the battlefield was silent, save for the soft crackling of distant flames licking at the remnants of a once-majestic forest. Blood soaked the earth, pooling around the broken bodies of men and beasts alike. The dead lay as far as the eye could see—humans, elves, orcs, and even the mighty dragons, their colossal forms now lifeless husks strewn across the battlefield. Towering monsters, twisted demons, and winged creatures from every corner of the world lay among the fallen, their defeat no less tragic than those of the mortals they had fought against.
In the midst of this desolate landscape, a lone figure lay on the ground, surrounded by the corpses of both friend and foe. His body was ravaged by battle, his once-strong limbs now reduced to shattered remnants. His right arm was severed at the shoulder, and both his legs had been torn apart, leaving nothing but bloodied stumps where they had once stood. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths, each inhale a struggle, each exhale accompanied by the gurgle of blood. His remaining hand twitched, as if still trying to grip a weapon that no longer existed. His face, though marred by the pain of his physical injuries, bore a deeper expression of sorrow—an overwhelming grief that far surpassed the agony of his wounds.
He had lost everything. His friends, his comrades, his family, and the woman he loved. They had all fallen, one by one, before his eyes. The memories of their deaths haunted him, each flash of memory more excruciating than the last. He had fought with everything he had, but it hadn't been enough. He had failed them. And now, all that was left was the bitter taste of defeat.
A shadow loomed over him. The man's fading vision locked onto the figure standing above him—a massive demon, towering over twelve feet tall. The demon's skin was pitch-black, absorbing the light around it, and his long, flowing black hair framed his chiseled, inhuman face. Two great horns jutted from his head, curving back like the talons of some ancient beast. His face was expressionless, cold and indifferent, but his crimson eyes betrayed him. They held a sadness, a weariness that no mere mortal could comprehend.
The demon gazed down at the man with a somber expression, as though he were mourning the warrior's inevitable end. His voice, deep and resonant, carried an unexpected weight of respect.
"Be proud, mortal," the demon said, his voice as dark as the abyss itself. "I acknowledge you as the bravest warrior I have ever faced, in all the worlds I have destroyed. I wish things could have been different. You could have stood beside me, as an equal. But now… now there is no turning back."
The wounded man said nothing. His lips trembled as if to speak, but no words came. He had nothing left to say. The demon's words held no comfort for him. He had given everything, and still, he had failed. Failed to save those he loved. Failed to stop the destruction. His pain was beyond words.
The demon, seeing the man's silence, sighed—a sound of regret, almost human in its sorrow. He knelt down, lowering his massive form to the ground, and for a brief moment, his crimson eyes softened. A single tear, black as the void, slid down his cheek and fell onto the warrior's chest.
"I wish we could have been friends," the demon whispered, his voice barely audible. "But the path I walk is one of no return."
With a heavy heart, the demon raised his long, red sword, the blade shimmering with an unnatural, malevolent energy. The warrior's breath slowed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, irregular intervals. His eyes, though clouded with death, seemed to look past the battlefield, toward a distant horizon that only he could see. A place where peace, perhaps, awaited him.
The demon brought the sword down in one swift motion. The blade sliced through the air with a faint hum before it severed the man's head from his body, clean and swift. The lifeless eyes of the fallen warrior stared into the distance, still reflecting the pain he carried, even in death.
The demon stood there for a moment, his head bowed in silence. He closed his eyes, as though offering a prayer for the soul of the man he had just slain. But there were no words. Only the unspoken grief that lingered in the stillness.
"I have a long road ahead," the demon murmured to himself, his voice heavy with sorrow. "There is no turning back…"
The scene began to blur, the edges of the battlefield fading into darkness. The distant flames flickered, and the shadows grew longer. The demon's form became indistinct, and the bodies around him vanished into nothingness.
Lucas woke with a start.
His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his heart racing in his chest. Sweat drenched his forehead, and his hands gripped the bedsheets as if he were still clinging to life in the middle of that battlefield. He blinked, trying to shake the lingering images from his mind, but the dream had been so vivid, so real. The battlefield, the dead bodies, the demon—all of it felt like more than just a nightmare. It felt like a memory.
He glanced at the clock beside his bed. 1:00 a.m. The faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtered through the curtains, casting a dim light across his small bedroom. Lucas wiped a hand across his face, his skin cold and clammy. His heart was still pounding in his chest, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a dark fog.
"That demon…" Lucas whispered to himself, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. "Why did it feel like I knew him?"
He pushed the thought aside, shaking his head as if to dispel the strange sense of familiarity that had settled over him. It was just a dream, nothing more. But deep down, a nagging feeling remained—a feeling that the sadness in the demon's eyes was something real, something he had felt before.
Lucas sat up in bed, running a hand through his damp hair. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the familiar surroundings: the small bookshelf in the corner, stacked with novels and textbooks; the worn-out desk with his laptop resting on top; and the old armchair in the corner where he had spent countless nights reading, escaping into the world of fiction.
He sighed, his thoughts drifting to the day ahead. Tomorrow would be another long day of work. Another day of balancing the weight of his responsibilities. His mother's health was getting worse, and with his sister still in school, it was up to him to keep things together. He had dropped out of college to take care of them, sacrificing his future for the sake of his family.
He glanced at the photo on his bedside table, a picture of his mother and younger sister. His mother, once so full of life, now bedridden and frail, her body ravaged by cancer. And his sister, Elara, still so young, with her whole life ahead of her. They were his world. They were the reason he kept going, even when the weight of everything threatened to crush him.
Lucas lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, his mind still restless. The dream, though fading, lingered at the edges of his thoughts. He couldn't shake the feeling that it meant something—that it was more than just a random nightmare.
But for now, there was nothing he could do about it. Tomorrow was another day, and he needed whatever rest he could get. As his eyes drifted shut, his thoughts returned to the life he had built around him—the fragile balance he struggled to maintain every day. And though the dream still haunted him, sleep eventually claimed him once more.
But deep within, a sense of unease stirred.