Chapter Twenty-One: The Fall of Dreams
3rd of November, Year 772 — Dream Calendar
Capital of Dream Land
The sky above the capital bled red.
Flames rose in spirals from the outer districts as Andrew, cloaked in black and blood, marched through the shattered gates of Dream Land's last sanctuary. The final battle had come—no speeches, no parley. Only the iron of resolve, and the shadows of memory guiding his hand.
Behind him, his Elite Knights—those who survived the four-year war of attrition—followed in grim silence, blades drawn. These were no longer soldiers of ambition. They were avengers, shadows of vengeance made flesh.
The New City—a later addition to the capital—fell quickly.
Streets were cleansed, towers burned, and resistance shattered beneath the force of Andrew's fury. But as the capital buckled, Andrew's pace slowed. The blood rage faded, not into peace—but into a deep, gnawing ache.
Because now, as he reached the gates of the Old Street, everything around him whispered with ghosts.
The cobbled roads were cracked and moss-covered, but Andrew remembered every stone.
The lanterns.
The ivy-covered homes.
The quiet bakery that sold honeybread on warm mornings.
And the house at the corner, its wooden roof still intact.
His steps faltered.
Memories surged—him as a boy, laughing with Andreas, racing down these same streets, Natalia trailing behind them with ribbons in her hair. Their parents watching from the porch with smiles that once felt eternal.
And Angelica, her laughter catching on the wind like the sweetest note in a forgotten song.
The world went quiet.
He pushed open the door.
Inside, the house was cold. Still. Too still.
The moment he crossed the threshold, time seemed to collapse inward—until there was only one thing before him.
Andreas.
He stood in the living room, older now, grayer, his once-golden armor dimmed with dust. And behind him, bound and silent—Andrew's parents, weak and weary. Angelica, held tightly by a blade to her throat. Her eyes locked on Andrew's the moment he entered.
Andreas smiled—empty, cruel, defeated.
"You made it."
Andrew couldn't speak. He was frozen. Trembling.
"This isn't the end," Andreas said, voice hollow. "It was never meant to end like this. But I had to make a choice. For her sake. For Natalia."
Andrew stepped forward, sword trembling in his grip. "Let them go. I'm not here for them. I'm here for you."
Andreas lowered his eyes. There was no fight left in them—only an old, rotting regret.
"That's why… I can't let them live."
And in a breath, he turned.
Three flashes of steel.
Blood sprayed.
Andrew screamed—but too late.
His mother. His father. Angelica. Gone.
He fell to his knees, the world tilting, warping into nothing.
His sword dropped.
Tears fell freely, mixing with the blood on the floor. And within him—something shattered.
The air grew heavy.
The ground trembled.
From the broken soul of Andrew, a dark, blinding aura surged upward like a pillar of flame. Not magic. Not rage.
Something greater.
The legacy of centuries, the culmination of war, love, betrayal, and death—the awakening of a Grand Swordmaster.
His body lifted slightly, eyes glowing white-hot with condensed spirit force. His aura turned black at the edges, burning the very air. Andreas, stunned, stepped back.
"You… unlocked it."
Andrew's voice was no longer just his.
It was the voice of every soul he had buried.
"This ends here."
And with one step, he closed the distance.
Andreas tried to lift his blade—but Andrew moved faster than light. With a single, god-splitting slash, he carved through armor, soul, and past.
Andreas fell to his knees.
Bleeding. Dying.
But smiling.
"It was… for her sake. My dear Natalia…" he whispered. "…and please… take care of our son, Kael… in the future."
His body collapsed.
Andrew stood over the ashes of his past, the last pieces of his heart gone the hole capital erased from the face of the earth only Andrew unconscious bleeding in a massive crater left in the once all might capital of Dream Land.