direction. It had no focus. His heart was numb, his mind a fog of confusion and disbelief.
"Tell me," Kael said, crouching down until they were eye to eye. His gaze was unwavering, clinical. "What's left?"
Lucian's mouth moved, but no words came out. There was nothing left to say. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to feel something—anything. But the words died in his throat, and the anger crumbled to dust.
Kael leaned closer, his voice a whisper, colder than ice.
"Will you fight?" Kael's eyes pierced through Lucian, his gaze searching for any last vestiges of resistance. "Will you cling to some fractured sense of honor?"
Lucian's eyes flickered. He wanted to fight. He wanted to stand and take up his sword and do battle with this cold, indifferent force that had shattered everything he had ever believed. But the strength was gone. The will was gone. What was the point?
"And when you realize it's futile," Kael's voice dropped to a whisper, "will you beg?"
The word echoed in Lucian's mind, reverberating with all the power of a death knell.
Lucian flinched as if struck. The thought of begging… of surrendering completely to the nothingness that had consumed him—it was too much to bear. His throat tightened, but the words would not come.
Kael stepped back, his voice colder now, almost pitying.
"How pathetic."
Lucian squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to block out the truth. He trembled, his body wracked with shame. His body wanted to rise, wanted to fight, but his mind—his heart—refused to move. The weight of everything he had ever fought for, everything he had ever believed in, came crashing down around him. There was no god to save him. There was no hope left. Only the crushing reality that all of it had been a lie.
Kael turned, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he began to walk away.
"I will not kill you, Lucian."
The words were like ice, freezing the very air around them.
Lucian's heart skipped a beat. Was this some kind of mercy? Was Kael offering him a reprieve? A chance to escape?
Kael turned his head, his gaze as cold as death itself. His voice was a quiet, unfeeling statement.
"That would be mercy."
Lucian's blood ran cold.
"I want you to live."
The words sliced through him like a blade. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to beg for it to end. But there was nothing left. No strength. No resolve. Nothing.
"I want you to crawl back to your broken faith," Kael continued, his voice unwavering. "I want you to ask them why they abandoned you."
"And I want them to say… nothing."
The finality of Kael's words struck with the force of an avalanche, leaving Lucian powerless. He had already been torn apart, and now, Kael's words made it clear. Lucian was nothing.
Kael took one last step forward, his figure dissolving into the darkness, leaving only smoke and ruin in his wake.
"Go, Lucian." Kael's voice echoed, soft and merciless, like a death sentence. "Go and learn how meaningless you truly are."
And with that, Kael was gone—his presence fading like a nightmare at dawn. The silence that remained felt deeper, colder than anything Lucian had ever known.
Lucian remained kneeling.
Broken.
Silent.
The Hero of the Holy Order no longer existed.
Only a man remained.
And he was shattered beyond recognition.
To be continued…