His breathing was steady—deep and rhythmic—amidst the silence of a battlefield still thick with smoke and dust from the earlier explosion. The air carried a suffocating mix of scorched earth, burning metal, and blood—a scent so strong it pressed down on his chest like the weight of memory. Through the shroud of gray clouds above, sunlight pierced faintly, falling upon his white-and-gold robe. It gleamed faintly, a glimmer of purity amid ruin and death.
Sentrie slowly raised his hand. Power stirred within him—a quiet, radiant energy not merely of battle but of unwavering resolve. A faint golden glow began to ripple from his skin, scattering like dust motes in the air before converging around him into a thin luminous shield. The hum of the energy was soft, like the whisper of wind through glass, yet the earth beneath his feet trembled with its force.
He drew a calm breath, the sound almost inaudible beneath the distant echoes of falling debris, then stepped forward. His foot sank slightly into the bloodstained ground—thud, thud—steady, deliberate. And then, in the blink of an eye, he moved. His body became a streak of golden light, cutting through the haze as he surged into the midst of a crowd wielding blades.
Dozens turned toward him at once. They saw the flash of gold—too fast, too bright. Metal clashed with metal, a deafening chorus of clang! clang! slash! filled the air. Every sword aimed for him, yet every strike was deflected. His motions were fluid, precise—his robe flared like a ripple of light, sleeves sweeping through the air as though slicing the wind itself.
Then came the explosion. BOOM! The ground shook violently as he released a burst of energy from within. Dust and shards of earth shot upward, forming a swirling storm that engulfed everything around him. Bodies were thrown back—some crashing into trees with sharp cracks of breaking wood, others hurled into a nearby pond, water splashing with a loud splash! And then came the brief silence, the eerie stillness that followed devastation.
Through the drifting smoke, he emerged. The faint shimmer of gold around him flickered like fire through mist. His golden eyes glowed, cutting through the dim haze, reflecting the scattered fragments of steel and armor littering the ground.
The wind stirred. The loose ends of his robe fluttered softly. Ahead, a man lay on the ground, struggling weakly to rise. His weapon trembled in his grasp; his breath came in short, ragged bursts.
Without hesitation, Sentrie dashed forward. The air cracked under the force of his step—boom!—sending up a plume of dust. His figure blurred, like a streak of light through smoke. He raised his sword high, golden light flashing across its blade, then brought it down with unrelenting force.
Slash! The sound cut through the air like thunder. Blood sprayed, glinting under the weak sunlight as the man's body split apart. His eyes, once defiant, were now empty—his life ended in an instant.
Sentrie stood still for a moment, silent, watching the red pool spread across the ground. There was no tremor in his hands, no flicker of emotion in his gaze. Only the faint shimmer of his golden aura reflected upon the blood at his feet.
Then, from his left, movement. The air shifted—a presence approaching fast.
From behind the shadow of a tree, another figure lunged toward him. The blade whistled through the air, its edge slicing close enough to graze the tip of his hair. The sound—whoosh!—was sharp, like a whisper of death brushing past his skin.
He turned swiftly, driving his knee and then his foot into the attacker's side with crushing power. Crack! The man's ribs gave way beneath the impact, the sound echoing through the clearing. The force launched him backward, crashing into a thick trunk. Thud! The tree quivered. The man slumped, limp, lifeless.
But even in that moment, the man's sword slipped from his grasp, spinning through the air toward Sentrie once more. It passed just beside his face, glinting coldly as it flew by. The throw had been made in the final instant of life—one last act of defiance from a warrior who knew his death was inevitable.
Sentrie's lips curved slightly—not in mockery, but in acknowledgment. A calm, cold smile. He understood the desperation behind the gesture. And yet, he did not stop.
He walked forward, each step slow, steady, the ground trembling faintly beneath his feet. His golden eyes flared as he raised his sword once again.
Slash. The blade fell. The body split in two. Blood burst upward like a crimson fountain, pattering softly onto the dirt below.
Silence followed. His breath remained steady, his gaze unshaken. No anger. No sorrow. Only emptiness and light.
The wind whispered past him, stirring his white hair across his cheek. Sunlight broke once more through the dark clouds above, scattering across fragments of steel and blood on the ground. To anyone else, it might have looked like beauty—a world painted in gold and red.
