As Rose walked through the mountain's desolate path, the bloody full moon hung low in the sky, its crimson light piercing through the fractured canopy. It felt as though the moon itself was watching her every step, casting its judgment on her blood-soaked journey. The cold air whispered secrets of despair, carrying with it the faint, lingering cries of those who had fallen.
When she reached the village, all seemed eerily calm. The people moved about, oblivious to the night's horrors, their mundane lives a cruel contrast to the darkness that followed her. But as their eyes fell upon her figure—her bloodstained dress flowing like a ghost in the moonlight—their expressions twisted in terror.
Fear turned to desperation. They rushed toward her with makeshift weapons and trembling hands, trying to end what they did not understand. But before they could even reach her, their lives were snuffed out, one after the other, like candles in a storm. Rose didn't lift a finger. Death followed her like a shadow, a silent companion she no longer feared.
By the time she reached the heart of the village, the once-vibrant streets were soaked in crimson, a sea of blood reflecting the moon's eerie glow. The screams had faded into an oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of Rose's footsteps as she walked through the carnage. Her white dress, now a deep red, clung to her like a shroud, marking her as both executioner and mourner.
Without a glance at the lifeless bodies scattered around her, she left the village behind, her shadow stretching long under the blood moon. She didn't stop until she reached the outskirts, where the dark silhouette of a hospital loomed in the distance. The air was heavy with unease, and even the night seemed to hold its breath.
Morning didn't come; it felt as if the world itself refused to welcome another day.
Rose approached the door with deliberate calmness and knocked, the sound echoing eerily in the stillness. But no one answered. She knocked again—harder this time—but there was only silence. With an exhale that could have been mistaken for a sigh of disappointment, she placed her hand on the door and pushed it open with a force that shattered it into splinters.
Inside, the hospital was alive with frantic movement. People were wide awake, their faces pale, their eyes darting toward her with a mix of dread and anticipation. They knew. They all knew what had happened in the village, what was coming for them.
Rose stepped into the room, her aura dark and suffocating. Her voice cut through the tension like a blade."Animals who want to die, come to me. Animals who want to live, move to the left."
Her words were sharp, commanding, and left no room for hesitation. But even as she spoke, her gaze scanned the crowd, locking onto the trembling figures before her. Among them stood Doctor Lucas, hidden behind a group of mutants. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he whispered orders to those around him.
"Stop her," he hissed, desperation lacing his voice.
Several mutants stepped forward, their movements sluggish with fear. They didn't even manage to raise their weapons before they fell—crushed by an invisible force that radiated from Rose like a storm.
Lucas screamed in frustration, his voice cracking with fear. "What I did was for the greater good! Your sacrifice was necessary! Don't-
"Don't… don't you want to know about the five people who came back from death? I will tell you, if you show mercy," he begged, his voice trembling, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
But Rose stood before him, her gaze as cold as ice, her heart as hardened as the blade in her hand. Her voice broke through the silence, steady and unwavering, yet laced with the weight of her suffering. "I, Rosette von Velkenberg, never show mercy."
Her words were a death sentence. There was no room for forgiveness, no space for empathy. The past had torn her apart, turned her into something unrecognizable. Each scar she bore, each loss she endured, had hardened her resolve. Mercy was a luxury she no longer had.
Rose thought to herself, "When people lose their memories, they become foolish, adrift in the void of who they once were. But when forbidden memories of past lives resurface, they are reshaped into cold, ruthless beings, driven by the weight of forgotten truths and lingering suffering."
As the blood of the fallen stained her hands, the truth settled in—this was her fate. This was the path she had chosen. And with that, she struck, her sword finding its mark as the final, agonizing plea of her past echoed in her soul.
But she did not turn back. She never would.
Everything ended in a minute. The once chaotic and brutal scene, filled with screams and bloodshed, fell into an eerie silence. Rose stood amidst the carnage, her sword still dripping with crimson, her breath shallow and strained. The weight of what she had done, what she had become, pressed heavily on her chest.
The mutants, the doctors, the facility—they were all gone. Each life snuffed out in the blink of an eye, and yet, there was no satisfaction in the victory, no sense of relief. Only exhaustion. The world around her spun in a haze, as if the very ground beneath her feet had become unstable, her body aching, her soul drained.
Her heart was hollow. She had claimed her revenge, but it felt empty. Every step she had taken, every blow she had struck, had led her to this moment. But in the end, the pain never left. It lingered, gnawing at her insides, a reminder that vengeance had a cost, and she had paid it dearly.
The full moon, high above, cast its cold light through the shattered windows, its pale glow falling like a curse upon her. Rose looked up, her eyes hollow, her spirit broken. She had sought power, sought to end the cycle of pain, but all she found was exhaustion.Tears streamed down her face as she whispered a trembling prayer to God—a desperate plea from a soul burdened by pain, searching for solace in the silence above. And with her final, resolute breath, she declared, "I will be the Lord of Destruction," her voice carrying both despair and defiance, echoing through the emptiness like a prophecy forged in sorrow.
And with that exhaustion came a bitter truth: nothing had truly changed.
She prayed to God, her whispers a lament,knowing her soul craved the night's descent.Not the warmth of light, nor salvation's spark,but the quiet solace of the endless dark.
She thought, looking at her sword:
I lost my power before I even had a chance to understand it.
I lost my friends before I could truly know what friendship meant.
I lost my parents before I could fully be their daughter,
And I lost my sister before I had the chance to be the older sister she needed.
So now, what's left for me to lose?
Am I destined to lose everything before I even get to live it?
Is there anything left of me that can be taken away, or am I already empty?
The world keeps taking, and I'm left wondering—what will I lose next?
---
At that moment, I was blind to the weight of my own decision. Little did I know, my choice would carve a path of sacrifice, a price too heavy to bear, echoing through the silence of my soul.
---
Her name was Rosette von Velkenberg, the last heir to a bloodline forged in the fires of war and sacrifice. She was the eldest daughter of the Velkenberg family, whose very name trembled the earth beneath the Empire. Her father, the mightiest of all warriors, had fought not for glory, but to shield the people he loved. His strength was a force of nature, and yet it was that same strength that would seal his fate. For in the shadows of the Empire, treachery brewed.
The emperor, who wore his crown in the blood of betrayal, feared her father. He feared a man who would one day rise above him, who would protect the people no matter the cost. And so, he struck, casting a shadow of death over the man who had once been his greatest ally.
Rosette was thrust into the chaos of war, branded by the world as an "evil hero." They saw only the blood she spilled, the lives she tore apart in the name of salvation. But they were blind, deaf to the deeper pain that pulsed through her veins. They were fools. The truth they refused to see was that she was not just her father's daughter—she was something more. Something far greater.
It was amidst the screams of battle that she learned the cruel truth—that her father had been slain not by the enemy, but by the very man who claimed to rule. The emperor feared her father's strength, and so, to control Rosette, he took her sister's life. All of it, every death, every sacrifice, had been for one purpose: to shackle her, to bend her to his will.
But what they did not know, what they could never fathom, was that Rosette's power was not bound by any man's fear or ambition. She was the storm that tore through the night. She was the vengeance that rose from the ashes of betrayal. She was the destruction they had never dared to imagine.
And when the Empire crumbled beneath her fury, when the emperor's lifeless body lay at her feet, the words she spoke were not born of hate, but of a cold, unyielding truth:
"Tremble before me, for in your greed, you forged the monster that stands before you. Fear me, and know that it is your own hands that have shaped my fury."