War is cruel.
It has always been this way.
Not because it destroys cities — but because it teaches people how to live with destruction.
How to justify it.
How to endure it.
How to call it necessity.
The war between Assassins and Crusaders never burned the world the way great world wars did. It did not demand nations. It did not draft armies. It asked only for individuals — one life at a time — and taught them to carry the weight alone.
Hawk carried it until duty replaced desire.
Mentor carried it until exile felt like mercy.
Paul carried it until sacrifice became his final language.
And John carried it differently.
His war was small. Local. Personal.
It didn't rewrite history — it erased people who would never be remembered.
John did not fight to protect them. He never truly did.
What he fought was the part of himself that didn't care.
He knew he was violent.
He knew he was cruel.
The first time blood felt natural in his hands, he understood that something inside him had already broken.
So he made an oath.
Not to save civilians — but to restrain himself.
Not to be good — but to remain human.
A fragile rule to keep the worst part of him contained, like a child gripping a broken toy and pretending it could still be fixed.
And the oath kept breaking.
Each time it did, John mourned not the dead — but the illusion.
The belief that he was still the boy he used to be.
The belief that purpose could undo what violence had already made him.
The final tower still stands.
The promise did not save him.
And John did not fall because he failed his war.
He fell because he finally saw himself clearly —
and still stepped forward anyway.
War is cruel.
Because sometimes it doesn't turn men into monsters.
Sometimes it only strips away the lies they needed to survive.
Volume 2 — End