But to him, it was cold light.
A reminder that the war was far from over.
The wind still carried the heavy stench of blood across the battlefield. The ground was scarred with burns and littered with broken steel. The sunlight above barely pierced through the lingering smoke, casting long, dim shadows over the crimson-stained earth. The air reeked of dust and metal, thick enough to taste. Everything was still—except for the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Sentrie's eyes caught motion on the far side of the field. Four figures charged toward him, their weapons gleaming as they cut through the haze. The reflection of steel flickered in the golden light, and every step they took sent a faint vibration through the ground, echoing like a slow drumbeat of war.
He narrowed his gaze, golden irises locking onto their movements. In that moment, his world became quiet. His focus sharpened to a single point.
He drew his energy inward; a soft hum of power resonated through the air, like wind rippling through leaves. His hand moved to his side, pulling his gun free in a single smooth motion. His fingers found the trigger just as the first two attackers closed in.
Bang! Bang! The shots rang out sharply, echoing like thunder through the ruined field. The recoil pressed against his hand, smoke curling from the barrel as the bullets tore through the air with precision.
But before he could take aim again—click. The sound of an empty chamber broke through the chaos. His gun was out of bullets.
The two he had aimed at deflected the incoming rounds with their blades. Clang! Sparks burst in the air as steel met lead. Yet Sentrie didn't flinch. His expression remained calm, cold, almost serene—and at the edge of his lips, a faint smile formed.
The four closed in. Two swung their blades at once, their attacks slicing through the air with deadly precision. Whoosh! The blades came close, but he moved backward, his body shifting like mist.
Then, in one swift movement, he slipped behind them. The light caught on his golden sword as he turned, swinging with measured strength. Slash. Slash. Two bodies fell, their blood scattering across the ground.
The remaining two lunged toward him, roaring in determination. Their feet struck the ground hard—dust rising with each impact. The air filled again with the deafening clamor of steel. Clang! Clang! Clang! The force of their blows sent ripples through the air, and the ground trembled beneath them.
He could tell—they were strong. These two were no mere soldiers. Their movements carried weight, experience, and desperation. The tension in the air thickened as power clashed with power, light meeting darkness in every strike.
Then—another sound broke through the chaos.
Footsteps.
Soft, hurried, coming from the woods.
Leaves rustled. Shaa… shaa…
From the shadows, a figure emerged—a woman, her clothes torn and stained with dirt and blood. Fear burned in her eyes, but so did resolve. She raised a gun, arms trembling, and took aim at Sentrie.
Bang!
The bullet flew—but not toward him.
It struck the two men fighting beside him instead. The sound of impact—thunk!—cut through the air, followed by short, strangled gasps. Blood sprayed across the dirt.
Sentrie turned, golden eyes flickering with awareness. He saw it instantly—his chance.
His lips curved faintly again.
He moved. A single step—and then a kick. His foot connected with the leg of the man who hadn't been shot. Crack! The sound of bone snapping filled the air. The man fell, collapsing with a cry.
In that same instant, Sentrie turned his blade on the one who had been shot by his ally. Slash! The sword cut through flesh and bone, splitting the body cleanly in two. Blood sprayed, painting the earth beneath him.
He didn't stop to look. His breath remained steady. The faint red stains splattered across his white-and-gold sleeves went unnoticed.
Then, he turned his attention to the man who lay struggling on the ground. The injured man tried to crawl away, dragging his broken leg, but Sentrie's steps were calm, deliberate.
He approached. Thud. His foot pressed into the dirt beside the man's head—then came the first kick. Thump! The body jerked. Another. Thud! Another. Crack! The dull sound of shattering ribs filled the air. Again and again—until the man stopped moving.
The battlefield fell silent once more.
Sentrie stood still, golden eyes watching the lifeless form before him. His breathing never quickened. His pulse remained calm. Then he lifted his gaze.
He looked toward the direction where the woman had stood—the one who had fired the shot. But she was gone.
The forest beyond had grown silent again, shrouded in smoke and shadows.
The wind picked up softly, rustling the leaves overhead. Sentrie's hair swayed gently across his cheek as he stared into the distance, eyes glowing faintly like embers.
