High above the blood-soaked battlefield, countless streams of ethereal energy gathered, spiraling into an enormous, all-seeing eye. It pulsed with an ancient, indifferent gaze, watching over the unfolding tragedy below.
And thus, the record of the fallen conqueror began.
Amidst the sea of corpses, a lone figure remained standing.
His tattered black armor, once a symbol of dominion, was now barely holding together, drenched in blood—some his own, most belonging to others. His greatsword, chipped and heavy with death, rested against his shoulder, still gleaming with the remnants of the battle.
Deep wounds marred his body, his flesh torn open by blade and magic alike. His black hair was matted with blood, clinging to his sharp, unyielding features. Yet, despite the unbearable agony, despite the overwhelming forces pressing in from all sides—he laughed.
A low, rasping chuckle at first. Then a full-bodied laugh that echoed across the battlefield.
Around him stood the greatest figures of this ruined world. The Elven Empress, cold and regal, her silver blade humming with power. The Demon King, his monstrous form exuding malice. The Asura Emperor, arms crossed, unmoving yet radiating pure, lethal energy. The Dwarven Lords, silent yet firm in their resolve.
And many, many more.
Some were bitter enemies who had sworn eternal war upon one another. Yet here they stood, side by side, united by a singular purpose.
To erase him.
"To think that the mighty rulers of this world would crawl out of their wretched holes to kill me," he mused, a wicked grin splitting his bloodied lips. "I must be really special."
His gaze swept over them, sharp and knowing. He understood their fear.
It wasn't just him they were after. It was what he had become.
A Lord Killer. A conqueror unlike any before him. The only one who could steal the very foundation of their power.
And they were afraid.
His fingers tightened around his sword, and a flicker of amusement danced in his golden eyes.
"Even my dear old friends are here," he murmured, gaze settling on two figures standing behind the gathered rulers.
His best friend—no, his betrayer. The one who had always stood in his shadow, waiting for a moment to twist the knife.
His lover, the woman who had whispered devotion into his ear, only to deliver the cruelest cut when his guard was down.
And there, among them, stood his stepsister, who had once called him "family." Now, her blade was as bloodstained as the rest.
The smirk on his lips never faded.
"Tell me," he called out, voice carrying through the battlefield. "How does it feel? To betray the one who raised you up?"
Silence.
His eyes gleamed with something dark—not regret, not sorrow, but pure, unfiltered amusement.
"You think you've won." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "That killing me will change anything."
He stepped forward, causing the entire army to tense.
"You think this world will be free once I'm gone?"
A gust of wind howled through the ruined landscape. The setting sun painted the battlefield in fire and gold.
A shadow loomed behind him—his death approaching.
And still, he laughed.
Then—
A silver blade pierced his heart.
His greatsword slipped from his grip. His knees buckled.
The world blurred. The sky above dimmed.
As the last of his strength faded, his vision filled with the sight of those who had betrayed him standing victorious.
"OI! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!"
A sharp voice snapped him back.
The scent of blood and war vanished.
The roar of the battlefield was gone.
Instead, the scent of cheap perfume and dust filled his lungs. The murmurs of students. The distant hum of an air conditioner.
His eyes fluttered open. A classroom ceiling.
The battlefield was gone.