It was a somber night. Heavy clouds veiled the moon, and all that could be seen was the black shroud of the sky above the fearful gazes of the people.
In a town far from the castle, a young girl ran desperately, her clothes torn and her body covered in blood. Men pursued her, wielding spears and swords. She cried out for help, but there was no one nearby.
Who would dare?
The nation was at war against the dark army, led by the God of Ruin — Delgron. No one would risk their life.
The glow of fires spreading through the ruined houses cast light upon the mutilated bodies of men, women, and children scattered along the path.
No one escaped unscathed from the fury of the dark army.
And then, the girl's final scream was heard — a muffled cry as a spear pierced her heart.
The men laughed, savoring the grotesque sound of torn flesh as they ripped the weapon from her chest.
Farther north, beyond the great wall that surrounded the kingdom of Yuhai, the clash of thousands of swords could be heard echoing across the land. Two armies collided, trampling corpses underfoot, the cries of men with severed limbs or scorched bodies rising into the cold night. The fear was painted across the faces of Yuhai's soldiers — visible to all, save for one man.
He wielded a medium-length katana, black with a crimson spine, and wore a black overcoat over a bloodstained white shirt. Wherever he passed, piles of dark army corpses followed with ease.
His eyes and hair were as black as the void itself — making him death incarnate to his enemies.
To the soldiers of Yuhai, he was seen as a rising god of war — their only hope.
Upon the hills ahead, five figures clad in cloaks appeared, wielding wooden staves, their faces twisted into cynical, bloodthirsty smiles.
"Under the sky above, O Great God of Ruin," they chanted, drawing the soldiers' attention, "Grant us strength to destroy all who dare oppose your magnificence."
They raised their staves toward the heavens.
"CATASTROPHIC DESTRUCTION!"
A colossal black sigil bloomed across the sky. Massive stones, cloaked in flames, began to descend. Some soldiers fell to their knees. Others dropped their swords. But all shared a single expression: despair.
No longer did the sound of clashing steel ring through the battlefield — only the slow, deliberate footsteps of the man in black remained, as he stared up at the sky with unwavering resolve. He bent low, gripping his katana tightly, then smiled.
Around the castle, there was nothing left but ruins — no vegetation, only scorched earth and the scattered dead. The flaming stones hurtled downward, but fear found no place in the man's heart.
The pressure of his leap shattered the ground beneath his feet. As he ascended, his eyes opened wide, and bolts of lightning burst forth from his blade. He struck the stones one by one, cleaving them apart in a dazzling display of blue light and thunderous roars.
Landing heavily on the devastated earth, he struggled to remain standing, exhaustion weighing upon him. The dark army now knew — this man was no ordinary foe.
"Well then… Great God of Ruin," he said, raising his sword and pointing it toward a man atop a black horse — a man with silver hair, black eyes, and a sadistic smile. "Are you afraid? Hiding behind your men, watching them die... Waiting for a miracle to see me fall dead?"
The word "miracle" echoed mockingly through the minds of Yuhai's soldiers — a bitter joke that only Delgron seemed to appreciate, his mouth twisting into a smirk.
"You live up to expectations," Delgron said, dismounting with leisurely steps. "Tell me, what is your name?"
"Arial..." the man murmured, pausing as painful memories darkened his gaze. "Arial Blake."
Delgron's smirk widened, his expression one of perverse admiration — as if beholding a rare, precious artifact.
"A rare piece indeed, Arial Blake," Delgron mused, opening his arms as if offering something. "What do you say? Join me, and I will spare your life — and that of your family. You could become my right hand..."
Arial's laughter erupted suddenly — bitter, wild, resonating with grief and fury. He looked up to the sky, as if seeking answers that would never come.
"What would be the point?" he asked, voice tight with sorrow, his gaze locking once more with Delgron's, his expression carved from disillusionment.
"It would be a tempting offer..." Arial said slowly, shaking his head, his eyes burning with a fire that would not be quenched, "if your forces hadn't slaughtered them during the invasion of Malak, years ago."
