In a narrow pass between two mountains stood a lone man. He was slender, black-haired, wearing a knight's armor soaked in blood, surrounded by countless corpses—both demons and humans. The grotesque sight of hundreds of bodies piled atop one another, and the nauseating stench filling the air, made it clear that a brutal battle had been fought in that place.
The man dropped to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes, and whispered,"What was the purpose of everything we did? Protecting those we love? Most of us lost the ones we loved."
He gripped his massive sword, white and yellow in color, and tried to stab himself to end his suffering, but in the end he stopped."You still want to see me break even more, don't you?" the man shouted.He wasn't speaking to people, but to phantoms in his mind—phantoms of those he loved, phantoms of the people he failed to protect, and those who died because of his disastrous decisions. They still forced him to stay alive and live in this ruined world.
"At the heart of humanity's struggle to defend those it loves lies hope. The hope that love will remain an unbreakable fortress, and that fighting for it gives life an unconquerable meaning. But when one is stripped of their loved ones, nothing remains but the echo of emptiness and the silence of pain gnawing at the soul. There, courage is no longer measured by the number of victories, but by the ability to stand amid the ruins of what was lost. Perhaps pain is the last soldier in life's battle, carrying the burden of memories that never die, teaching us that love is not measured by survival, but by faith that the souls of those who departed remain a beacon in the darkness."
It was not a single collapse, but a sequence of small ones. Every memory pressed down, then shattered, then he barely gathered himself again. He opened his eyes to find the present smaller than the pain, and closed them to find the past larger than his body. Many times he wished his heartbeat would stop, but it didn't. He remained for a reason he himself could not understand.
He leaned on his sword to stand, then began to walk. He looked at the bodies of his friends and said,"I lost my loved ones first, then I lost the reason that once raised my sword. I did not fight demons out of hatred for them, but because behind me were faces that deserved life. When they fell, every victory became hollow, and every drop of blood shed had no witness. The enemy did not disappear, but its meaning collapsed within me. The sword is still in my hand, heavier than I can bear. Combat was a promise of protection, then it became proof of my failure. Love once defined the direction of each strike, and without it, the goal was lost. I stand before demons and see nothing but emptiness behind them. My survival after them was not courage—it was punishment. Every battle I fight postpones my admission of loss. I no longer ask how I will win, but why I continue."
And here his true conflict began—not with demons, but with staying alive.
He looked up at the "clear sky," the only thing untouched by this world's ruin, yet all he saw in it was mockery. Why? Because the sky was constant, while he had changed completely.
When you lose everything, your eyes search for proof that shares your brokenness. The sky does not break; it remains as it is, creating a painful contradiction. Its stability feels like cosmic indifference to your loss. It feels as though the world continued without stopping to acknowledge your pain. The light above you seems undeserved, as if it were granted to those who did not lose. In that moment, beauty turns into provocation, and serenity feels like silent laughter at your inner ruin. Not because the sky is cruel, but because you expect it to mourn. And when it doesn't, you interpret its silence as mockery.
He slowly lowered his head. Anger was no longer present; even sorrow had begun to fade. What remained was not a feeling, but a vast emptiness in his chest. He suddenly realized he no longer knew who he was without them. He no longer knew whether this body belonged to him, or was merely a vessel carrying the remnants of old decisions. The name shouted in battles had lost its meaning. The hand that had gripped the sword thousands of times no longer felt its weight—or its necessity.
He had not only lost his loved ones; he had lost the version of himself that fought for them. He looked at his reflection on the blade. He did not see a hero, nor a survivor. He saw a man who had been late to death, nothing more. He said softly, as if confessing for the first time,"I no longer know why I breathe."
He took a step, then another, over bodies he could no longer distinguish. He no longer told friend from foe. All faces had become the same. The blood was the same. The silence was the same. Here began his true loss—not the loss of the dead, but the loss of himself among them. He no longer feared death, nor desired it; it had become neutral, just as he had.
He continued walking, not because he chose life, but because he found no sufficient reason to stop. He walked slowly among the corpses, as if his legs moved on their own while his awareness lagged a step behind his body. Pain was no longer a scream; it had become a heavy calm accompanying every breath. When screaming ends, understanding begins. He finally stopped—not from exhaustion, but from acknowledging the weight of what remained—and raised his head toward the clear sky. He did not feel sadness; he felt insulted. The world had not broken him—the world had moved past him and gone on.
He clenched his sword and muttered softly,"When I lost what I loved, I became a punishment for this world."It was not a sentence of rage, but a conclusion. He took another step and thought,"Since this world has taken everything I ever cared about, I will take from it everything it has."He looked at the serenity above him as if his eyes were challenging it, then added,"And since the sky mocks me with its clarity, I will teach it the taste of loss."
