Everything was confusing. Everything was chaos. His mind, his body, his very soul — fractured, incomplete, incongruent. And it hurt. Gods, it hurt. It was as if ten men were beating his chest with iron rods, while a million needles pierced into his brain.
He was going insane. He was reaching his end.
If he could, he would trade all his final acts for different ones. He would change the choices that had shaped who he was — because then, maybe, he wouldn't be going through the hell he was in now. But he couldn't. He never could. He had been forced to do what he did, to do what he was doing now, and to do what he was about to do.
It wasn't difficult. Five, ten, twenty, even a hundred men were nothing to his blade, to his skill. But that didn't mean he wanted to kill. It didn't even mean he could kill. No one kills without a reason.
Of course, he had a reason. But it wasn't noble, nor just. In truth, all he wanted was to create chaos, to be a distraction so his companions could move forward unharmed. It was the only choice he had to ensure things would go the way he hoped.
This way, his family would be safe. Sad, yes — but safe and prosperous. Eventually, they would overcome his death and the grief that came with it, and move on.
Still, that didn't make any of this easier.
As he looked around at the thirty men who surrounded him — hatred etched into every face — he couldn't help but feel a bit melancholic about his departure. He would never see his daughter grow up. He would never hold his wife again. And that consumed him.
But there was nothing left to do. He was surrounded, doomed to be captured and likely executed. Nothing could change that now.So he raised his hand to the sky and summoned his gift.
Flames burst from his palm, raced down his arm, and enveloped his body. Pain erupted again, splitting through his core. He felt himself burning alive, reduced to ash inch by inch. His life force seeped out of him like sand through open fingers.
He knew this was his limit — knew death was near.
And still, he pressed on.
The flames erupted from his body and flew outward, striking the faces of the men around him. One by one, they burned, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the night air. Some, however, dodged the fiery wave and retaliated — throwing stones, gusts of wind, liquids, and fire of their own.
He, on the other hand, summoned from the flames around him a fiery tornado, which shielded his skin, burned away the air he breathed, the air inside his lungs. The pain struck again, harsh and merciless, and he gripped his chest. He felt his heart beating so hard it thudded against his ribs. He felt the fire taking him over.
Even so, he kept fighting. He kept distracting his enemies, creating the widest opening possible for his allies to escape, so they could reach his family and deliver to them their prize.
But the enemy's attacks were relentless, unstoppable. Little by little, the tornado of flames weakened and faded. He felt his skin soak, burn, and get struck by stone projectiles that made him stagger. Still, he didn't stop hurling flames, enduring the unbearable pain of his own actions.
But he wasn't a god. He could never endure more than a man possibly could. And so, when the last flame died in his palm and the attacks finally ceased, he collapsed to his knees, exhausted.
His body was covered in bruises, inside and out. In pain. Burned. Broken.
But mercy did not exist in the hearts of those who faced him.They surrounded him immediately, drawing their blades, leveling them at his throat.
Looking down, however, he didn't see any of it. His thoughts weren't focused on the critical state he was in, but on his comrades — and his family. He wondered if what he'd done had been enough. If the destruction he'd caused was sufficient for his loved ones to escape and live freely.
In the end, surrounded by the people who would bring about his demise, he had no answers to his questions. All he could do was believe that the answers were the ones he hoped for.
Then, his hopeless gaze rose. Dozens of swords were aimed at his throat, and dozens of angry eyes stared at his scorched, exhausted face. At that moment, he realized that the hatred in their eyes wouldn't allow him to live long enough for a sentence. They would kill him right there, without even giving him the chance to speak, to defend himself.
Yet surprise was not one of the feelings he felt. After all the atrocities he had committed, it was only fair to expect injustice from justice.
Long ago, in fact, he had already accepted his fate — his death.
So, feeling the pain of his excesses overwhelming his muscles, his bones, he smiled a calm smile and closed his eyes, waiting for the blades to pierce his throat.
He regretted the choices that had led him there. But having made them, at the end of his life, he felt at peace — knowing he had done what he could to shape the future into something that resembled his dreams.