The battlefield stank of blood and steel. Screams mingled with the metallic clang of weapons, but in this corner, death had already claimed its feast. The remaining nine warriors who had surrounded Prince Balek protectively, moments ago, now lay strewn across the dirt, their lifeblood soaking the ground like spilled wine. They had been slaughtered—butchered like chickens in a marketplace.
Prince Balek stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. His once-green armor was now painted crimson, a grim testament to his stubborn will. Gashes carved into his flesh wept freely, each wound a reminder that his body was failing him. Yet still, he fought on—a raging bull refusing the butcher's blade, eyes blazing with a feral light.
Then came the voice. Deep. Commanding. A voice that could halt an army.
"STOP!"
The word tore through the chaos like a war drum. Instantly, the clash of steel quieted. Soldiers froze mid-strike, their gazes snapping to the towering figure who now dismounted his warhorse. Emperor Cailan Gravis—the storm behind the slaughter—was striding forward with lethal calm.
"Leave him… for me," the emperor said, his tone low, venom curling around every syllable.
He shrugged off his coat, a regal pelt of rare beasts, and handed it to a kneeling soldier. Stripped down to his battle armor, he looked every inch the executioner—broad shoulders glinting under the pale sun, his face carved from wrath itself. Each step he took toward Balek was deliberate, heavy with purpose, like a predator savoring the kill with his spear held firmly.
When he stood before the battered prince, silence draped the battlefield. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"For my wife… and my daughter—" his voice broke, mist gathering in his eyes like storm clouds, "—the ones your father slaughtered without mercy… my vengeance begins with you."
The words were a blade of their own, slicing through the prince's spirit. And then, the emperor lunged.
The clash was thunderous. His spear slammed into Balek's sword with such force that sparks spat into the air. Balek staggered,, like a drunk man on a windy night,boots skidding through blood-soaked dirt, barely holding his ground. His arms shook under the weight of that strike, his body screaming in protest.
But rage kept him upright—or what remained of it. His wounds burned like molten iron. His breath came ragged, his vision swimming in crimson haze. Still… I can't fall. Not yet.
Then came the thoughts—dark, unbidden. His father's face flashed before him, cold and distant. The great Emperor Aratat, who had never looked at him with anything but calculation. Did he ever love me? Or was I just another sword in his arsenal?
He remembered the years when he was just a boy, longing for warmth that never came, 'he used to love me when I was between 1 and 5 years old' he thought. He remembered Josh, the eigth prince, and the cruelty his father had unleashed when his mother dared to protect her child. Slaughtered like a lamb for defiance. Was I fighting for that man's approval? For a ghost of affection that never existed?
A hollow laugh bubbled in his throat, bitter and broken. And with that laugh came the truth: I've been fighting for nothing.
The will to fight drained from him like water from a shattered jug. His sword wavered. His knees buckled.
The emperor saw it—the surrender, the death before death—and struck without hesitation. His spear arced like a flash of judgment, slicing across Balek's throat. Blood erupted, hot and wild, spraying the ground as if the earth itself demanded a libation.
Before the prince could collapse, Cailan drove the spear forward again, the steel punching through Balek's eye socket with a sickening crunch. The weapon burst out the back of his skull.
The great First Prince of the Nazare Blade Empire—first heir of the Aratat bloodline—dropped to his knees, his lifeless eyes staring skyward. A final breath shuddered from his lips, and then… nothing.
For a heartbeat, the heavens seemed to mourn. The clouds churned, swallowing the sun, and a strange brilliance lit the sky—as though the gods themselves bore witness to the fall of a prince.
And in that light, Emperor Cailan Gravis stood victorious, his spear dripping with the blood of vengeance.
As the prince's body lay sprawled across the blood-soaked battlefield, life long gone from his hollow eyes, the winds carried silence like a mournful hymn. High above the crimson earth, two figures hovered in the endless sky, watching the scene unfold beneath the canvas of a dying sun. One was the trickster god, V'Zaleth, a being whose smile often hid storms of chaos. The other was Kratos, the god of war, broad-shouldered and wreathed in an aura of raw violence that even the heavens seemed to fear.
But before either could exchange a word, the air split open with a blinding shimmer. From that fracture of light emerged two figures, their robes a blinding white that shimmered with divine authority. They descended slowly, like judgment made flesh. These were not ordinary gods. They were Enforcers.
Enforcers were higher tier gods, having the very ability to maintain the delicate balance between mankind and gods and ensure that no one breaks the rules that hold the very fabrics of reality in place.
A'nui, the God of Retribution, stepped forward first, with fire burning in his eyes with justice unyielding. Beside him loomed Xerxes, the God of Wrath, silent as a blade waiting to strike. Their very presence distorted the fabric of the sky; stars dimmed, winds hushed, and the clouds stilled as if bowing in fear.
The Trickster god's grin faltered, replaced by a gulp so loud it could have echoed across the mortal realm. Even Kratos, the embodiment of war itself, shifted ever so slightly—his jaw tensed, though his face remained carved from stone.
"What brings the great Enforcer gods here…" V'Zaleth spoke first, voice dripping with feigned calm yet trembling at the edges like brittle glass.
A'nui's gaze snapped to him, sharp enough to slice through eternity. His voice came like thunder rolling through judgment halls:
"V'Zaleth… Do not think your games go unseen. We have tolerated your little amusements for the past month, but now… now the tide turns. Someone is coming for you, trickster—a reckoning you cannot laugh your way out of."
The Trickster's smirk vanished, leaving behind only pale dread.
Then A'nui turned his burning stare upon Kratos, who stood defiant.
"And you…" The word dripped with venom. "You are the spark that lit this infernal war. You tampered with fate, reshaped history, and dragged mortals into this battle prematurely, battles that were never meant to develop this way, and lives that were never meant to be lost. For this crime, Kratos, you face judgment."
Kratos' fists clenched. His voice erupted like a forge exploding:
"Blind fools! Although I brought them here—I did not guide their swords! This war belongs to men, not gods! You will not chain me without a fight!"
With a roar that shook the clouds, the War God surged forward, his divine aura flaring like a battlefield ablaze.
... But before his first step could shatter the sky, a cold, unseen force coiled around him. His strength bled away in an instant—his godhood locked by divine decree.
...His form shrank, compressed, until the titan of slaughter was nothing but a miniature figure thrashing helplessly inside a crystalline prison.
"Let me out, damn you! You think this ends with me caged?!" Kratos' voice, now a furious echo in glass, was ignored.
A'nui turned away as if swatting aside an insect. His attention drifted to the battlefield below, where the dead prince's body lay like a broken promise. For a fleeting moment, something akin to regret darkened the god's eyes.
Xerxes leaned close, his whisper a rumble of distant storms:
"You've already helped them, by granting Josh Aratat, the kingly system, all you can do is wait for him to come into his full power..." They both sighed.
A'nui exhaled slowly, the weight of inevitability pressing upon him.
"All we can do is wait," he said at last, his voice grave.
With that, the Enforcers vanished into the folds of eternity, leaving behind silence—except for the ragged breathing of V'Zaleth, who trembled like a hunted fox. Sweat glistened on his brow as his mind screamed a single truth:
Someone was coming. Someone stronger than vengeance itself.
The major question was: what was the identity of this fellow, was it a god? A man? Or fate?