The moon hung high in the sky casting it's pale glow bathing the battlefield where blood soaked the earth. The silence that followed the brutal clash is broken only by the labored breaths of the adventurers and crackling sounds of dying flames. The bodies of bandits lay scattered like discarded dolls, and the acrid smell of burning flesh and the thick scent of blood filled the air.
The scene evoked a memory from centuries past, one he had long buried—a memory tied to a sin, a lesson learned, and a regret that had reshaped him.
He stood alone amidst the carnage, as he stood in the smoldering ruins of what was once a thriving kingdom, surrounded by broken bodies and the wails of the few who survived, the weight of his mistake crushed him. The stories he heard didn't seem real—couldn't be real. The woman they spoke of, the merciless person who had razed cities and justified her cruelty in the name of righteousness, bore her name. He had created this monster. His gift had become the world's curse, his sin towards it.
His blade heavy in his hand, his armor smeared with the blood of both friends and foes. The battle with angels and demons was over and he had won. But at what cost? His comrades, his friend, his lover—all gone. Their laughter, their voices, their lives—stolen by the unrelenting tide of war. He had fought for them, with them, and yet, when the dust settled, he was the only one left standing.
Grief tore through him, a suffocating wave that left him hollow. The faces of the fallen flashed in his mind—smiling... fighting... dying... Each memory was a dagger to his heart, a reminder of what he had lost. The weight of their absence was unbearable, crushing him under the enormity of his solitude. Victory had never tasted so bitter.
But the world didn't stop for his grief. In the war's aftermath, devastation became the new norm. Kingdoms turned inward, consumed by rebuilding walls and armies, blind to the suffering of their people. Monsters roamed freely, preying on people. Bandits flourished, looting and killing the weak, razing the villages to ground. Once-prosperous lands became a fractured wastelands, leaving the poor and powerless to fend for themselves.
The world needed a savior—someone to stand for the weak and restore hope. He looked at himself and saw a man broken by loss, too weary to bear the burden. He had given everything to the war, and it had taken more than he could afford to lose. He didn't have the strength to be the light the world needed—not anymore.
And then he saw her.
A young girl, her blonde hair catching the sunlight, her brown eyes alight with determination. She reminded him of someone he used to be. She spoke with conviction, her voice unwavering: "I want to help the poor and the weak. I want to be their strength." In her, he saw the spark of hope he thought the world had lost. She was untainted, unbroken—a beacon of light in the darkness.
He poured himself into her, believing in her, teaching her, giving her the strength none could defy, to stand tall. Her dream became his purpose. She could do what he no longer had the will to attempt. He believed she could help the world. He believed in her dream, in her ability to change the world for the better.
But belief is a fragile thing.
He had left her with hope in his heart, trusting her to carry on the fight for those too weak to defend themselves. Her determination reminded him of the person he once was, before grief and loss had hollowed him out. Yet now, as he stood in the smoldering ruins of a thriving kingdom turned graveyard, the weight of his mistake crushed him. The stories he had dismissed as fabrications came alive in the cries of the survivors. The woman they spoke of—the one who razed kingdoms in the name of righteousness—was no myth. She bore her name. The girl he had believed in, the one who had vowed to protect the weak, had become a tyrant cloaked in idealism.
Her dream, once pure, had become a nightmare.
Even as the world burned under her reign, he clung to the fragile hope that somewhere, beneath the ambition and cruelty, the girl he once knew still remained. He sought her out, desperation clawing at his heart, offering her redemption—a chance to step back from the abyss: "Stop this," he begged. "This isn't what you wanted." But her laughter was colder than the steel. Her words, laced with contempt, cut deeper than any wound: "Every life taken, every kingdom fallen—they were sacrifices for a greater cause." she sneered, her voice chilling, as though she believed every word.
His heart shattered. He had failed again.
He had given her the tools to do this. He had believed in her, trusted her, and in doing so, he had unleashed a darkness he could not contain. The world suffered under her, the weak she had once vowed to protect were left to die, their cries drowned out by her unrelenting pursuit of power.
With a heavy heart, he made the decision he had dreaded. Every swing of his blade was a testament to his failure—a failure to guide the girl who once dreamed of saving the world. In the end, he ended her. The girl who had once been a beacon of hope became his greatest regret. Her death was not a victory but a condemnation—a reminder of how belief could falter and dreams could twist into horrors.
The guilt consumed him. The faces of the innocent who had suffered because of her haunted him, their pain a constant reminder of his sin. He had believed in her, and it had cost the world dearly. He carried that burden with him, a scar that would never heal.
From that day forward, he vowed never to interfere again. The world, broken and consumed by greed, was beyond saving. He withdrew into the shadows, a spectator to the chaos he could no longer bear to fight.
And yet, in the quiet of the night, as he stared at the moonlit sky, he wondered if the world could ever change—if anyone could rise above the darkness and become the light it so desperately needed. But he knew it wouldn't be him. His time was over. All that remained was the silence of his regret and the memory of what could have been.
Then, a sudden yell, sharp and piercing, echoed through the stillness of the forest. It was distant, but unmistakable—a cry of desperation, of someone in need. The sound cracked through the fog of his regret like a lightning strike, forcing his mind back into the present.