The battlefield reeked of blood and burning steel.
Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, the echoes of war fading into the cold night.
Arkens stood at the center of it all. His armor was cracked, his sword chipped, but his eyes still burned with the fire of a man who refused to fall. For years, he had fought for the kingdom — bled for it, killed for it, and nearly died for it countless times.
And tonight… he would be repaid with betrayal.
"Arkens," a familiar voice called from behind. He turned, relieved to see his oldest comrade, Darius, approaching through the mist.
But the relief vanished when he saw the drawn blade in Darius's hand.
"Orders," Darius said coldly. "The King… no longer trusts you."
The words pierced deeper than any sword. Arkens laughed bitterly, though his chest ached.
"I saved this kingdom more times than I can count… and this is my reward?"
Before Darius could answer, shadows emerged from the darkness — soldiers of the very army Arkens had led into countless victories. They surrounded him like wolves circling a wounded lion.
Arkens fought like the man he once was — the strongest warrior alive. Steel clashed, screams rang, and blood painted the earth. But even the mightiest cannot fight the world alone.
A spear drove through his side. His knees buckled. His vision blurred.
And as the world grew darker, the last thing Arkens saw was Darius walking away… without looking back.
When Arkens woke, he was not in the battlefield, nor in the afterlife. He lay in the ruins of a burned village, his body broken, his name tarnished, and everything he once fought for… gone.
That night, Arkens died.
But from his ashes, something darker — and stronger — would rise.