The land burned. Flames erupted from the shifting sands, spiraling into the sky before crashing back down in an endless dance of destruction. The battlefield trembled beneath the weight of fire and fury.
Amidst the inferno, a lone figure stood. One man against an army of over three thousand.
He exhaled sharply, tearing off his black cape. The wind seized it, and in moments, the hungry sands devoured it whole. Step by step, he advanced, his presence alone sending ripples of unease through the ranks. Soldiers swallowed hard, sweat beading on their brows as he drew closer.
"Charge!"
A commanding voice split the tension. A man clad in orange strode forward, a long crimson cape billowing behind him. He was bald, his expression fierce, and resting upon his shoulder was a greatsword that gleamed under the sun's gaze. At his order, the army roared to life, weapons raised, feet thundering across the scorched dunes.
Unfazed, the lone warrior halted his stride. His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of a storm.
"I am Deon Illric. Sovereign of Xan'Zirath." His gaze swept over the men who had once sworn loyalty to him. "You dare raise your blades against your ruler? So be it."
A katana slid from its sheath, its golden blade catching the sunlight, a radiant beacon amidst the chaos. The very flames that had ravaged the battlefield recoiled at his presence, sinking back into the sands as though bowing before him.
"Do not falter! He is but one man! Kill him, and the land is ours!" the enemy commander bellowed, tightening his grip on his greatsword as his troops surged forward.
Deon's eyes burned with an orange glow, his golden blade pulsing with power. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, he vanished—charging straight into the oncoming horde.
A tidal wave of soldiers crashed toward Deon, their roars swallowed by the crackling inferno around them.
Deon surged forward. His golden katana cut the first man down in a single stroke, cleaving through steel and bone like parchment. Another lunged—a swift sidestep, and Deon drove his blade through the soldier's chest before twisting, using the dying man as a shield against an incoming spear.
The sand shifted beneath him, obeying his will. As more enemies swarmed, the dunes themselves rose, swallowing feet and unbalancing warriors mid-charge. Deon danced between their attacks, his blade a golden blur. He parried a downward slash, shattering the opposing sword upon impact before severing the wielder's arm in a shower of crimson. A dagger flashed toward his throat—he caught the dagger with his hand before throwing it to the ground and grabbed the attacker's wrist, twisted, and with a flick of his katana, sent the man's head rolling.
Screams filled the air as flames erupted from the ground, tendrils of fire twisting hungrily around the rebels. Their bodies blackened and crumbled, dissolving into the very sand they had marched upon, their ashes feeding the shifting dunes.
Still, they came.
A greatsword swung at his back. Without turning, Deon ducked low, feeling the heat of steel slicing air above him. He pivoted on his heel, dragging his katana in a sharp arc across his attacker's waist. The man gasped, staggered, then fell in two.
Blood and fire painted the battlefield.
The sand churned restlessly, drinking deep of the fallen. It was as if the desert itself had chosen Deon.
Deon exhaled, his burning gaze fixed on the next wave of soldiers rushing toward him. His grip tightened on his katana.
"Come then," he murmured.
And the slaughter continued.
Deon leapt back, his katana resting lazily on his shoulder as his smoldering gaze swept over the battlefield. A slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips.
"Fighting me in my own land..." he mused, voice laced with disdain. "You dared to challenge my rule—here, in the very sands that chose me as their ruler. That was your first mistake."
A soldier rushed him. Deon barely acknowledged the fool before his blade flashed. A clean, effortless slice—head and body parted, blood vanishing into the thirsty dunes.
"Your second mistake," he continued, stepping over the corpse, "was thinking you ever had a damn chance against me."
The air trembled. Fire coiled at his feet, twisting around him like a living entity. The flames flared, rising into the sky before his hand lifted, palm facing the trembling army.
"And your third mistake..." His fingers curled slightly, the very heat of his presence distorting the air.
"... Was pissing me off."
With a single thrust of his hand, a hellstorm erupted. Fire surged forward, an unrelenting tidal wave of destruction. Screams ripped through the air as over a hundred soldiers were engulfed, their armor melting, their bodies reduced to nothing but ash. When the fire receded, all that remained was the sand—unshaken, undisturbed, as if the men had never existed at all.