For a moment, Delgron appeared genuinely struck — but he quickly recovered, offering a hollow, sarcastic chuckle.
"How tragic," he said, his voice void of empathy, as if the lives he destroyed meant nothing. "So what is it you seek, then? A new life? A safe refuge for yourself and your beloved… if you have one?" He shrugged, the smug smile never leaving his face. "Tell me what you desire. I will make it happen."
Arial tightened his grip on the katana's guard, his gaze searing into Delgron — his pain deep, but his resolve deeper still.
"Vengeance!" The word burst from his lips like thunder, reverberating across the shattered ruins around them. He had nothing left — only this.
For a fleeting moment, Delgron seemed truly intrigued. He paused, as if savoring the inevitable.
"Vengeance..." Delgron murmured, tasting the word like a fine wine. "You think you'll find anything but destruction?" He chuckled darkly. "Not that I'm the best judge of such things. But very well, Arial Blake — impress me. Let's see how far your fury can carry you."
The two stepped forward — slowly, deliberately. The wind ceased. The world held its breath.
And then, in the blink of an eye, they vanished. The clash of steel ripped through the silence like a crack of thunder. Their blades collided in the air with ancestral fury, their figures blurring beyond mortal sight.
Crimson flames spiraled along Delgron's dark blade, writhing with savage hunger. Blue-violet lightning crackled around Arial's katana, as if the heavens themselves had chosen him as their herald.
"ENTERTAIN ME, ARIAL BLAKE!" thundered Delgron, laughing like an entity thirsty for destruction. His eyes blazed with a demonic light, and each of his strikes carried the weight of a mountain.
Arial did not respond. His focus was absolute. With precise movements, fluid as water, he alternated between sharp sword strikes and bodily attacks — spinning kicks, knee strikes to the abdomen, punches charged with electric mana that sparked on impact. He was like a human-shaped lightning bolt, unpredictable and swift.
Delgron blocked everything with an almost disdainful ease, as if merely warming up.
"More! You can do better than that!" he mocked, dodging a thrust with a graceful spin. "Or is that the strength of a hero?"
They separated for a brief moment. Arial was panting, drenched in sweat, his arm trembling from the strain. Delgron, on the other hand, casually rolled his shoulders, relaxed, as if the fight was starting to bore him.
"Let's end this," murmured the god of ruin.
He extended an open palm, where a black sphere of energy began to grow, pulsing like a dark heart. It was dense, hungry, as if containing a miniature black hole. With a sudden motion, he hurled it toward Arial.
Arial dug his feet into the ground, raised his katana before his body, and steeled his spirit. The sphere struck him like a divine battering ram, pushing him back meters, stones shattering under his heels. Screaming from his soul, he twisted his body at the last second, deflecting the attack upward.
The explosion that followed tore through the skies. A blinding flash lit up the horizon. The ground trembled.
When the dust settled, Arial was still standing… but his katana was broken in half. His eyes burned. His breathing was ragged. His chest bled.
"Is that all?" Delgron whispered behind him.
Before Arial could move, he felt the steel pierce through his body. A flaming blade stabbed through his back and emerged from his chest. The heat was unbearable. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.
"You were entertaining... but predictable," Delgron said, whispering into his ear with a sadistic smile and burning eyes.
Arial staggered. Pain was all that remained. His thoughts scattered. "Is this how I will die?" he wondered. But then, from the depths of his being, something awakened — a final breath of the storm.
A flash burst forth in his open hand. It was not a sword. It was pure energy. A spear forged of lightning, vibrating as if the entire sky had descended for vengeance.
With a deafening cry, Arial spun and drove the spear into Delgron's chest.
The impact was brutal. Thunder cracked like a thousand storms, ripping divine flesh, burning bones, exploding within the god's body. Delgron grunted, surprised. His smile faltered. Blood dripped from his lips as his eyes met Arial's — not with anger, but with respect. And something more... genuine amusement.
