Prince Balek's blade sang through the air, a crimson arc following each swing as he carved down one enemy after another. His breath came in ragged bursts, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue, sweat mixing with the blood that streaked his armor. Behind him, the remnants of his personal guard—twenty-six men who had sworn to die before leaving his side—pressed forward with grim determination. But even their indomitable spirit was fraying. Every clash sounded heavier. Every cry of agony sliced through the prince's heart like a second blade.
For thirty relentless minutes, the killing did not cease. Steel rang, flesh tore, and the ground beneath them turned slick with gore. Then—two screams. Left and right of Balek, loyal swordsmen who had stood with him through a hundred battles collapsed under enemy blades. In the blink of an eye, their number dropped to twenty-four. The prince's jaw clenched so tightly that pain shot through his temple. He didn't even have time to mourn.
Another rush came like a tide of black steel, and in the chaos five more of his men fell—cut down before they could even raise a defense. Nineteen now. Nineteen against the endless horde. A hollow feeling twisted inside Balek's gut, but rage drowned it out. His strikes grew harsher, almost savage. Each kill was an outlet for his despair, but no amount of slaughter could resurrect the fallen.
They had done the impossible—or so he thought. Six hundred enemies had already been felled under their blades: the first wave of a hundred crushed, the second of two hundred shattered, the third of three hundred broken with blood and bone. But their bodies were breaking too, and their souls were fraying under the weight of exhaustion.
Now, the next four hundred loomed ahead like a black wall of doom. Their armor glinted under the sun, and the sound of their synchronized march was like a funeral dirge.
High above the fray, mounted on his warhorse like a god of carnage, Emperor Cailan Gravis watched the scene unfold with predatory calm. His golden eyes shimmered with amusement as his lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl. The prince was staggering. His strokes still held strength, but his movements betrayed the creeping slowness of fatigue. The emperor could smell the moment—the precise, delicate instant when hope begins to rot into despair.
"It is time," he murmured, voice carrying like a whisper of doom. Straightening in the saddle, he raised one gauntleted hand and cut the air with a sharp gesture. His command thundered out, cold and ruthless:
"Enact the Confusion Diamond Formation."
No soldier replied with words. They didn't need to. Discipline spoke louder than breath. The vast ranks rippled, shifting with terrifying precision as the formation began to take shape—an intricate diamond pattern that glimmered like the scales of a monstrous serpent.
The Confusion Diamond. A formation birthed from madness and perfected by blood. Soldiers in the outer rings surged forward with suicidal resolve, hurling themselves at the enemy—not to kill, but to distract, to drown them in chaos and blind their instincts. They were the bait, the sacrificial shield. The true strike would come from the hidden core, swift and merciless.
Cailan had wielded this formation countless times, turning tides and shattering legends. Its one flaw was costly—every man in the outer layers was offering his life to fate. Death was almost guaranteed. But the reward? A clean, brutal kill of the enemy's heart. A gamble worth a thousand corpses.
And today, that enemy's heart was Prince Balek Aratat.
As the diamond began to close around him, Balek's senses screamed danger—but too late. The battlefield tilted into a nightmare of flashing steel and bloodied bodies, and the prince realized with a sick jolt of horror that this was no longer a fight for victory. This was a fight for survival.
And true to their plan, the deception worked flawlessly. Prince Balek, blinded by his arrogance and driven by a thirst for glory, paused ever so slightly to watch the erratic maneuvers of Emperor Cailan Gravis's forces. The whirlwind of chaotic movements seemed senseless, and Balek—ever the strategist—sought to unravel their true intent.
He did not know that the answer was painfully simple. He was their endgame.
From the rear lines, Emperor Cailan Gravis stood like a predator in repose, calm amidst the storm of steel and blood. His sharp gaze followed every step of Balek, waiting for the perfect moment. Then he saw it—a crack in the prince's awareness.
One of Cailan's generals raised his silver spear to deliver the fatal strike, but the Emperor's hand lifted in silent command. No. This kill was his.
Reaching for a long, blackened spear, Cailan Gravis gripped the weapon with the ease of an artist holding a brush. Years of honed spearmanship coiled within his arm as he pulled back, muscles taut with lethal precision. Then—like lightning tearing through the heavens—he launched it.
The spear cut the air with a scream, its polished tip glinting under the blood-red sun. No bodies obstructed its path. Nothing could stop its hunger. It flew straight for the back of Prince Balek's skull, a silent messenger of death.
But fate—ever the trickster—intervened.
At the last breath before impact, one of Balek's loyal men hurled himself forward, his body the shield his prince never asked for but always needed. The spear struck deep into his jugular with a sickening crunch. Warm crimson sprayed across the back of prince Balek's head as the man collapsed into his back, his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.
Prince Balek turned, and caught his falling body, instinct and rage exploding within him. His gaze locked on Cailan Gravis—the smiling emperor, standing serene and untouchable, as though he had not just tried to snuff out a royal life. That smile... it was a blade sharper than any steel.
And something in Balek broke.
A guttural roar erupted from his throat, a sound that shook even his own men. With the fallen soldier still gripped in one blood-stained hand, Balek drew his sword in the other and became a tempest of vengeance. Enemies fell before him like stalks of grain under the farmer's sickle. Limbs, heads, torsos—nothing mattered. His blade sang a dirge of fury.
But fury could not change the tide. In his blind wrath, ten more of his men perished, their screams lost to the chaos. Now only nine remained. Nine against an army. Nine shadows clinging to a dying hope.
And for the first time, Prince Balek felt the weight of reality crash upon him. He saw the faces of Princess Zemira and Prince Jaden in his mind—their warnings echoing like ghosts. "This is folly, Balek. Pride will drown you."
But pride had deafened him. And now, ambition to become the crown prince was dragging him to a grave carved by his own hands.