There was no light in the sky, and no mercy on the ground—only the clash of steel and the cries of those who would not see the dawn.
Swords collided. Bones shattered. Blood ran like rivers across a field that knew only death. In the heart of it all, King Karis Krios still stood—his breaths heavy, his blade dripping with crimson, eyes locked on his foe, Valram, the iron giant who could barely remain on his feet.
"It's over," Karis said softly, but his voice struck like thunder across the field.
He raised his sword once more, summoning the last of his strength to deliver the final blow—Then felt fire drive into his back.
A stab.
Silent.
Treachery incarnate.
His eyes, not his body, turned to glance behind—Marcus.
The dagger was still buried in his back.
"M-Marcus…?"
No answer.
Only a second strike—through the chest.
The blade pierced his front, and there stood Nirsa, her face as cold as death itself.
"Your time is over," she whispered.
She stepped back, withdrawing her sword as Karis staggered. His body was no longer his own.
Then came the third.
Valram's axe into his shoulder, with brute force fueled by long-held rage.
Time froze.
Three blades. Three betrayals. Three deaths in one body.
No words escaped the king's lips. Only his eyes bled with disbelief.
Then, something within him stirred—immortality.
The ancient power began to pulse in his veins, trying to restore what had been broken. Shattered bones trembled. Torn muscles strained to mend.
But…
Too slow.
Everything moved like molasses. The poison laced in the blades had shackled his healing.
"Why…?" he whispered, not to his enemies, but to fate itself.
He dropped to one knee—then rose again.
"I won't die… without taking one of you with me."
A roar burst from his throat—not a human sound, but something raw and primeval. A king's cry, soaked in blood and betrayal, but never defeat.
He lunged at Valram, his sword burning with final fury. Nirsa moved to intercept—but he elbowed her aside, sending her sprawling.
Strike. Dodge. Slash. Scream.
Karis wasn't fighting to win.
He was fighting to be remembered.
Each blow carried the weight of a kingdom, the sting of betrayal, and the pride of a monarch.
And in the end… he cleaved Valram's chest open.
The giant fell—like the collapse of a myth.
But Karis did not smile. Did not scream. Did not gloat.
He stood still, blood flowing from every inch of his body, like a man carved from suffering.
Nirsa crawled along the ground, watching him in silent horror.
Marcus stared back—his eyes full of something he had never known before:
Fear.
Karis, King of Uruk… did not fall.
He died standing.
His eyes open, gazing toward the dying sun. His sword still embedded in the earth.
Enemy soldiers crept forward—but none dared approach.
For who stands before a corpse that never fell?
And with the last drop of his blood, the ground spelled out only one truth:
"The King… does not kneel."