The sky was an abyss of death. Thousands clashed above, their bodies twisting and tearing apart in a storm of carnage. The screams of the dying mixed with the howling winds, drowned beneath the thunderous roars of destruction.
Klien and Carlos moved like specters of ruin, their forms nothing more than blurs amidst the chaos. Wherever Klien appeared, the only thing left was ash—his power didn't just kill; it erased, consuming flesh and bone in an inferno hotter than the sun. Carlos wove death from the air itself, conjuring thousands of blades that rained down in a merciless downpour, carving through bodies like rotting parchment.
Below, what remained of the battlefield was a grotesque tapestry of suffering. Corpses lay in heaps, twisted beyond recognition. Some were charred husks, their limbs fused together in unnatural contortions, mouths forever frozen in silent screams. Others had been cleaved apart, their insides spilled across the battlefield like overripe fruit. The ground itself had become a swamp of blood, thick and congealed, sloshing with every step. Severed heads bobbed in pools of crimson, eyes wide with terror even in death.
Despite the slaughter, despite the overwhelming dominance of their forces, Amon's heart pounded like a war drum inside his chest. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his limbs trembling with a primal, all-consuming fear.
He had known battle would be brutal—but witnessing it firsthand was different. His mind reeled, drowning in the horror before him.
Could I survive this?
I don't want to die.
I can't.
The overwhelming scent of blood, the warmth of it clinging to his skin, the sheer wrongness of it all made him want to retch. His knees buckled. The battlefield blurred. His hands trembled as he clutched his chest tighter, as if it alone could anchor him.
A soft yet firm voice pulled him from the abyss of fear.
"If you stay like this, then death isn't just a possibility—it's inevitable."
Perses, perched on his shoulder, its voice steady, almost uncaring.
"Kid, don't be afraid. Believe in yourself. Only then can you survive."
Images flickered in Amon's mind—his mother, his father, Anastasia, his aunt Olivia. Their faces, filled with warmth, love, and expectation.
Tears stung his eyes, but his resolve hardened.
A presence emerged from the darkness.
"Young Master, I will keep you safe."
Selene's voice was cold, edged with steel. Shadows curled around them, wrapping him in their embrace as they surged toward the palace.
Then—she stopped.
Amon barely had time to react before she spoke.
"Step out."
Confused, he obeyed.
And his world turned to nightmare.
---
The man before him was a specter of horror. Dressed in ragged black robes, his presence oozed something unnatural, something wrong. His eyes—deep, abyssal voids—held no light, no reflection, no trace of humanity. In one hand, he cradled something wet, something alive.
A still-beating heart.
Its owner—a man, or what used to be one—lay at his feet, his chest an empty, gaping cavity. His ribs had been pried apart, the bones shattered and peeled back like the broken shell of an insect. The heart twitched in the Harbinger's grasp, pumping weakly, spilling thick streams of blood down his arm.
The bodies beneath him weren't just dead—they had been torn apart like animals at slaughter. Flesh had been stripped from bones, muscles twisted and knotted into grotesque shapes. Some corpses had been split open from the groin to the throat, their innards spilling onto the ground in tangled heaps. Others had their skulls crushed inward, brains leaking from their ears like curdled soup.
Amon's stomach lurched. He swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that burned his throat.
The Harbinger's lips curled into a grin, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too jagged, like broken glass. His gaze shifted to Selene.
"Hyahahaha! Finally, a beauty. I was getting bored eating these males, but you… I will savor every part."
His voice slithered, dripping with something unnatural, something wrong.
Selene didn't flinch. Her blades gleamed as she dashed forward, her voice like ice.
"Silence, vile creature."
Darkness writhed around her like a living entity, lashing out as she closed the distance.
"Young Master, go to the palace. You will be safe there!"
Safe?
There was no safe in this place.
Amon's hands clenched into fists. His fear, his hesitation, his doubt—he let it burn. His will surged, and the crimson aura enveloped him.
No more fear.
No more hesitation.
He lunged.
The Harbinger's grin faltered for the briefest moment.
Impossible.
A mere child—awakening his will?
His moment of disbelief cost him.
Steel met flesh.
The wet schlick of a blade slicing through meat.
The Harbinger staggered back, staring at the stump where his hand had once been. Black blood gushed from the wound, sizzling as it splattered onto the corpses below. The smell—burning rot and something foul, something corrupt—filled the air.
He did not scream.
He did not flinch.
Instead, he laughed.
A low, guttural chuckle, bubbling from his throat, building into a deranged, ear-piercing cackle.
"Hahaha... interesting."
More black blood poured from his wound, yet he did not care.
"But there's no need for me to chase him down."
Selene's stomach clenched.
The Harbinger's gaze flicked past him, toward the palace.
"Because that man is already inside."
The words were a dagger of ice, driven straight into Selene's spine.
The Harbinger threw his head back and howled with laughter, his voice raw, jagged, madness given form.
And in that moment, Selene knew.
This battle,this nightmare had only just begun.
The moment Amon stepped into the banquet hall, his breath hitched. His world narrowed to a single, all-consuming horror.
Bodies.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of children lay sprawled across the blood-drenched marble floor. Their heads, severed cleanly from their bodies, were scattered like discarded dolls. Mouths frozen mid-scream, eyes wide with terror, their last moments etched permanently in silence.
The scent of iron and rot choked the air, thick and cloying, pressing against his lungs. Blood dripped from the crystal chandeliers in slow, deliberate drops. The long banquet table, once filled with laughter and light, had become a grotesque altar of carnage—food overturned, goblets shattered, and bodies slumped over seats where nobility once dined.
His stomach twisted violently. His body convulsed. He retched. Everything he had eaten spilled onto the floor, lost in the sea of crimson. Yet the horror did not fade. It clung to him, seeped into his very bones, his mind refusing to comprehend the brutality before him.
His hands, trembling, pressed against the slick floor. Warm. Sticky. The blood soaked through his fingers, thick and congealing. The children had been dressed in their finest robes, delicate silks now ruined, embroidered family crests drowned in red.
Amon's breathing turned ragged, his vision tunneling.
Morals. Ethics. Right. Wrong.
None of it mattered.
Nothing could justify this massacre.
His nails dug into his palms, drawing fresh blood that mingled with the slaughter around him. He had seen death in games before, simulated tragedy on a screen, but this… this was different. This was real.
His grief burned away,leaving something colder in its place.
He cant lose.
*Not now.Not ever.*
He had been ready for this moment for thirteen years.
And he will survive.