"Hahahaha... Now that's more like it..." Delgron murmured, kneeling.
Arial dropped to his knees as well, his body collapsing slowly, like a tree falling after the final storm.
The first raindrop fell from the sky. Then another. The rain began to pour, as if the heavens themselves were weeping. The battlefield fell silent.
"Formidable," said Delgron, wiping blood from his cheek in astonishment. "To think you could wound me..." He felt the blood leaking from his wound and smiled weakly. "I believe... that will suffice."
At that moment, a man descended from the sky between Arial and Delgron, forcing Delgron to step back from Arial's fallen body. It was Damari, clad in golden armor, his red hair wet and a massive axe in hand.
"Sorry we're late," he said, resting the axe on the ground. "You held out well. Leave the rest to us."
The soldiers, ears catching the sound of galloping hooves, looked back. Five flags of different colors and emblems appeared. Rahjin, mounted on a brown horse, clad in golden armor with a scythe strapped to his back, stood before the warriors of the five nations.
"Warriors," Rahjin called out, his voice strong and commanding. "Today, here and now, we will put an end to this wretch and this cursed war! Do not falter. Kill them all. If you die, rise and kill again! Forward!"
The scene grew even more intense, war cries spreading across the battlefield. Renewed hope lifted the soldiers, their swords shining brightly.
Freya, the legendary warrior, descended from the skies and approached Arial. Her gaze was tender and concerned.
"You did well," Freya said, placing her hand on Arial's wound. "But we need a healer immediately. I'll make sure you get help as fast as possible."
The battle raged on, fierce and merciless, with both armies fighting tooth and nail, like desperate beasts. The earth had lost its color — it was dyed in blood, littered with wreckage, and scarred by war. Screams, clashing steel, spells crossing the skies — everything was chaos. Yet, the tide of battle was beginning to turn.
The defenders of Yuhai, once on the brink of collapse, advanced with renewed ferocity.
Delgron, the god of ruin, still remained a colossal presence, nearly untouchable. His strength remained immense, and every blow shook the ground as if the world itself bowed to his fury. But the wound Arial had inflicted — a deep, gaping fissure where divine flesh had grown fragile — left him vulnerable. It was a breach. And Rahjin and Damari, warriors forged by suffering and duty, exploited it with all they had.
Meanwhile, Freya stayed at Arial's side. Her arms supported his heavy, cold body, his eyes half-closed with pain. She helped him across the rubble toward a shelter where a healer mage awaited, kneeling within a glowing rune circle.
Time seemed to slip through her fingers. She knew — the wound was severe. Arial's mana flickered like a candle about to go out.
The mage began the healing ritual, green and golden lights weaving over Arial's body, sealing part of the open wound. Yet Freya's eyes never left the battlefield. Out there, the impossible was happening: the enemy army, once relentless, began to break. The dark lines shattered, dispersed, retreating before the fury of Yuhai's last defenders.
Rahjin's cry echoed like a broken thunderclap, tearing through the skies.
Freya felt her heart tighten, as if the very air had been torn from her lungs.
When her eyes found the scene, she froze — Delgron was holding Rahjin's severed head in his hands, Rahjin's eyes wide open, as if his very soul had been violently ripped away.
"RAHJIN!" she screamed — but it was already too late.
His lifeless body collapsed to his knees, falling forward with no control.
Delgron, smiling with cruel serenity, lifted Rahjin's severed head like a trophy. With a slow, merciless gesture, he raised it toward the sky and uttered a single word in a long-forgotten tongue.
The black runes carved into his arm flared to life, glowing with a deep, malevolent fire. A tongue of crimson flame, alive and writhing like a hungry beast, erupted from his hand.
The fire engulfed Rahjin's body instantly — bones, flesh, weapons, even the very magic that composed him — all devoured in an instant. No ashes remained. No trace. As if he had never existed at all.
"Let your memory be erased from this earth," Delgron murmured, still smiling as he locked eyes with Freya.