Then, without a word, he began to walk.
Each step quiet, deliberate—
Toward the place she had vanished.
The afternoon wind drifted through the treetops, whispering softly as it brushed against the leaves. The scent of damp earth lingered in the air, heavy with the smell of blood, gunpowder, and scorched metal—a reminder of the battle that had taken place moments ago. Amid the wreckage, only one figure remained standing. He walked with a calm, deliberate pace, his golden eyes fixed forward, the stillness around him amplifying the sound of his own breath.
Sentrie moved through the aftermath of war. Footprints, splatters of blood, and spent bullets were scattered across the forest floor. He was following the trail of a man—the one who had once tried to shoot him. Each step echoed with a quiet tension, as though the very air was weighed down by the memory of violence.
Ahead, something glinted faintly under the fading light filtering through the canopy. He approached slowly, his gaze sharp and unblinking. It was a gun—black, cold, lying partially buried in the dirt. The weapon still carried the faint scent of gunpowder, smoke curling lazily from its barrel. Sentrie bent down, his hand reaching for it. The chill of metal touched his skin, cold and lifeless.
Then—
A soft "click."
The barely audible sound would have gone unnoticed by most ears, but not his. Instantly, his gaze flicked upward just as a shadow descended from above.
A man dropped from the tree, a blade raised high above his head. The sunlight flashed along the steel edge as it came down in a deadly arc. The blade sliced the air with a sharp hiss. Yet before it could meet flesh, Sentrie's own sword rose to meet it.
The clash rang out like thunder. Metal screamed against metal, the vibration sending shockwaves through the clearing. Leaves burst upward in a storm of dust and sound.
Sentrie's lips curved into a faint, unbothered smile. His golden eyes reflected the fear of the man before him. That fear trembled—not of pain, but of realization. The man knew. He was outmatched.
But before the moment could end, the bushes surrounding them rustled violently. From the shadows emerged five more figures, moving fast and in perfect sync. The glint of their blades caught the sunlight, scattering flashes of silver through the trees.
They charged as one, their footsteps pounding the earth, their battle cries swallowed by the wind. The blades arced toward Sentrie in a deadly symphony of motion.
Yet, in the heartbeat before impact, his body vanished.
The attackers froze mid-swing, confusion flickering in their eyes. The only sound that followed was the soft rush of air—and then a whisper of movement behind them.
Sentrie stood there, silent as a ghost, his white robe barely stirring. His sword gleamed faintly in the orange glow of the afternoon. He swung once.
The sound was almost beautiful—a single, high-pitched note as steel cut through flesh and bone. In one strike, all five bodies fell. The forest floor drank their blood as the echo of the blow faded into silence.
He exhaled softly, expression unchanged. Not a tremor of emotion. Not even the faintest flicker of hesitation. The calm of his being stood in chilling contrast to the violence surrounding him.
Meanwhile, the first man—the one who had dropped from the tree—turned and fled. His steps pounded frantically against the dirt, scattering leaves in his wake. He didn't look back. He didn't dare.
But every stride he took, he could feel it—
That invisible gaze. That weight pressing on his back. The presence of death itself, walking silently behind him.
And then—
In an instant, Sentrie appeared before him.
No sound, no warning—just the gleam of gold and silver in the air.
The man's breath caught. His eyes widened. He tried to stop but it was too late. His own momentum carried him forward—straight into the blade.
The sword pierced through his chest with a sickening, wet sound. Blood burst forth, the crimson stain spreading quickly down his clothes. His legs gave out beneath him.
Sentrie stood still, his blade impaling the body in place. Then, with one slow motion, he withdrew the sword. The metallic ring of steel leaving flesh echoed faintly, almost solemnly, in the silence that followed.
The man fell. The forest swallowed his final breath.
Sentrie turned away, the blood on his sword glinting faintly in the fading light. The air grew still again, save for the soft rustle of leaves. Nature, ever indifferent, began to reclaim the battlefield, wrapping the forest in quiet once more.
He continued walking. Each step carried the weight of finality and purpose. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the earth.
And in that stillness, one truth remained—
The battle was not yet over.
Only the survivors continued to breathe.