On this dark day, he stood alone, the last emperor of a once-mighty empire. His vast army, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, had been obliterated by the hands of demons.

Now, only he remained, his blade cutting through the endless waves of fiends and anomalies that surged from the dark abyss.

Hope still clung to him, though faint, a flickering ember in the midst of overwhelming despair. He knew it well: all was lost, yet he could not afford to let his spirit falter.

The world had fallen, but if he allowed his hope to decay into despair, he would meet the same fate as everything else—consumed by darkness. It was his hope that made him different, that kept him standing when everything else had crumbled.

Even if the world was lost, he would not yield. Not with his body, nor with the force of his will. With each breath, he fought—not just for survival, but for something greater. A belief that, in the end, hope would rise again.

He might fall on the battlefield, a casualty of the hellish forces that surrounded him, but he knew one truth above all: the victory, however distant, would be his.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe not. Not even the gods knew. The gods prayed for their last child, begging him to fight on—fight until every last foe was slain. If he succeeded, he would be reborn, elevated among them, a divine being. A god.

But as the battle raged on, his sword cleaved through the endless hordes—his knights, his friends, his family. Once his allies, now monstrous shadows of what they once were. Each strike felt heavier, each slash more futile than the last.

And then, an overwhelming sense of failure began to creep in. He could feel it—the weight of his impending death. His vision blurred, his muscles screamed in protest, and the unrelenting flood of enemies seemed endless.

For the first time, he thought he might not make it, that he might fall like the others.

But then he remembered. He remembered what it was like years ago, when the world still had light, when he wasn't alone. The roar of his people echoing in his ears: "ALL HAIL THE EMPEROR!!!" His wife's voice, full of warmth, whispering, "Come back to me, my love." His children, their innocent eyes wide, asking, "Where are you going, Daddy?"

Then his mind shifted to the speech he gave before this eternal battle. The promise he made. The promise he would keep, no matter the cost.

These thoughts fueled his resolve. Even though he knew they were dead—lost to the very forces he fought against—he had sworn an oath. An emperor's word could never be broken.

With renewed strength, he swung his blade. His sword, drenched in the blood of the fallen, cleaved through one demon after another. The bodies piled high, a mountain of corpses beneath his feet.

And yet, they would rise again, twisted and corrupted by the curse that had taken everything from him. Now, he faced them—shells of those he once swore to protect. His own people, risen from death to strike him down.

He swung again, the sword biting into the decaying flesh, splintering through bones. There was no escape, no mercy. Only the endless, grinding cycle of battle.

Over and over, again and again, his weapon lashed out. His sword, once gleaming and sharp, now rusted and cracked from the countless strikes. His body, worn and broken, fought with everything he had left—his hands, his teeth, even his feet if necessary.

There would be no end to the carnage. He would kill, exterminate, and destroy until nothing remained but the barren wasteland around him.

A hundred and ten years of war. A hundred and ten years of slaughter. Finally, with the last demon fallen at his feet, the endless sea of enemies turned into a sea of corpses, rotting and decaying under the cruel passage of time.

He had slain them all. The demons, the twisted monstrosities that had once been his knights, his friends, his family. The emperor, the hero, and perhaps, in the eyes of some, the monster.

In the past, as a father, he had known joy, tenderness—feelings now foreign to him. Faint whispers of those long-forgotten emotions clawed at him as the bodies continued to fall.

To his daughter, he had once been more than a weapon of war; he had been a protector, a comfort, the one who would shield her from the horrors of the world.

Now, those horrors came from within. His hands, once warm and loving, now wielded death. Each swing of his blade, each strike, sent echoes through the hollow place inside him—the place where her voice had once called him "Daddy."

Though he had risen to the mantle of emperor, of nightmare, at the core of his being, there remained the promise of a father. A promise he had kept, twisted by centuries of blood and ruin.

Beneath the mask of wrath and sorrow, he remembered the warmth of his daughter's embrace. The hands now stained red with the blood of countless enemies had once held her with gentleness.

Now, he was alone, the weight of his victory—his grim, hollow victory—heavy upon him.

The battle was over. The land lay silent, the last demon fallen. His task, the task he had carried for over a century, was finished.

He could now ascend. Ascend to godhood. It was not driven by greed, nor the thirst for power, but by something far darker and yet more tender—a wish born of the love of a father.

For when a mortal ascended to become a god, they were granted a single wish, one wish that could turn into reality.

His wish was simple, yet impossible: to turn back time, to erase the demons and the horrors that had taken everything from him. He wished to bring an end to the suffering before it even began.

But there was a price.

The cost of this wish was the mortal life that had carried him through the centuries—the very life that had carried the weight of his promise. In the end, he would be forgotten by all. The gods, the ascended beings who now watched from their divine realms, would remember the one hundred and ten years of bloody battle.

But to everyone else, to the world he had once known, he would vanish. His name, his existence, would fade into the forgotten corners of time.

The only thing that would remain was the peace he had fought for, the world untouched by the shadows of the demons.

—-----

''That's it for the night, Rubeus, you need to sleep now, I'll tell you some more stories tomorrow night.'', said a… gentle voice? The little boy, with short dark hair, looked at his mother before opening his gentle and curved lips and said, "And the night after that?".

With a sigh, the woman with long and beautiful brown, almost black hair said, "And the night after that too…" but you need to promise me you'll sleep and behave well, here and at school. His red eyes that looked like ruby started to illuminate, the tip of his lips turning into a grin, "Yes!!! I promise!!!".

The woman chuckled before slowly kissing him on the top of his head. Then she started falling into the embrace of their bed, and gently whispered, "I love you, good night", to her cute little angel, with her… beautiful voice?

Unfortunately, he didn't get the chance to hear her stories again, in fact, he never heard anything from her again. On the following day, coming back from school, with the paper flower he had made, a beautiful paper ornament he wanted to surprise his mother with. He wanted to make her smile.

It took him the entire day to make it, and he was happy with the result. With his little and delicate hands, he had made a masterpiece. And so, coming back from school, he opened the door of the little wooden house that was small even if only for two people. The house had one room, with a double bed a kitchen, and a table, you could even say that it was spacious for commoners.

Normally, they would have to share the house with another family, but the inheritance from his deceased father had set them up for the next 30 years at least. It would if they kept living like this.

The little house had a split in it for a door handle, which was little to but big enough to put a finger or two and pull. 

His crystal-like eyes, ruby red were shining bright, reflecting the daylight until just a moment ago, now as dark as night. His eyes had lost everything. From shining brightly to total emptiness with nothing inside, but soon to be filled with sadness, rage, and darkness.

His mom, whom he had loved, and adored, who was his star in an empty sky. His mom who told him countless stories about kings, hunters, and heroes. The sole person whom he wanted to see smile, the only person that made him smile, was now dead. Her cold body lying breathlessly on the floor, braced by coldness. Her last breath had not been heard by anyone.

She was naked, stripped of all her clothes, bleeding from places that shouldn't be. A terrible scene that not a single soul should have ever seen, especially not a child. A child who happened to be hers. A genius wasn't needed to know what had happened, but in the eyes of a child, god knows what he thought at that specific moment.

He froze, it was like time had stopped, his eyes could see his mother, eyes wide open, crying, yelling for help, help which never came. He wasn't there when she needed him. When she needed him the most.

The world was yelling in his head, telling him to avenge her, to find the culprit, find the one who did that, to kill them, to cure the plague in this now rotten world.