She fell to her knees, not from weakness, but from the crushing pain that pressed against her chest, threatening to suffocate her. The image of Rahjin — the one who had laughed beside her so many times, the warrior who had wielded his scythe with pride — was now just... emptiness. A faceless silence.
Beside her, Damari screamed in agony, clutching the bloody stump where his left arm used to be. The sight — the blood, the loss, the horror — shattered something inside Freya.
Her fury erupted.
She charged like a golden lightning bolt, each step shaking the earth beneath her feet. Her cracked and blood-stained armor shimmered with the fury of a brewing storm. When she reached Delgron, she drove her fist into him with all her strength. The ground split beneath the god of ruin's feet. Delgron fell to one knee, coughing up black blood, yet still wearing that damned smile.
Freya said nothing. Her eyes burned — twin moons ablaze with pure rage. She spotted Rahjin's fallen scythe among the wreckage and seized it, lifting it as though it were an extension of her own grief.
"You smile," she said, her voice low and trembling, thick with silent fury. "But I will show you how the stars weep when one of their own falls."
Delgron spat out blood. His once-arrogant smile now trembled between pain and mockery.
"None of you..." he rasped, cracked lips barely forming the words, "... were as fun as Arial Blake..."
The words dripped like venom — a final, cruel provocation. But Freya did not waver. Her gaze stayed locked, cold, merciless. In her eyes, Delgron was already dead. He just hadn't realized it yet.
In a single, fluid motion, she spun the scythe and reshaped it into a spear.
Gripping it with both hands, she drove the sacred blade deep into Delgron's chest, burying it to the hilt.
The god of ruin gasped, eyes wide in shock. And then, with a final surge of strength, Freya lifted the spear in a vicious arc. Delgron's head soared through the air, painting a dark trail of blood against the clouded sky.
Silence fell.
Arial remained conscious, though trapped in a haze between life and death. All the soldiers gathered around him, along with Freya and Damari.
Soon after, five figures appeared — three men and two women — the leaders of the great nations.
They knelt before Arial in solemn respect. And in their wake, every soldier on the battlefield followed, lowering themselves to their knees.
"You were a great warrior," one of the queens said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "Perhaps the greatest we have ever known. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten. We will carry your name for as long as this world endures."
The rain still fell, cold and unrelenting, as the long war finally came to an end that night. Many lives were lost. For decades, the dark army had terrorized the world. Arial and Freya had been among its countless victims.
A faint memory stirred within Freya — Arial had once spoken of death. He had wished to die with honor, and that his death would inspire the kings, queens, and soldiers to sing the ancient song, a song reserved for those remembered as legends.
"The blood... spilled for freedom and peace," a soldier began to chant, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "And the warriors who fought... we shall never forget." He paused, allowing another voice to rise beside his.
"Kings and queens..." they sang in a long, mournful refrain, "bow in reverence to your sacrifice."
The sharp sound of swords being drawn echoed through the field, forming a somber melody as soldiers across the ranks lifted their blades.
"We raise our swords to honor your deeds... And we sing this song, to celebrate your legacy."
"Your soul now rests in the arms of the gods," a chorus of voices followed, some slow, some fierce. "But your story shall live on through eternity. You fought bravely, facing the darkness... And even when all seemed lost, you did not falter."
Their eyes turned skyward. The rain slowed. The clouds parted. A sky of scattered stars revealed itself above them.
"May the stars shine brighter in your name," they sang together. "And may the celestial gods receive you in their embrace."
A solemn pause gripped the field before the final words rang out:
"For you are a legend — a symbol of courage — and your memory shall be everlasting. We will celebrate your story as one worthy of legend itself."
Silence returned, broken only by quiet sobs and the sound of swords driven into the muddy ground.
Freya sank into the mud, cradling Arial's head in her lap. She wept silently at first, but the tears could no longer be held back.
"I'm sorry... Freya," Arial whispered with great effort.
And that... was the last time she ever heard his voice.