"Alone I remain, conqueror of all. Wholeheartedly I exist as the embodiment of power, the memories of my last life continuing to push me forward with an unyielding ambition that stretches into eternity. This corrupt realm, I vow to rid humanity of, cleansing its deep darkness that permeates throughout the realms of creation. To safeguard humanity and protect all that is precious; that is my duty, the duty with whom I must hold my domain to."
There stood a tall figure amidst the battlefield of bloody ruin, upon an over-aching cliff with a single chasm that cleaved the earth in two. It seemed to be from an unnaturally vast wound, honestly; one wouldn't be able to discern its impossible origins if they weren't capable of sensing the deep ether that bled from the chasm or had been there mere moments before to bear witness to its birth.
Regardless of the spectacle what laid beyond it was a sight to behold, on the other side of the chasm lay mangled corpses of abominations, creatures whom had once sought to defy humanity, only to be consumed by utter devastation. The earth itself was steeped in their foul blood, their grotesque forms sprawled in endless defeat across the shattered terrain of the Abyss realm. But the Warborn King stood untouched, a sovereign above all the chaos
.
His golden armor shined with a golden glow the only unique color under this bruised and indifferent sky. Though he had waded through war, and with one swing cut down millions of abominations, and carved through the earth itself, not a single drop of blood from his enemies stained his honorable armor.
A towering greatsword was embedded in the ground beside him this was his most trusted companion one he had since the first major shift in his story. Its divine steel drenched in the lifeblood of the fallen quenched by the souls of its victims. Crimson, black, and hues of the unnatural dripped from its edges, yet beneath it all, the blade pulsed with a quiet, lively ethereal glow with not even a single flaw, or wound to exist upon it. It was a reflection of him, untouched, and unconquered.
The Warborn King endured many battles, growing weary by the mundane cycle that which the world forced upon him his duties and promises he had to upheld.
Another battle must be won. And another step must come forward.
And yet, as he stood in the silence of the dead, he felt nothing.
No triumph. No satisfaction.
Only an aching void. His promises, once sacred, had become nothing more than the last remnants tethering him to existence.
He turned away from the abyss of corpses, his long coat trailing behind him, never once touching the blood-soaked ground. With each step, the stains that had clung to him slipped away, vanishing as if reality itself refused to let him be tainted.
Even war that which held his dominion itself could not reach him.
Before him, stretching across the horizon, stood thousands of soldiers. Men and women of his empire, their armors polished and untouched, weapons in hand, all standing with perfect posture baring witness to the tyrannical power of their Emperor. They had all arrived in formation, prepared for battle, yet not a single one of them had lifted their swords.
Only silence held them.
Then—
"The Warborn King!"
The cry rang out.
Once.
Twice.
And then, like an unbroken tide, the chant rose.
"The Warborn King! The Warborn King! The Warborn King!"
Their voices swelled in reverence, a worshipful song, a declaration of supremacy.
He did not react.
How many times had he heard this before? How many times had he seen them kneel, bowing before the one who wielded dominion over reality itself? How sickening is it that he had all of this power yet none to share it with? no one to understand who he truly was? Only existing as a figure for all of these people.
The chants meant nothing to him.
Because not a single one of them saw him.
But then—
Among the faceless thousands, a single presence did stand out.
A girl he never expected to see here.
Among the thousands who chanted his name, who stood in unwavering formation with their armor gleaming in perfection, only she stood apart.
A single presence, unbowed, unchanged.
She had always been different.
She was no older than him. No different from the last time they had stood together as children, before the weight of conquest had swallowed the boy he once was, before the crown had settled upon his head, before his hands had been stained with the blood of countless realms.
Before his overwhelming ambition became his shell of over encompassing failure.
His childhood friend.
The only one who had never feared him.
Never revered him.
Never called him Emperor first.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, something inside him stirred—a flicker of warmth, a brief moment of humanity in a life that had long abandoned such things. Flashes of the past flowing through his mind. The memory of his old cohort, the memories of his past life, the memories of the girl who didn't seem like anybody else, unique in her own way but not devoured by the relentless ambition of the other divines, a normal girl who was not cursed with the memories of her past. A girl he was deeply close to in the orphaned home he grew up in Asy***, a place that filled Warborn Kings mind with wicked memories.
He stepped forward.
She did the same.
And for a fleeting moment, the weight of his empire, the burden of his cheat, the endless march of war—it all faded.
There was only her.
And then—
She called out to him.
"Emperor $#%##!" An unknown sound played out after she called out to him in his title, yet the Emperor paid it no mind.
The title landed between them like a chasm it held his full focus.
His steps slowed.
He had braced himself for many things—for a scolding, for nostalgia, for the warmth of familiarity—but not for that.
His title.
Not just his name but she spoke to him in honorifics.
A quiet ache pressed into his chest.
And yet, he forced a smile, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Is that how you greet an old friend now?"
She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard.
Then, her lips curved into a small smirk. "It suits you, doesn't it, you have always been an ambitious one compared to everyone else?"
He chuckled, though it felt hollow. "I suppose it does."
She walked toward him, stopping just close enough that he could see the way her eyes softened at the edges, the faintest trace of familiarity there. "You've grown into it well, you know."
He exhaled slowly. "Have I?"
"You have." she paused.
"Look at you," Her gaze traveled across his face, searching. "You look… exactly the same."
He allowed himself a teasing smirk. "I'd say the same for you, but I doubt you'd take it as a compliment."
She scoffed, crossing her arms. "I don't know whether to take that as flattery or an insult."
"I meant it as neither."
"Of course you did you were never one who could woe a girl." she chuckled and then, there was a pause.