Deon exhaled slowly, lowering his hand.
"Now then," he muttered, his katana glinting under the dying sun. "Who's next?"
The battlefield stilled for a moment as the fire's wrath subsided, leaving only scorched sand and silence. Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
Deon turned, his gaze falling upon a lone figure emerging from the ranks. His breath hitched.
A dagger, small yet menacing, glinted in the fading light. Chains coiled around the wielder's arm like a serpent waiting to strike. But it wasn't the weapon that sent a rare chill through Deon's spine. It was the one holding it.
His eyes widened.
"You... how could you?" Deon's voice, usually composed, wavered with something foreign—disbelief, maybe even pain.
Aaron Illric. His own son.
Aaron's expression twisted with raw fury, his knuckles white around the dagger's hilt. "I'm tired of your rules!" he spat, his voice trembling with years of pent-up resentment. "All you ever made me do was work, work, and work. I've never had a normal life! I've never even seen the world beyond that damned kingdom!"
His breathing was ragged, but his stance never wavered.
"I've never had the freedom I deserve," Aaron growled, his fingers tightening on the chains. "I've never had anything I wanted. It was always about you. Your expectations. Your rule. Your damn kingdom!"
He raised the dagger, pointing it at his father.
"That ends today."
Deon remained still, unreadable, as Aaron took a step forward.
"I'll kill you myself," Aaron declared, his voice thunderous, "and I'll turn this wretched land into a place where freedom reigns above all!"
Deon hesitated.
For the first time in years, uncertainty gripped him.
But it lasted only a second. As Aaron lunged, chains whipping through the air, Deon leapt back, dodging a flurry of rapid, ruthless strikes. Each swing of the dagger came closer, slicing through the empty space where Deon had stood mere moments before. The young man was fast—faster than Deon had expected.
His grip tightened around his katana.
Aaron's eyes burned with raw hatred.
"…You've made your decision," Deon muttered, sidestepping another wild slash. "Is there no way to reconsider this?" His voice was low, steady—almost pleading.
Aaron snarled. "There's no way in hell I'll rethink any of this!" His chains rattled as he swung again, the dagger glinting dangerously close to Deon's throat. "I'm done being your tool! I'm done being nothing more than your son! You will die by my hands!"
With a furious roar, Aaron charged.
Deon exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening—then, in a single bound, he sprang backward.
The sand beneath him shifted unnaturally, rising up like living hands. It caught him mid-air and carried him upward, lifting him high above the battlefield. The wind howled as grains of golden dust swirled around his form.
"Very well, Aaron."
For a moment, he closed his eyes, deep in thought. Then—his body tensed.
A sudden, powerful shout erupted from his chest, shaking the very desert.
His fingers clenched, and with one fluid motion, he grabbed the fabric of his shirt and tore it from his body.
Muscles, carved like stone, gleamed under the scorching sun. His body was pristine—untouched by scars, unblemished by battle. Except for one.
A single, jagged scar over his heart.
Deon took a deep breath before lifting his head, his voice booming across the vast expanse of sand.
"I, in the name of Deon Illric, Sovereign of Xan'Zirath—" His voice grew louder, shaking the dunes beneath them. "—HEREBY INVOKE THE CONTRACT!"
The very land seemed to tremble at his words.
His voice was so powerful, so immense, that it traveled across the desert, echoing over three hundred miles—a declaration of power, of war, of fate.
Silence followed.
Then—The sand moved.
The desert roared in response.
The sands trembled, shifting and rising in great waves as if awakening from a deep slumber. Twisting currents of dust and flame spiraled into the sky, blotting out the sun in a golden storm.
Aaron staggered back, shielding his face as the earth beneath his feet shuddered. The chains wrapped around his arm rattled violently, almost resisting his grip.
From high above, Deon hovered, cradled by the desert itself. His scar over his heart pulsed with an eerie glow, his muscles tensing as power surged through his veins.
Then—the Contract was Invoked.
The sky turned dark.
A deep, inhuman growl rumbled from beneath the sands. It was ancient, guttural, a sound not meant for mortal ears. The desert itself answered Deon's call.
The ground split apart.
