Horses screamed.
The battlefield reeked of death—thick air heavy with blood, smoke, and the metallic stench of rusted iron. Fire blazed across the land, consuming piles of fallen men stacked like broken offerings to war. Thousands of soldiers surged forward, roaring as they charged the towering gates of the city.
Archers loosed relentless volleys of arrows, blackening the sky. Shield bearers raised their defenses, blocking return fire as they thundered ahead. The gates groaned under repeated impacts—cracks spreading, stone splintering—until at last, with a deafening crash, they collapsed.
The city fell.
Invading soldiers poured through the breach, slaughtering the guards without mercy. Steel flashed. Screams echoed. And at the heart of the chaos rode a man clad in ornate armor, its surface etched with prestige and blood alike.
He led the cavalry.
Wherever his sword passed, a soldier fell. His movements were flawless—precise, overwhelming—like death given human form. To the battlefield, he was invincible.
Manors burned. Nobles and ministers were cut down as the army stormed the inner city. Soon, only one bastion remained—the castle, final wall of resistance.
Adrenaline surged. Heat flowed through every warrior's veins.
With a final charge, they reached the castle gates. Ladders slammed against the walls. Guards were dragged down and slain. The general himself scaled the battlements, cutting through defenders before storming into the throne hall.
At the far end of the chamber sat the king.
The ruler rose slowly from his throne, his gaze steady as it met the general's.
"So," the king said, his voice heavy with restrained fury, "it has come to this."
He descended the steps. "You chose to rebel against the kingdom. For what reason?"
The general's answer was cold. "You brought this upon yourself."
"Perhaps," the king replied. "But this kingdom shall not fall during my reign."
He drew his sword. "If you seek the throne—then defend your resolve."
They clashed.
Steel rang against steel as swords collided in a storm of strikes. Slashes were parried. Stabs deflected. The sound of iron echoed through the hall as blood filled the air and tension tightened like a noose.
Then—
A feint.
A sudden shift.
The general struck.
His blade carved across the king's chest, followed by a final thrust straight through the heart. The king collapsed, blood soaking the marble floor. As life faded from his eyes, a faint smile appeared on his lips.
"So… the reckoning has come," he murmured. "Is that right… Alexandra Perseus?"
The king exhaled his last breath.
Moments later, the general stepped onto the balcony overlooking the city. Smoke and fire stretched across the land as far as the eye could see.
Raising a war horn, he sounded a single, thunderous blast.
Victory.
Smack.
"Oy—wake up, Alex! We'll be late for the market."
A young boy jolted upright, blinking in confusion, his body heavy with sleep.
"…That dream again," he muttered.
The other boy laughed. "You've been reading too many folklores and old war stories."
Alex rubbed his face and sighed. "Yeah… maybe."
"Come on. No more delays."
And so, with the echo of a fallen kingdom still lingering in his mind, the story truly began.