The battlefield was a graveyard.
Where once the proud warriors of the Ixorym had stood, only devastation remained. The ground was scorched and cracked, littered with the broken remains of a people who had stood against the divine. Smoke choked the air, rising in blackened pillars toward the still-gaping rift above, a constant reminder of the destruction that had come from it.
I staggered forward, my limbs trembling under the weight of exhaustion and pain. Every step was a struggle, every breath a labor. My claws were caked with blood, though I couldn't tell whether it was my own or that of my enemies. Around me, the bodies of my people lay in haunting silence.
The demigods—their last hope—had fallen. Their shattered forms had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only echoes of their final battle cries. Their defeat had signaled the end of the resistance, the moment when the Ixorym's fate was sealed.
I fell to my knees, the weight of it all crushing me.
Why had I survived?
The question clawed at my mind, relentless and unanswerable. I had fought alongside them, bled for them, yet here I was, alive while they were gone. Guilt and grief gnawed at me, each one a jagged blade twisting deeper into my soul.
A faint groan reached my ears, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned to see one of the elders lying amidst the rubble, his breathing shallow and labored. I crawled to him, my heart clenching at the sight of his broken body.
"Elder Rynor," I whispered, my voice hoarse.
His eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused. "Azrytharion..." His voice was barely audible, each word a struggle. "You... must survive."
I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. "Why? What's the point? They're all gone. Everyone..."
Rynor's hand gripped mine with surprising strength, his gaze sharpening for a brief moment. "You are the last, child. The last of the Ixorym. That means something. Do not... let it be for nothing."
His hand fell limp, and his eyes closed for the final time.
The silence was deafening.
I stumbled through the ruins, searching for any sign of life, but there was none. The village, once vibrant and full of life, was nothing more than ash and ruin. The gods' chosen and their ethereal warriors had left nothing behind but death.
The weight of it threatened to crush me. My people—the Ixorym—were gone. Wiped out in a single, catastrophic event. I was the last, the sole survivor of a proud race.
What could I do now?
The question echoed in my mind, each repetition more hollow than the last. I was alone, a remnant of a people who no longer existed.
The ruins of the ceremonial altar called to me. Its faint glow, though diminished, was a beacon amidst the desolation. I approached it cautiously, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as the air around it seemed to hum with latent energy.
As I reached out, the ground beneath me trembled. A pulse of energy erupted from the altar, surging through me like a lightning strike.
"Rise, Azrytharion."
The voice was the same as before—ancient and commanding, filled with a power that resonated deep within me. My claws dug into the ground as the energy coursing through me intensified, every nerve in my body alight with pain.
"You are the last. You must endure."
The words struck something within me, igniting a spark that I hadn't known existed. Images flashed before my eyes: the faces of my people, the battles we had fought, the sacrifices we had made.
I screamed as the power within me began to awaken. My body convulsed, every muscle straining against the surge of energy threatening to tear me apart. It felt as though I were being torn in two, my very essence reshaped by the force consuming me.
But it wasn't enough. The awakening was incomplete, the power just out of reach. I could hear the voices of the dead, those I cherished, in that glowing light just out of my reach, they were waiting for me. I reached as hard as I could, clawing at space, yet I could hardly move, trapped in my body as I watched the light fade.
The energy faded, leaving me gasping for breath. My body was battered and broken, but something within me had changed. I could feel it—a flicker of the power that had been promised, a seed waiting to grow.
The devastation around me was a stark reminder of what I had lost, but it was also a reminder of what I had to fight for.
The gods had taken everything from me—my people, my home, my purpose. But they had made a mistake. They had left me alive.
I was the last of the Ixorym, the sole remnant of a race that had defied the divine. I would not let their sacrifice be in vain.
As the rift above me began to close, I clenched my claws, a new resolve burning in my chest. The gods had declared war on my people, and now, they would face the wrath of the last Ixorym.
This was not the end. It was only the beginning. I knew because the system began to flicker before my eyes, promising me a path to regain all I had lost.