A silence that was not uncomfortable, but heavy, nonetheless.
For a moment, he allowed himself to believe it was just like before.
Two old friends, talking as if time had never stolen their days together.
But the weight in his chest remained.
Because something had changed.
Because she had called him Emperor first.
Because of everything he has sacrificed to get where he was.
He knew it was natural. He knew that was who he was now, that the boy she had once known had long since faded beneath his crown, beneath the divine cheat that had shaped him into what he had become.
But still.
Still—
It hurt.
"…Do you ever miss it?" he asked suddenly, his voice quieter than before.
She raised a brow. "Miss what?"
His gaze flickered toward the horizon. "Before all of this? Remember the orphanage."
Her expression shifted. Just a little.
A quiet sadness but also a weird fear.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "But it's different now. We're different now, and also I can't really remember much about that place, I only remember everyone else"
He nodded, though he wasn't sure if he agreed.
Maybe she had changed. Maybe the world had changed. But he definitely agreed on the topic of forgetting what the Orphanage really was. It felt like his memory was veiled by something, but it was in the past he head it no mind.
He continued to think about what it meant to change, he had to disagree.
He had only ever become more of what he already was.
He stopped his thinking pausing for a moment.
"…You still never bow, aren't you are before an Emperor." His voice was light, almost amused.
She smirked. "Would you want me to?"
His smile was small. "No."
Another pause.
She exhaled, shifting her stance. "It's been too long."
He met her eyes. "Yes. It has."
And yet—
Even as he said it, a part of him hesitated.
Had it truly been that long? Or had time simply dulled the weight of absence?
She tilted her head, watching him closely. "You look… tired."
He blinked. It was such a simple statement, but it caught him off guard more than it should have.
"I—"
And then—
She spoke his name.
"$#%##!" she called out in a funny tone trying to capture his wandering mind.
And yet—
He didn't hear it.
His breath hitched.
His smirk faltered.
The syllables—they twisted.
Like a smudged ink stain over parchment.
Like a sound snatched away by the wind before it could settle into his ears.
His name was there, he knew it was there, but he couldn't grasp it.
His heart stopped.
A pause. A hesitation that shouldn't have existed.
"…What?"
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
His mouth felt dry.
Something wasn't right.
Something was wrong.
'I was focused on her calling me Emperor earlier but wasn't my name obscured with an uncertain sound? What's going on..' His mind raced with questions.
"You…" He tried to steady his voice. "Say it again."
She blinked. "What?"
"My name." He swallowed. "Say it again."
She did.
And yet—
It twisted, blurred, the syllables warping before they could form something recognizable.
Nothing.
No sound.
No recognition.
There it confirmed there was an unmistakable emptiness where his name should have been.
As if she had opened her mouth, and the world had swallowed his name before it could be spoken.
His pulse quickened.
His chest felt tight.
"Say it again."
She hesitated this time. "Are you all right?"
He almost didn't hear her. His mind was racing, clawing at explanations.
His name wasn't gone. It couldn't be gone.
It had been spoken countless times. Chanted. Written in the annals of history.
And yet—
He couldn't hear it.
If his name had been obscured—
Then—
With growing dread, he spoke.
Or rather—
He tried to.
His lips moved.
He called her name—
But no sound came.
Not even silence.
It was nothing.
A void.
A vast and terrible emptiness where something should have been.
His breath caught.
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
But his voice—
His voice was gone.
His hands clenched into fists.
His throat burned, but nothing came.
The air around him felt heavier. Suffocating.
Something was happening to him.
Something he did not understand.
And then—
She stepped back.
His stomach dropped.
Her expression had changed.
It wasn't just confusion anymore.
It was fear.
"…Why are you looking at me like that?"
His own voice sounded distant.
Like it wasn't his anymore.
Her hand went to her sword.
And she drew it.
A blade she had never once pointed at him.
Not in battle. Not in training. Not in anger.
But now—
She wielded it as if she were standing before a stranger.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The words cut into him deeper than any blade.
His fingers twitched.
"What?"
"I said," she hissed, her grip white-knuckled on her sword, "who are you? Reveal yourself now."
His body turned to ice.
A sickness, slow and creeping, crawled into his bones.
"No, it's me." His voice shook. "you know its It's me. Don't you remember me? Don't you remember the Orphanage? the academy? the first trial? we were there together with everyone with the 8 no was it 7 other members of the cohort did you forget?"
But she only looked at him with growing hostility.
As if she had never known him.
As if she had never met him.
Then—
A voice.
"Gosh, I hate you dirty divine cheat users. I wish you would just cease to exist, you even had to make me involve Layla? are you serious? just drop dead already"
A whisper.
A venomous sneer.
His instincts roared.
He turned.
Faster than thought.
And yet—
There was nothing.
Only darkness.
And then—
The world collapsed.
His empire.
His soldiers.
The sky.
Shattering. Everything crumbled, breaking apart into infinite, spiraling fragments.
His body felt weightless.
Unraveling.
Thread by thread, his vision spun wildly, akin to the disorienting sensation of a head severed from its body, tumbling through the air in a grotesque, lifeless arc.
His soul felt as if it was being pulled apart at the seams of reality itself.
His hands grasped at the air, desperate to hold onto something—anything.
But there was nothing.
No ground beneath him.
No sky above him.
His friend's horrified gaze was the last thing he saw—
Before even she disappeared.
Then—
Oblivion.
The Warborn King was gone.
His name was erased.
His face was erased.
His voice was erased.
His existence—
Unmade.
The empire did not mourn.
The world did not remember.
There was no grief,
no longing,
no trace of what had been lost.
Only a void where something had once been.
And the world moved on.
As if he had never existed at all.