From the depths of the earth, enormous hands of molten sand erupted, clawing their way toward the battlefield. Their fingers curled, their movements unnatural—alive. They dragged themselves upward, forming towering titans made of shifting grains and scorched flame, their bodies standing like gods of destruction.
Aaron's heart pounded in his chest. He had seen his father's power before—but never like this. Never with such terrifying finality.
Deon finally descended.
The sand parted, setting him down like a king upon his throne. His golden blade, gleaming with untamed energy, flickered in the storm's light. He didn't move immediately, only staring at his son—his once beloved heir, now his enemy.
Then, in silence, he raised his katana.
Aaron gritted his teeth, his fists trembling before he let out a furious roar and charged.
Deon responded in kind, his body surging forward as the sands around them erupted into chaos. The desert trembled at its master's rage, flames turning dark blue, twisting unnaturally as they spiraled toward the sky. A sea of fire engulfed the battlefield, devouring the remaining soldiers.
The sands below came alive.
Hands—gnarled, shifting, clawed—burst from beneath, seizing the charred corpses and dragging them down into the abyss. The screams of the dying were muffled as the desert claimed their souls.
Steel clashed against steel.
Father and son collided in a storm of slashes, each strike carrying the weight of their convictions. Deon's golden blade carved through the air, fluid and merciless, while Aaron's chain-bound dagger danced like a serpent, snapping toward his father's throat.
The battle was fast, brutal—until the sands decided to end it.
A sudden hand of sand shot up, wrapping around Aaron's ankle.
His footing wavered.
Deon's blade descended.
With a single, ruthless stroke, his katana carved through Aaron's shoulder. The wound flared as blue flames erupted from within, searing his flesh. A shuddering gasp escaped Aaron's lips, his eyes wide in shock as a single tear rolled down his face.
"I... I'm so—"
He never finished, the desert swallowed him whole.
Deon stood over the battlefield, his grip on his katana tightening. His jaw clenched as the sky above darkened, clouds twisting unnaturally.
Something was wrong, and his instincts screamed at him.
Then, he saw them.
Three figures stood at the edge of the ruins, cloaked in black.
Watching. Smirking.
Deon's eyes widened. His heart pounded. "The rebellion… wasn't just Aaron's doing."
"You bastards planned this…"
The sands responded to his fury.
Chains of living fire shot forth, coiling around the three figures. The desert itself rose in defiance, massive hands of molten sand grasping at the intruders.
One of them laughed—before being ripped apart, his body torn into pieces and swallowed by the earth.
Deon took a slow, measured step forward, his gaze locked onto the two remaining figures.
"Who the fuck are you?" His voice was cold. Merciless. Absolute.
The tallest of the two chuckled, tilting his head. Unbothered. Unafraid.
"You deserve no answer," he mused. "Just know this—the world is about to get a whole lot crazier."
Then, without warning, his body burst into two—torn apart as the desert's wrath consumed him.
Deon shifted his attention to the last survivor.
"Would you like to answer me?" His voice was laced with venomous disdain.
The man spat at Deon's feet. "Kill yo—"
A flash of steel.
His head hit the sand before the words left his lips, and the desert swallowed him.
Deon slowly turned his gaze toward the sky.
"I am Deon Illric, Sovereign of the Golden Sands—ruler of the unforgiving dunes, executioner of all who dare threaten my kingdom. Mercy is but a mirage, and death, the only promise I keep."
The storm raged, yet the battlefield was still.
His rage subsided, and the glow of his heart's scar dimmed as his voice box was shattered. With a swipe of his hand, he commanded the sand to carry him home.
At an unnatural speed, he crossed the desert, the kingdom's towering gates appearing within the hour.
Finally, he stepped into his throne room, his body sinking into the seat of power he had ruled from for decades.
The scar over his heart stopped glowing.
And for the first time in years, Deon Illric felt the crushing weight of loneliness.
Silent tears traced down his face, falling onto the cold marble floor beneath him. His grip tightened on the armrests of his throne, but there was no enemy left to fight—no war to wage.
He tilted his head back, gazing at the vast ceiling above, searching for answers in the silence.
But there were none.
With a slow, shuddering breath, he closed his eyes.