The sky above the wasteland churned with ominous black clouds, the thunder's growl echoing through the barren expanse. Smoke, blood, and the scent of burning flesh mingled in the air—an acrid perfume to match the chaos below. The land was a scarred canvas of gore, scattered with the wreckage of shattered lives. Bodies—twisted and torn—lay in heaps, their stillness broken only by the flickering of flames that devoured the remains of what was once a vibrant world. The cries of the dying and the roar of distant firestorms blended into a symphony of torment.
And atop the jagged peak of the jaggered mountains stood a figure, unfazed by the carnage, his silhouette imposing against the blood-red horizon. Alkaris Budenmore, Duke of the Budenmore Duchy, known across the empire as the Dragon Duke, stood unmoving, his dark blue uniform rippling in the wind like the calm before a storm. The faint outline of a white dragon crest embroidered on his shoulder glowed dimly as if to remind the world of the power he wielded.
His cape fluttered in the wind—ragged, torn from the endless battles fought on these cursed peaks. It matched the state of his mind, worn and frayed from the endless tide of bloodshed. His dark hair, wild and unkempt, swept across his angular face, giving him an almost feral appearance. Yet, there was nothing wild about the cold emptiness that sat in his eyes. Those eyes—piercing and soulless—had witnessed horrors beyond comprehension. A thousand battles, a thousand deaths… all trivial in the grand scheme of the war.
"Sigh... it wouldn't take long."
His voice was quiet, almost indifferent, as though he was speaking to no one but himself. There was no pride in his words, only the grim resignation of a man who had long since ceased to care about the cause.
His gaze shifted, narrowing with the precision of a predator who no longer feared anything but the mundane. In one swift motion, his left hand rose to the hilt of his sword—an elegant weapon, forged from the bones of the last dragon he had slain. The air crackled with the promise of death as he drew the blade with a fluid motion.
A 'thud' echoed through the wasteland as his sword cleaved through the air, carving a path of destruction. Four figures appeared, crumpled to the ground at his feet, blood splattered on the earth. The scent of it filled the air, thick and metallic. Sheathing his blade back into its sheath, Alkaris looked down at the cut bodies, his lips curling into a disdainful sneer.
"Do they think that just because my right hand was wounded, I would fall so easily?"
His voice was low, his tone dripping with contempt.
"Their impudence is disgusting."