The sky hadn't yet brightened.
But the horizon… burned.
Not with sunlight —
But with the color of blood.
Crimson.
Dark and wet, like a fresh wound torn across the edge of the world.
A new day was being born.
And maybe — just maybe — it would be the last.
Sam stood at the top of the hill.
The wind tugged at his cloak, carrying the stench of steel, sweat, and prophecy.
Below him, the armies of man marched in perfect, practiced lines.
Thousands of boots.
Thousands of eyes.
Thousands of hearts — beating as one.
Humans.
Elves.
Once enemies. Now allies.
Brought together not by peace…
But by fear.
They chanted as they marched — lips whispering holy verses, eyes glazed with fanatic devotion.
Their armor gleamed silver in the early gloom.
Their banners fluttered like scripture torn from the sky.
The army of the Church.
And it pulsed.
Not with life — but with divine magic.
Thick in the air.
Not like wind.
Like chains.
Not a shield.
A leash.
"They call us heretics," Sam muttered, his voice low and dry.
His eyes were locked on the flood of armored bodies below.
"But who gave them the right…
to decide who gets to live?"
The earth groaned. The sky held its breath.
Behind him, others waited.
No hymns. No banners. No gods.
Only silence.
And the sound of distant thunder — not from the heavens, but from hearts long betrayed.
The exiled.
The hunted.
The damned.
Dwarves, encased in thick steel forged not for ceremony — but survival.
Their eyes burned with fury older than this kingdom.
Beastkin — all muscle and instinct — crouched low, their claws twitching, their fangs bared.
Scars across their backs told of cages long since broken.
Dark Elves — cloaked in shadows, skin like midnight, eyes like dying stars.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
And at their head —
stood him.
Sam.
No armor. No crown.
Just a black cloak, worn and torn at the edges — trailing behind him like ash from a pyre.
In his left hand — a curved blade, chipped at the edge, like the fang of a beast too stubborn to die.
In his right — fire.
But not red.
Not orange.
Blue.
Sapphire.
Alive and ancient.
Like the eyes of someone he once failed to save.
He took a step forward.
Then whispered to the wind:
"Amplify voice."
Magic pulsed.
The air tightened.
Then —
his voice thundered across the valley.
"Warriors!"
No one blinked.
No one breathed.
"They burned us.
Banished us.
Buried us.
But we survived."
His voice echoed against rock and bone.
It rang in the chests of those who had nothing left to lose.
"Today, we show them what it means to be free.
Not for them.
Not for the gods.
For us."
He looked at the enemy.
Then at the sky.
"Today is not the day of forgiveness.
It is the day… of reckoning."
He raised his gaze, eyes wet with something he refused to name.
And whispered.
Forgive me, little one…
That's what the old man always called you, isn't it?
Little one.
Forgive me for not saving you.
For being too slow.
Too weak.
Forgive me…
for what I've become.
He inhaled through clenched teeth — as if scent could bring her back.
As if memory could rebuild a world.
He remembered her eyes.
Sapphire.
Always watching.
Always trusting.
Even as the flames took her.
And now —
they were coming again.
The army below began to move.
Horns.
Drums.
Marching.
The ground trembled beneath their conviction.
Sam gripped his sword.
The blue fire roared, dancing across the scars etched into his skin.
Scars that once bled.
Now they burned.
"Everything ends today," he said.
Above, the sky darkened.
Not with clouds.
With arrows.
Prayers became screams.
Faith turned to violence.
"Hold the line!" Albert's voice bellowed somewhere behind.
Dwarves slammed shields.
Beastkin howled.
Dark Elves disappeared — becoming shadow.
Sam raised his blade.
The flame erupted, curling into the sky like a second dawn.
"Advance!"
And the world shattered in steel, fire, and pain.
***
Sam charged.
He was wind.
He was flame.
He was fury.
His blade split armor.
His magic seared flesh.
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate.
He moved like a memory — unstoppable, inevitable.
Until—
he saw him.
One figure.
Still.
Radiant.
Snow-white armor.
Golden mask.
And a sword that glowed like a second sun.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The battlefield seemed to pause around him.
The sky above cracked — as if torn by judgment.
A divine light split the heavens.
And from it — he descended.
The silence was deafening.
Sam whispered through clenched teeth:
"…Santias."
The name burned his tongue like poison.
The figure stepped forward.
The air around him froze.
"You've challenged fate for too long," Santias said, voice like cold steel.
"It ends today."
Sam didn't move.
Not right away.
He stared at the man who wore divinity like a crown.
Then whispered back:
"I was just a normal guy.
But now…"
The blue flame exploded around him.
"…I'll burn everything that bears your name."
Ash danced in the wind.
So did memory.
***
When did it all go wrong?
When did I stop being me?
What if I had saved her?
What if I'd been faster?
Smarter?
He remembered her hand, reaching.
Her voice, trembling.
Her eyes, pleading.
Sapphire.
Now all that remained…
was fire.
***
Two warriors.
Two gods in mortal skin.
Swords rose.
Hearts roared.
And the end began.