We were thrown, without warning, into a tiny village that seemed asleep — but the moment they saw us, the calm was torn apart.
The people didn't scream: they roared.
They didn't hesitate: they attacked us with the fury of those who have lost everything.
Their eyes were blades, their hands were storms. The air turned to steel and dust, and before I could understand, we were already fighting.
I resisted. We resisted.
With every fiber of our bodies, with every technique learned through years of pain, with every spark of hope buried in our chests.
Blow after blow, magic against magic, flesh against flesh.
We were wolves surrounded by rivers of wolves.
And still, we didn't retreat.
But it was useless.
The tide didn't stop.
They outnumbered us — in rage, in hunger for blood.
Every gaze was a sentence, every weapon, a judgment.
One by one, my brothers fell — like trees cut down in the heart of a storm.
They fell with eyes wide open, staring at a sky that refused to answer.
They fell covered in mud, sweat, and blood.
I saw them fall. I saw them break. I saw them fade.
I watched their last breaths dissolve into the air like smoke, and I knew my voice would never reach them.
Until only I remained.
Only me.
A piece of flesh standing in the middle of a sea of corpses and rage.
My legs trembled like old branches.
My arms burned, my wounds gaped open like thirsty mouths across my skin.
My forehead wouldn't stop bleeding — hot, red drops clouding my sight.
My breath was a trapped beast inside my chest, gasping, erratic.
And my mind was fog — a thin thread barely keeping me upright.
I kept fighting.
I kept swinging.
My sword was no longer a sword — it was a weight, an extension of my broken will.
Until no one was left.
The figures that had surrounded me, that had attacked me with so much hate, now lay still.
Hands open. Mouths open. Eyes open.
The ground was mud, blood, and ash.
There were no screams, only a silence so thick it felt solid.
And there, in the middle of it all, I realized—
Why keep fighting?
There was no reason left.
No one left.
I avenged my brothers, yes.
But I didn't save them.
I wasn't enough.
That truth bit into my heart with invisible teeth.
With remorse as a knife buried in my chest, I raised my sword.
I pointed it at my heart, feeling the cold of the metal against my skin.
I wanted to end it.
I wanted to silence this echo of failure and blood.
Then — he appeared.
I don't know from where.
A silent figure, a shadow made of flesh.
His eyes were empty wells, pure ice.
His presence was a different kind of silence — heavy, final.
He didn't speak. He didn't breathe. He simply was.
At first, I ignored him; I thought he was a ghost, a delusion born from exhaustion.
But in the blink of an eye, he vanished — and the next instant, he was behind me.
His hand tore the sword from my grip as if it weighed nothing.
His fingers — cold — wrapped around the blade and my arms.
And with one sharp, impossible pull, he ripped both my arms from their roots.
I fell.
The ground received me with a dull thud.
The pain was a white blaze, absolute, consuming.
My stumps bled uncontrollably — red streams staining the earth and my breath.
The figure stood still, watching me from above, holding my arms as if they were firewood.
One of them still clutched my sword — uselessly.
Then he threw them far away — so far I couldn't even see where they fell.
Like trash.
As if my struggle, my life, meant nothing.
And then he summoned something.
A spear.
Long, golden, radiant — it was concentrated light, the sun forged into an edge.
It didn't burn. It didn't hum. But it weighed upon the air like a vow.
He walked toward me without a word.
His steps were slow, inevitable — like the last beats of a dying heart.
He placed the tip of the spear on my back, exactly over my heart, as if he had always known where to strike.
Our eyes met.
And there — I saw myself reflected.
I saw my own emptiness in his pupils.
I saw my defeats, my weariness, my regret.
Perhaps he felt the same.
Perhaps he had no soul.
Perhaps, like me, he just wanted it all to end.
The spear began to pierce my back.
The pain was sharp, pure — like glass shattering inside me.
But I didn't scream.
I didn't protest.
I had no strength left to fight.
Nothing left to save.
I accepted the end.
And then, without a single word, the spear went through both hearts — his and mine.
A line of light, a bridge of death between two empty bodies.
We died together.
Without remorse.
Without glory.
Without promises.
Just two defeated souls, finding their end… in each other.