"HUMANITY'S HEROES DIRIS HAVE DEFEATED THE FEROCIOUS TROKS – WE SALUTE OUR SAVIORS."
The headline burns across every screen in the capital.
Waves of cheers rise through the crowd beneath holographic fireworks. News anchors beam into their cameras, enthusiastically reporting the victory. Small children sit on their parents' shoulders, waving miniature Diris flags.
"Total victory," the announcer declares. "The Troks have been eliminated. Humanity stands triumphant."
The entire city erupts in celebration.
Yet not far away, on the battlefields of Zelda, hundreds of miles from the capital, the wind carries no celebration.
It carries ash and smoke, turning vision foggy and blurred.
A torn Diris flag pierces the dirt, its fabric soaked dark.
Thousands of bodies lie scattered across the ground. The air hangs heavy with the stagnant scent of blood.
A young man lies half-buried in the rubble, his uniform shredded, blood drying against steel-gray armor. His breathing is shallow and uneven.
The sky above him burns orange, leaving his vision hazy and unfocused.
He forces his hand to move. Pain radiates through his body, sharp and distant at the same time.
His communicator flickers weakly.
Static.
Then—
"…Yiyi…"
His voice barely survives the smoke.
"If you ever… find out the truth…"
The signal cracks. His strength drains fast.
He has to tell her.
He has to.
Bootsteps approach.
Slow. Controlled. Measured.
A shadow falls over him.
The young man tries to turn his head, but his body refuses to obey.
Through the haze, he sees a tall figure standing above him. A black military coat drapes over broad shoulders. On his right arm, the silver insignia of Diris glints in the firelight.
The communicator on the commander's wrist buzzes.
A faint voice filters through.
"Captain, the child did not survive."
The commander's jaw tightens.
For a fraction of a second, something flickers in his eyes.
Doubt.
Then it disappears.
"Return," he orders.
The commander crushes the young man's communicator beneath his boot.
The transmission dies.
Firelight reflects in his gaze as he turns away.
Behind him, the young man draws his final breath and sinks into silence.
Back in the capital, fireworks explode in gold.
"Humanity's heroes," the headline repeats.
The commander watches the warships rise into the burning sky.
For the first time, the word victory feels wrong.