They say time hardens pain into strength. For Ragnorok, it didn't harden, it refined.Every battle, every scar, every sleepless night shaped him into something more than a man. He became a living symbol of endurance, the kind of person who stood when everyone else had fallen.
Ragnorok's reputation reached the royal court.By the time he was thirty, his name echoed across the five kingdoms, the warrior who never surrendered, the one whose will could not be broken.When the King of Asper summoned him to the palace, Ragnarok arrived not in a chariot, but on foot. His armor was plain, his sword old, but his eyes carried the calm of someone who had walked through storms and survived.
The King met him in the throne room. "They call you the Steel of Will," he said. "Do you fight for glory, Ragnarok?"
Ragnarok bowed his head. "No, Your Majesty. I fight so others don't have to."
That answer earned him a place among the royal guards, not as a soldier bound by titles, but as a man trusted by the King himself.
Years passed. Ragnorok protected nobles, trained young warriors, and led expeditions into cursed lands. But behind the armor, he was still that boy who had lost everything.When he wasn't fighting, he spent his days in the poorer parts of the city, handing out food, teaching street kids how to defend themselves, and fixing broken roofs with his bare hands.
Once, a little girl gave him a wilted flower. "For saving my brother," she said.He took it carefully, smiled, and tucked it into his armor. That single flower stayed with him for years, even during his last battle.
He never spoke much about his past, but sometimes, when the nights grew too quiet, he would sit by the training fields and talk to the stars."Mother," he would whisper, "I kept my promise. I didn't stay weak."
Those who saw him then never interrupted. They said there was a peace in his voice that didn't belong to this cursed world.
The older he grew, the heavier his sword felt, not from age, but from the weight of expectation.
People called him a hero, but heroes, he knew, were often lonely. He had no family, no home beyond the battlefield. His hands were meant to protect others, yet they had forgotten how to hold warmth.
One night, during a border war, he saved an entire squad of young soldiers by facing an ogre alone. When they returned to the capital, the King honored him publicly.But when Ragnarok looked into the crowd, he didn't see celebration, he saw fear. People admired his power, but they also feared it. To them, he was not a man anymore, he was a legend, something untouchable.
After the ceremony, the King approached him privately."You've given enough to this kingdom," he said. "You could rest. Live for yourself now."
Ragnarok smiled faintly. "I don't know how to rest, Your Majesty. If I stop moving, I'll start remembering."
The King nodded. "Then may your road lead you to peace, someday."
And so, Ragnarok left the palace once more.
Years later, when the Tournament of Hearts was announced, Ragnorok returned.He was older now, his hair streaked with gray, his body marked with old wounds. But his presence still made the air heavy, calm, powerful, unshakable.
He entered the tournament quietly, without revealing who he was.He fought in silence, relying not on speed or tricks, but pure will. Against fire mages, assassins, and beast-warriors, he stood tall. Even when his bones cracked and his blood spilled, he never took a step back.
People began whispering his name again. "It's him. The Steel of Will."
But Ragnorok didn't fight for fame anymore. Every battle reminded him of the boy he had been, hungry, scared, and angry at the world. Every victory was proof that he had kept his promise.He had stood tall when everything tried to break him.
Then came the final day, his fight against Amelia.
When she stepped into the arena, her silver hair glinting under the sun, he saw something familiar in her eyes: that same fire, that same loneliness.She was strong, but she carried pain behind her strength, the kind that only those who have suffered too much could understand.
As their swords clashed, Ragnarok realized something, she wasn't his enemy. She was his reflection.
Every blow she struck reminded him of his younger self. Every time she fell and stood again, his respect for her rise.When she finally used her last bit of strength and collapsed, he had already decided the outcome in his heart.
He didn't feel victorious when the bell rang.He felt proud.
He reached out his hand and said softly, "You are the strongest fighter I've ever met."
For the first time in years, he smiled.He thought his journey had finally found peace.
But fate wasn't done with him.
As he turned to face the cheering crowd, a strange chill ran through his body. He looked down and saw the faint glow of the sword, Amelia's blade and the red tear that fell from its eye.For a moment, he didn't understand. Then came the pain, sharp, cold, unstoppable.
He stumbled, one hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat fade. The cheers blurred into distant noise. He fell to his knees, then to the ground.As the world dimmed, he saw his mother's face again, smiling in the light of a fire that no longer burned.
He whispered his final words through a fading breath:"Thank you… Thank you for letting me stand this long."
When the people learned of his death, grief swept through Asper.Some called it a tragedy. Others called it fate. But the truth was simpler: a man who had never given up had finally been allowed to rest.
The King declared a week of mourning. His armor was placed in the royal hall, his sword above it, and beneath was carved a single line:
"He stood when the world fell, and for that, the world will remember."
Children were told stories of him before bed. Warriors spoke his name before battle. And somewhere, far beyond the curse and the chaos, perhaps his spirit stood once again in that burned village, looking up at the same red sky, whispering:
"Mother, Father… I did it. I kept my promise."