The battlefield was drenched in blood. The air reeked of steel and death, thick with the weight of slaughter. Beneath the heavy boots of thousands, the ground had turned into a crimson mire, soaked by the lives of countless warriors who had dared to challenge him.

At the center of it all stood Kazel.

Blades impaled his body—his shoulders, his thighs, his gut—but he did not waver. Blood streamed down his form, dyeing the regal black and gold of his battle-worn armor. His sword, chipped and dull from carving through legions, was buried in the earth at his feet. His breaths were shallow, yet his presence had not diminished.

The ten thousand who surrounded him, the so-called army of heroes, stood still. Their weapons, once raised with righteous fury, trembled in their grips.

They had come to slay a monster. A tyrant. A warlord whose reign had shaped the world itself.

But what they saw before them was no monster. No mere man, either.

They saw him. The one who had fought wars alone. The one who had crushed kingdoms with his bare hands. The one who, even as age wore at his bones, could still strike fear into the hearts of thousands.

None among them could deny it. Even now, in his final moments, he stood above them all.

A man like Kazel was never meant to kneel.

A warrior clad in gleaming silver stepped forward, gripping his blade with both hands. His voice wavered, though he forced strength into it.

"Die, tyrant," he declared. "Let the world be at peace."

Silence followed.

Then—laughter.

A low, guttural chuckle, wet with blood but rich with amusement. Kazel lifted his head, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. His eyes, burning like embers, met the gazes of the army before him.

"Idiot." His voice cut through the battlefield like a blade sharper than any steel.

He did not need to say more, yet he did.

"I was peace itself…" His chest rose with a final breath. "I was the hero in times of chaos." His grin widened, his bloodied teeth bared in defiance. "And a tyrant in times of peace."

The heroes hesitated.

Some gritted their teeth. Some lowered their weapons.

None could deny it.

The final blow came—a piercing stab straight through his heart. The force of it should have driven him to the ground. His body should have fallen.

But Kazel did not fall.

His body remained standing. His spine, unbroken. His posture, unyielding. Even in death, his form refused to betray him.

His eyes, still open, still sharp, gazed upon the ten thousand who had come to slay him.

And none among them dared to move.

The wind howled, carrying the weight of his final words. His body, frozen in defiance, stood tall against the backdrop of a dying sun.

The tyrant had fallen.

And yet, he never truly had.