Chapter 1
Lying on my back, I see the canvas-like sky covered in a spread of blue—a peaceful color. Scattered across this vast expanse are white, fluffy clouds, drifting lazily like thoughts on a summer afternoon. What a last sight to behold! Yet, I know that beneath this beautiful sky, screams and cries echo amid the silent, last thoughts of soldiers who have valiantly fought to protect their homeland. At least I can die and see the beautiful sky. It offers a strange solace, a serene backdrop to the brutal ballet of war unfolding below.
The peaceful sky above bears witness to the many soldiers below, staring into its depths, finding a sense of tranquility in the exchange between life and death for those who have fallen. It is a silent observer, a constant presence amidst the chaotic transience of the battlefield. Perhaps they see in it a reflection of the peace they long for, a promise of an afterlife beyond the bloodshed. Perhaps it is simply a reminder of the beauty they are fighting to protect.
The last surviving soldier wears a solemn expression, hopelessness creeping in like a chilling fog. He is a lone tree in a forest felled by a raging storm. The illusion of victory has shattered, the grand pronouncements of glory now hollow echoes in the face of devastating loss. They had charged with courage, fueled by patriotism and camaraderie, but the enemy army, a relentless tide, has swept them back, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered dreams.
The clash of steel and anger subsides, leaving a canvas below soaked in red. The ground, once green and vibrant, is now a macabre tapestry woven with blood and death. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, the last soldier, burdened by the weight of survival, screams in rage, swinging his chipped sword with desperate abandon. He doesn't want to be the only one left. He wants to join his brothers in arms, to share their fate, to escape the unbearable solitude of being the sole witness to this tragedy. He yearns for the oblivion they now embrace, a release from the guilt and pain that gnaw at his soul.
Unfortunately for him, the hero arrives. Clad in silver armor that gleams even under the dull, smoke-filled sky, she catches the eyes of all. Her entrance is not met with relief, not with the cheers one might expect at the arrival of salvation. Strangely, the expression on everyone's face worsens, including the final soldier's. A wave of dread washes over the battlefield, silencing the last gasps of the dying. She, the hero, is a harbinger of something far more terrifying than defeat.
As she walks forwards, her steps measured and deliberate, the enemy army retreats in fear, their earlier ferocity collapsing into abject terror. Their efforts were in vain. Their victory, so close at hand, is snatched away not by superior strategy or renewed resolve, but by the sheer, unadulterated power radiating from this single figure. Surrender is not an option; mercy is a foreign concept. She slaughters everyone. Even those who throw down their arms, begging for their lives, fall victim to her relentless onslaught.
The scene in front of the soldier saddens him, fills him with a profound sense of despair. His comrades are avenged, yes, but at what cost? He bears a miserable expression, a canvas of grief painted across his face. This isn't the victory they fought for. This isn't the liberation they dreamed of. This is something far darker, something that stains the very soul of the kingdom they swore to protect.
She approaches him, her silver armor tarnished red, a grim testament to the carnage she has wrought. Her face is hidden behind her helmet, but he can sense her gaze upon him, assessing, analyzing.
She gazes down and sees a broken man uninjured yet fighting between life and death. she thinks to herself, are they the only survivors? How do I console them? What would my brother say? The questions swirl in her mind, picture what her dear brother would say to the lone soldier.
She finally speaks, her voice devoid of emotion, a monotone pronouncement that echoes across the desolate landscape. "The kingdom praises you for surviving… Keep working hard."
The soldier stood there, rooted to the spot, his face a mask of disbelief. The words are hollow, empty platitudes that offer no comfort, no explanation, no solace. His expression does not change. The weight of his loss, the horror of what he has witnessed, cannot be erased with such facile pronouncements. He has seen too much, lost too much, to be swayed by empty praise.
The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the distant caw of a crow, a morbid reminder of the feast that awaits. He struggles to find his voice, to articulate the rage and despair that consume him. Finally, the dam breaks.
"Bullshit!" he roars, his voice cracking with emotion. "Why did it take you so long to get here? So many died because of you… Andrew, Jared, Lacy, Henry, and Regard! They're all dead! They were all so strong, so why'd they die? Why'd I survive?"
His words are laced with bitterness, with the raw, unfiltered pain of a man pushed beyond his breaking point. He doesn't want praise, doesn't want recognition. He wants answers, wants to understand the senselessness of it all. He wants his friends back. He wants the world to make sense again.
The hero remains unmoved, her posture unwavering. Her response is cold, clinical, devoid of empathy. "You should be happy. They died for the kingdom and lived for the kingdom. Their deaths were necessary for us to win. Remember why we fight… why we live. It's for the kingdom!"
Her words are a mantra, a justification for the brutal reality of war. The individual lives are insignificant, disposable in the grand scheme of the kingdom's survival. Their deaths are not a tragedy but a sacrifice, a necessary price to pay for the greater good.
The soldier's eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing the celebratory atmosphere as he listened to the kingdom's hero speak of their glorious victory. But to him, her words were nothing more than a cruel mockery, a hollow attempt to justify the senseless slaughter that had unfolded before his eyes.
He looked around at the carnage, at the mangled bodies of his friends, at the blood-soaked earth, and saw only waste. The kingdom she spoke of seemed distant, abstract, a cold and uncaring entity that demanded sacrifice without offering solace. He felt a growing sense of anger and betrayal, his mind reeling with the realization that he and his comrades had been nothing more than lambs sent to the slaughter, sacrifices for a flawed and flawless victory.
"How can you speak of glory and victory when the cost has been so high?" he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "What is the value of a kingdom that demands the lives of its own sons and daughters, only to discard them like rubbish?"
The hero's demeanor faltered. "You would do well to remember your place, soldier," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You have served the kingdom, and the kingdom has given you purpose. Do not question its wisdom."
But the soldier would not be silenced. "Purpose?" he repeated, his voice rising in outrage. "Is this what we call purpose? To be used and discarded like pawns in a game? To be sent to our deaths without so much as a thought for our well-being?"
The hero's aura turned cold. "You will not speak of the kingdom in such a manner," she hissed. "You will not question its authority."
But the soldier would not be swayed. "I will speak the truth," he said, his voice ringing out across the battlefield. "I will speak of the waste, the carnage, the senseless slaughter. I will speak of the kingdom's indifference to the lives of its own people."
The hero's aura boiled in rage, and she raised her sword its blade flashing in the sunlight.
"You have spoken treason," the hero spat. "You will pay the price for your insolence."
The soldier did not flinch, even as the hero approached him, sword raised. He knew that he would die for his words, but he would not be silenced. He would not be swayed.
"I would rather die than serve a kingdom that values its own power above the lives of its people," he said, his voice steady.
The hero's sword flashed down, and the soldier felt a searing pain in his chest. He fell to the ground, his vision fading to black.
As he lay there, he knew that he had spoken the truth. He had spoken of the waste, the carnage, the senseless slaughter. And for that, he had been slain. But he also knew that he had been free, free to speak his mind, free to question the authority of the kingdom.
And in that moment, he knew that he had truly lived.
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