The faces that had haunted him disappeared. He no longer saw loved ones or the dead. In their place settled a solid emptiness that asked for neither mercy nor meaning. As he walked, he realized that the conflict was no longer with demons, nor with the world, but with remaining alive after everything that tied him to life had ended. In that moment, he was no longer a guardian nor a hero; he became a scale that imposed a price, a consciousness moving toward breaking what the world believed to be unchanging.
After finishing, he noticed a familiar sight he hadn't immediately recognized. It did not appear as a city, nor as a destination. What he felt first was a change in rhythm. His steps slowed for no clear reason. The air was no longer open as it had been between the mountains; it was stifled, as if the place had been holding its breath for a long time.
Then he saw it. Low, scattered houses, not aligned in rows, not protected by walls. Everything looked temporary, as if someone had said, "We'll stay here for one night," and then years had passed. The wood was decayed, the stone unpolished. No sign of decoration or comfortable life—just survival.
As he drew closer, faces began to appear, not all at once. A head peeking from behind a door, an eye from a narrow window, a child quickly pulled inside. They did not flee, nor did they welcome him. They stopped at the edge of anticipation—the kind of silence born when people have nothing but hope, and fear losing it.
He entered among them without speaking. He felt their gazes weighing on his back. They were not looks of fear, but of burden, as if his mere presence had become a promise he had not made. He understood instantly, and his pain deepened. They did not see a man returned from battle; they saw a reason to endure. And he knew, more than ever, that he no longer knew how to be that.
From the first moment, they knew who he was. They did not choose him; they remembered him. His name preceded his steps. Fragmented old stories had reached them—of a man who stood when others collapsed. When he entered, they did not ask what to do, but when to begin.
He led them because they pushed him into it without words. He assigned guards, set water schedules, decided who went out and who stayed. His voice was not loud, but it was final. They obeyed before he finished speaking. He saw in their eyes a painful relief, as if they had handed their fear to one person so they could breathe.
They slept because they assumed he was awake. They made mistakes because they trusted he would fix them. Every survival was attributed to him; every new morning clung to his name. And with each day, he felt something being slowly taken from him—not strength, but the right to collapse.
At night, he stood on the edges of the settlement, watching the darkness alone. He heard brief laughter behind him—laughter he no longer knew how it was born. He knew his presence had given them a reason, and he also knew that this reason was consuming him alive. He said to himself in a voice that no longer carried hope,"I protect them because they cannot bear the truth. And the truth is that if I stop for even a moment, everything will collapse—and I will be the first."
He walked beyond the houses, but their images did not leave him: sleeping faces, hands reassured because his sword was near. He realized something that unsettled him. This world does not ask for justice, nor for salvation. It only asks to continue, whatever the cost—even if that cost is a human being slowly consumed.
He remembered the battle in the pass. Remembered how they fell one by one, not because they made mistakes, but because the world allows mistakes to be repeated. The demons were not the only evil. The true evil was this order that makes loss acceptable as long as it is distributed—makes pain individual so the system can remain standing.
He paused and looked at his sword. At last, he understood why he could not stab himself. Not because he had hope, but because his death would be comfortable for the world. He would become a story. He would be used as heroes always are—as proof that sacrifice is enough.
Here, the creed formed without grand words. He would not be an easy sacrifice, and he would not grant the world a clean ending. If this world lives by pushing individuals forward and then swallowing them in silence, he would refuse to be swallowed. He would remain in filthy places, in battles that are never told, in decisions cities never applaud—not to protect everyone, but to sabotage the world's habit of continuing at the expense of others.
He said to himself as he walked,"I will not be the hope they lean on. I will be the obstacle that reminds them survival is not free."
At dawn the next day, the man asked one of his aides who managed the settlement's affairs to summon the users of "Noeima" for an important meeting.
That evening, the man met five individuals in a secret underground cellar:
Ashura, a Noeima user of "Blood Engineering," distinguished by his massive muscular build, with both hair and skin bearing a blood-red hue.
Ilsa, a Noeima user of "Atomic Healing." Her skin was pure white, suggesting origins in the northern snowy region of Ragona. Her eyes were green, and she was characterized by gentleness.
Naiv, a Noeima user of "Seline," a man of average height with a lean yet taut body, emphasizing agility over raw strength. His skin was slightly pale, his dark hair combed in a messy manner. He possessed a complex personality—sharp, shaded by harsh pragmatism, a strategic mind that analyzed every situation coldly and allowed no emotion to influence his decisions.
Mir, a Noeima user of "Siloren," a quiet and gentle girl, small to medium in size, with a slim and simple build that moved with natural spontaneity. Her long dark hair gave an impression of meekness and softness.
Zorim, a Noeima user of "Milkar," tall, with a lean body and well-balanced muscles. He wielded a long, thin sword, its blade slightly straight and extremely sharp, designed for precise thrusting and cutting rather than brute force. The hilt was long for excellent balance, allowing quick angle changes and smooth strikes while maintaining full control of the weapon in any confrontation.
Ashura stepped forward and said:"Did you truly fail?"