After a day that tested her limits, Elyssia Becker finally stepped into the sanctuary of her bathroom. The steam from the warm bath enveloped her, soothing her tired body and mind. She sank into the water, feeling the tension melting away, each sigh a testament to the long, grueling day she had endured.
Emerging from the bath, she flexed her rejuvenated arms and slipped into a soft, luxurious nightdress. The fabric caressed her skin, a welcome contrast to the roughness of her earlier ordeal. She moved with a languid grace, her limbs heavy yet relaxed, as she made her way to the bedroom. The bed looked more inviting than ever, promising a respite she desperately needed.
With a contented sigh, Elyssia grabbed her phone and jumped onto the bed, letting the mattress embrace her weary form. She unlocked her phone and opened a web-novel app, eager to escape into the world of her favorite novel. The familiar words greeted her like old friends, pulling her into a realm where she could forget, even if for a moment, the stress of her busy day.
"Lucian gripped his sword tightly, calming his nerves as he steeled himself for what lay ahead. The weight of the blade felt familiar, comforting even, though his heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The night air was thick with the scent of blood, smoke, and betrayal.
With a deep breath, he sprinted towards the Royal Palace, his boots pounding against the stone pavement. Shadows flickered in the torchlight as chaos erupted around him—knights scrambling in panic, attendants shrieking as they fled, their hurried footsteps echoing down the vast marble halls. Yet Lucian remained unfazed, his focus locked onto a singular purpose.
He did not falter. He did not stop.
Through the grand archways, past the broken remnants of once-proud banners, he charged into the Throne Room—where horror awaited him.
The air inside was heavy, almost suffocating. The grand chamber, once a place of imperial majesty, had become a slaughterhouse. Decapitated bodies lay sprawled across the polished floors, their lifeless eyes frozen in terror. The banners of Zephyria, stained crimson, hung limply from the high columns.
And there, standing amidst the carnage, drenched in fresh blood, was Darius.
His psychotic grin stretched wide, a twisted display of triumph as he casually stepped over a severed limb.
His pale fingers idly spun the hilt of his sword, as though the massacre had been nothing more than a passing amusement.
Behind him, the Emperor's body lay still, crumpled beside the grand throne, his once-golden robes now darkened with the last remnants of his life.
Yet, as if defying death itself, the Emperor's corpse flinched ever so slightly—its final, involuntary shudder, as if it could still sense the chaos that surrounded it.
Lucian's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"DARIUS!"
His voice thundered across the chamber, echoing off the marble walls.
Darius slowly turned, his grin never fading. His crimson-red eyes, pupils dilated, gleamed with something unnatural—hungry, crazed, insatiable.
Lucian took a step forward, raising his sword between them. His own blue eyes burned with unwavering determination, reflecting only wrath and resolve. His aura flared, raw power crackling around him. The air in the Throne Room grew dense, charged with unseen energy.
"I invoke the Supreme Imposition."
Darius' grin twitched. For the first time, his amusement faltered.
Darius licked his lips, tilting his head. "Oh? You would bind me, little boy?"
Lucian's voice was steady, his command absolute.
"First—this battle will not end until one of us is dead."
Darius chuckled, a low, eerie sound. "Ah... no escape for either of us, then?"
"Second—no external forces may intervene."
The smile slipped from Darius' face.
"And third—" Lucian lifted his sword, his golden aura flaring brighter, illuminating the blood-streaked floor beneath them.
"You will die by my blade."
Silence fell.
For a moment, nothing stirred—not the flickering torches, not the blood pooling on the floor. Then—
Darius laughed.
A slow, breathy chuckle that grew louder and louder until it was almost a scream of delight.
"Ahahahaha!" He ran a bloodstained hand through his disheveled hair, then took a step forward, his own aura igniting around him. The darkness of his presence clashed against Lucian's golden radiance, the two forces colliding like clashing storms.
His grin returned, wider than before. "Then come dance, little boy. Let us carve this moment into history."
Steel clashed against steel, each strike faster than the last. The air between them crackled with raw energy—golden light colliding with abyssal darkness. Lucian advanced with relentless precision, his blade weaving through Darius' defenses, forcing him back step by step. Yet, Darius only laughed, parrying each blow with effortless grace, his movements erratic yet calculated.
