The Weight of Silence
The battlefield stretched far beyond what the eye could see—a broken tapestry of blood-soaked earth, shattered weapons, and lifeless bodies. The once-vibrant plains were now a graveyard, painted red beneath a dying sun.
At the heart of this desolation sat a lone figure.
His armor, bearing the imperial crest, was unrecognizable—jagged and torn, with deep gashes where swords, claws, and fire had struck. Blood seeped from wounds hidden beneath the metal, mixing with the layers of gore already staining his body. The wind stirred his hair, damp and sticky with the blood of both allies and enemies.
In front of him, a sword stood upright, its blade buried in the ground. The hilt bore signs of wear, its grip darkened by years of use. This weapon had seen countless battles, but today it seemed to tremble in the earth as if it, too, bore the weight of the carnage surrounding it.
The man sat in silence, head bowed, hands resting limply on his knees. His breathing was slow and shallow, his shoulders rising and falling in time with the faint breeze. Anyone who might have stumbled across this scene would feel their stomach churn—not at the sight of the corpses but at the sheer horror emanating from the young man in their midst.
He was barely in his twenties, his youthful features hidden beneath layers of grime and blood. Yet there was nothing youthful about his presence. His stillness carried a weight that no one his age should bear—a crushing, suffocating aura that made the battlefield itself seem alive with despair.
The Aftermath of War
For a long time, there was no sound save for the occasional creak of broken weapons swaying in the wind. The man didn't move.
When he finally did, it was slow, deliberate. His bloodied fingers traced the hilt of the sword before him, their trembling faint but unmistakable.
He whispered something—inaudible, fragmented—but his voice carried no emotion.
"You did well," he murmured, his words not directed at himself but at the blade. "We did… well."
The battlefield had been won. The monsters that had threatened the empire's borders lay in mangled heaps, their grotesque forms barely distinguishable in the sea of human corpses. But the victory felt as hollow as the gaping wounds on his body.
He raised his head, and his gaze swept across the carnage. His eyes—once vibrant with life—were now dull, reflecting only the crimson hue of the battlefield. The bodies of imperial soldiers lay scattered, their weapons discarded in death.
He had told them to stay back, to fight alongside him. But they hadn't. Why would they? Why should they, when they had him?
A bitter smile tugged at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
A Memory of Laughter
Unbidden, his mind drifted to a memory from years ago. The laughter of his childhood friends echoed faintly in his ears, cutting through the oppressive silence. He could still see their faces—bright, hopeful, unscarred by the harshness of the world.
"Hey! You're going too easy on us!" one of them had shouted, brandishing a wooden sword.
He had laughed then—a real, unrestrained laugh—and allowed himself to stumble theatrically, pretending to lose to their clumsy swings. They had cheered, proclaiming themselves victorious, while he lay on the ground, grinning like a fool.
Those days felt like a lifetime ago.
The laughter faded, replaced by the screams of that day—the day the monsters came. He had been too late to save them, and their lifeless bodies had burned themselves into his memory. He had cried until his voice gave out, his young heart shattering under the weight of his grief.
And then the imperial family had come. They had offered him a new life, a new purpose. They had told him the monsters were to blame, and he had believed them. He had channeled his grief into hatred, his pain into power.
But now, as he looked at the field of bodies before him, he wondered if he had been wrong.
The Unseen Observers
High on a ridge overlooking the battlefield, a group of imperial soldiers stood in uneasy silence. They had arrived late, too late to join the fight. Not that it mattered.
They had seen the carnage from afar, the impossible swath of destruction carved through the enemy ranks. They had seen him—the empire's prodigy—standing alone in the center of it all.
"He did all this… by himself?" one of them whispered, his voice tinged with awe and fear.
Another soldier nodded, swallowing hard. "That's why they call him a weapon. He's not… human."
The captain, a grizzled veteran, narrowed his eyes. "Enough. He's still one of us."
"Is he?" the first soldier muttered under his breath, but the captain pretended not to hear.
A Command to Move Forward
The sound of footsteps broke the young man's reverie. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.
"Your orders," a voice said, cold and detached.
He lifted his gaze to see one of the emperor's envoys standing a few feet away. Clad in pristine robes, the envoy looked out of place amidst the carnage, his expression betraying no emotion.
"The emperor requires your presence in the capital. There is another threat to the south."
The man laughed—soft, bitter, and devoid of joy.
"Another one?" he said, his voice hoarse. "There's always another one."
The envoy said nothing, only stared at him with the same unfeeling gaze as always.
Slowly, the man rose to his feet, his movements deliberate and heavy. He pulled his sword from the ground, the blade slick with dried blood. He stared at it for a moment before sheathing it, his expression unreadable.
"Fine," he said, his voice cold and distant. "Let's go."
As he walked past the envoy, the soldiers on the ridge watched in silence. They didn't cheer, didn't offer words of gratitude or encouragement. They only stared, their expressions a mixture of awe and unease.
The man didn't acknowledge them. He didn't need to. He already knew what they thought of him.
To them, he wasn't a hero. He wasn't even human.
He was a weapon.
And as he left the battlefield behind, he wondered if that was all he would ever be.