The twelve princes stand before their thrones, utterly helpless. Their vast armies—only moments ago the most terrifying force on earth—now lie across the battlefield, calm, safe, at peace.
"What is this magic?"
Dara Balan roared.
But his roar no longer carried its former power. Because the smoke had reached him as well. Images from his childhood surfaced in his mind—when he had been nothing more than an ordinary child.
The smoke did not merely force weapons to fall—it placed a question in the heart of every soldier:
"Are you truly a warrior, or are you a dreamer who has lost his way?"
In searching for the answer, every soldier discovered their true self.
The smoke made them realise what war truly is. It is a misunderstanding stretched across generations. It is pride, gambling with thousands of lives; it is fear, pretending to be stronger than love.
Every soldier discovered that peace is not weakness—it is the highest form of courage. Because protecting peace requires more bravery than fighting, forgiveness is harder than revenge, and love is stronger than hatred.
Under the influence of the smoke, the soldiers made a new decision; they would no longer fight. Instead, they would return home. They would spend precious moments with their families and strive to make the world more beautiful.
The twelve princes stood alone. Their vast armies were now only memories. They realised that the brilliance of power cannot surpass the softness of love, the glory of kingship fades beside the depth of friendship, and piles of victory are meaningless compared to the purity of peace.
Kalab taught the world that the most powerful weapon is love, the greatest victory is winning hearts, and the noblest war is the struggle for peace.
"Remember who you are. Whenever the clouds of war gather, whenever the fire of hatred ignites, you will remember Kalab—whose smoke made humans human once more."
*****
Samardun.
But when the smoke of mercy reached the Samardun warriors, something unbelievable happened.
The smoke did not touch them.
As if an invisible armour surrounded them—a storm-forged shell, a shield of darkness. The smoke halted before them, then split apart, like a river flowing around stone.
While the soldiers of the Twelve Kingdoms laid down their weapons one by one, while they lay upon the ground in the embrace of peace, the Samardun warriors remained standing—unyielding, unmoved.
There was no change in their eyes. Their swords remained firm in their hands. Their wings stayed spread, ready to cast the shadow of death.
Why?
Because of the combined magic of Barzak and Bahar.
Barzak stood before his army. The smoke swirled around him and passed on, unable to touch him. There was no mercy in his blue eyes, no regret.
He watched as the enemy forces fell silent one after another. Yet there was no surprise on his face, no frustration. Only a cold smile—as if he had known this would happen all along.
"Interesting."
he said softly.
Now two powers face one another on the battlefield.
On one side, Kalab's smoke—symbol of peace, messenger of love, embodiment of mercy. Its touch restored humanity to thousands of warriors.
On the other side, the Samardun race.
A silent rivalry.
The smoke tried once more to reach the Samardun. But they stood like an unbreakable wall. A ring of darkness seemed to form around them.
Barzak and Bahar looked at each other.
At that very moment, an icy sensation swept through the air. The smoke retreated, as if warmth itself had suddenly vanished.
Terrifying silence. An unnatural stillness descended upon the battlefield.
Nature itself seemed confused by the presence of these two opposing forces. The air turned warm at times (under the influence of the smoke), then suddenly ice-cold (under the influence of Samardun). Clouds shifted from white to black; the earth trembled—sometimes with compassion, sometimes with fear.
Barzak stepped forward. His voice now carried only frozen resolve:
"Mercy is a beautiful thing. But we did not come for beauty.
We came for victory. And victory knows no mercy."
He drew his sword half an inch from its sheath. At that sound—the entire battlefield trembled.
The wind no longer flowed. The birds fell silent. Even the murmur of the river seemed to retreat. Only the faint clinking of Samardun armour could be heard, and Barzak's deep breathing, somewhere far away the lonely cry of the wind.
One by one, the proud banners began to drift down to the ground, soft as feathers.
The fall of the banners of the Twelve Kingdoms.
Dara Balan's banner of flame—once a symbol of terror—now settled gently upon the grass like an autumn leaf.
Gamar Balan's steel banner—whose grey once signified invincibility—now floated down like a fragment of cloud.
Medan Balan's poisonous green banner—now cool and harmless, like a young leaf of the forest.
Barzak's silent victory.
Barzak stood like a quiet conqueror. He did not celebrate, did not cry out in triumph. Because this outcome had been inevitable.
His blue eyes surveyed the entire battlefield.
Thousands of enemy soldiers—now harmless, unarmed. Their weapons lay scattered on the ground, while they themselves were lost in dreams.
The valley that moments ago had echoed with fire and screams of blood now lay drowned in deep silence. As if the world itself had stopped breathing, waiting.
The warriors of the Twelve Kingdoms now wandered through a realm of dreams. They lay still, but smiles of peace rested on their faces. They saw their loved ones, felt the warmth of home.
But the Samardun army stood like an unshakable mountain. Their presence felt eternal, as if they would stand here forever.
"This is how all wars end," Barzak thought to himself. "The victor is the one who remains standing to the end."