The battlefield was silent.
The fires still burned, casting twisted shadows across the broken land. The smell of smoke and death still lingered. But there were no more screams. No more clash of steel. No more prayers.
Because there was no one left to pray.
Kael stood at the heart of the carnage, untouched. His coat hung pristine, as if the destruction had never dared to stain him. His crimson eyes reflected the flames—not with pride or pleasure, but with stillness. With certainty.
At his feet knelt Lucian.
The Hero of the Holy Order. The Chosen. The golden standard of righteousness.
Now shattered.
His armor was in ruins—cracked and dented, hanging loose from bruised flesh. His cape, once a banner of hope, was little more than a blood-drenched rag dragging in the mud. His hands dug into the dirt, trembling. His forehead pressed against the soaked earth like a man in prayer.
But there was no god left to answer.
Kael's voice broke the silence—not harsh, not loud. Just… final.
"Stand."
Lucian didn't move.
The word came again, softer but heavier, as if it weighed upon the world itself.
"I said… stand."
Something inside Lucian responded. A remnant of command, of duty. His fingers twitched. His spine strained. Slowly, shakily, he raised his head.
His eyes were hollow.
"I…" His voice cracked, broken glass scraping past his throat. "I… lost?"
Kael stepped forward.
"Lost?"
A low chuckle—dry as ash.
"Lucian, you weren't defeated. You were obliterated."
The words struck harder than any sword.
Kael's tone never shifted. It didn't need to.
"You placed your faith in gods that never answered. You led an army that perished without meaning. You believed yourself a hero—but look at you now."
Lucian's breath grew shallow. His fingers curled, grasping at air.
"Tell me." Kael crouched, lowering himself to eye level. His gaze was emotionless. Clinical. "What's left?"
Lucian wanted to scream. To lash out. To reclaim something—anything.
But there was nothing.
Kael's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Will you fight? Will you cling to some fractured sense of honor?"
Silence.
"Or will you beg?"
Lucian flinched as if struck.
His throat constricted. His mind raced. But no words came.
Kael watched him with growing apathy. He had seen this before. A soul stripped of all its illusions. A man waking up to the cruel indifference of the world.
"How pathetic."
Lucian squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders trembling. Shame clung to him like blood. His body screamed to rise, to fight. But reality held him down.
Kael stood and turned away.
"I will not kill you, Lucian."
The words froze the air.
Lucian's heart skipped.
Kael glanced back, voice like cold iron.
"That would be mercy."
Lucian's blood ran cold.
"I want you to live."
"I want you to crawl back to your broken faith, to your silent gods. I want you to ask them why they abandoned you."
"And I want them to say… nothing."
Kael took a step forward.
Lucian felt something snap inside—worse than fear. Deeper than defeat.
Despair.
"Go, Lucian." Kael's final words echoed like a sentence. "Go and learn how meaningless you truly are."
Then Kael walked away—his silhouette dissolving into smoke and ruin, coat billowing behind him like a reaper's shroud.
Lucian remained frozen.
Kneeling.
Silent.
The Holy Order's Hero no longer existed.
Only a man remained.
And he was broken.
To be continued…