Their auras flared, sending shockwaves through the bloodstained chamber, rattling the very foundations of the throne room. Sparks erupted as their swords met once more, a brutal symphony of power and intent.
Lucian lunged forward with all his might, his sword tearing through the air—a single strike aimed straight at Darius' torso.
The blade pierced through flesh and bone, sinking deep into his chest.
But—Darius didn't move.
He didn't struggle.
He didn't even attempt to dodge.
His crimson eyes, dim yet unwavering, bore into Lucian's blue ones—and for the first time, there was something other than madness in them.
Acceptance.
Lucian ripped his sword free, stepping back, his breathing heavy. Darius slowly staggered, but his grin never faded.
His hands twitched, then fell limp at his sides.
The blood poured from his wound, but there was no anger, no pain—only a strange, twisted satisfaction in his final gaze.
Darius fell to his knees, then collapsed completely, his psychotic smile still etched onto his face even in death.
Lucian didn't understand.
Why?
Why hadn't he fought back? Why had he let this happen?
Why had Darius—a man who lived for chaos, for destruction, for absolute ruin—accepted his own death with a smile?
He had claimed this was a moment for history.
What had he meant?
Lucian shook the thought away. It didn't matter.
Lucian pushed over the fallen body with his leg, his expression hardening. He knew what needed to be done.
He drove his sword into Darius' first heart, then the second, then the third—ensuring that no trace of life, no lingering essence, could remain.
As the final thrust landed, a deep, echoing silence filled the chamber. He then severed the head, which still had the grin plastered on it.
Lucian pulled back, then lifted his free hand. His fingers trembled—then ignited.
A golden-white flame burst to life, flickering with unnatural intensity. The air itself warped around it, as if recoiling from its presence.
He pressed the fire to Darius' severed head.
Dragon Flare.
Only then did Lucian allow himself to breathe.
It was over.
Without hesitation, he ascended the Jharokha Darshan. With a single fluid motion, he raised his sword high and unleashed a powerful wave of Aura, sending a shimmering burst of energy into the sky.
A signal. A declaration.
The Persecution was over.
As he stood there, bathed in moonlight and the echoes of war still fading behind him, his mind drifted to Vivienne.
Without realizing it, he smiled unknowingly.
----------
The flickering glow of torches danced against the ancient stone walls, casting elongated shadows along the cavern's towering rock formations. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else —something older, something sacred.
Vivienne Whitlock's nerves were on edge as her attendants fixed her attire for the third time. She wished for the day to end soon, eagerly waiting to see Lucian in his wedding attire.
Lucian stood at the center of the ceremonial ground, waiting.
No grand altar. No embroidered carpets. No towering halls of gold and marble. Only the cavern, the fire, and the echoes of history surrounding them.
Vivienne arrived, draped in ceremonial robes woven with threads that shimmered under the firelight. Every step she took was measured, deliberate, as if following a path walked by generations before her.
The moment her eyes met Lucian's, the world outside ceased to exist.
No priest stood before them. No noble witnesses filled the space.
Here, before the ancestral flames of Arzest, only their oaths mattered.
Lucian reached forward, taking Vivienne's hands in his. They were warm, steady, yet trembling ever so slightly beneath his touch.
A blade was placed between them.
This was no mere wedding band, no exchange of vows spoken in the flowery language of aristocrats.
Lucian and Vivienne both knew what came next.
In unison, they pressed their palms to the blade's edge, allowing crimson to stain its steel. Their mingled blood trickled down, disappearing into the etched carvings along the cavern floor.
They let it trickle in a goblet, and took a sip each, Lucian first.
As the trickling blood touched a stone on the ground, a deep hum resonated through it, as if the earth itself had accepted their bond.
A pledge not only in words, but in essence.
A promise, sealed in the oldest way known to Arzest.
Lucian's voice was steady, unwavering.
"With this, we are bound forever."
Vivienne's lips parted, her own whisper carrying through the cavern.
"With this, we are one."
Then, the final act.
Lucian leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers —a silent, sacred moment shared only between them.
And finally, the kiss.
Not just one of love, but of fate, of ancient ties reforged. The very air shifted, the fire blazed brighter, as if the cavern itself had acknowledged their union.
A moment later, the ceremony was complete.
No crowns. No priestly blessings.
Only them.
Only Arzest.
----------
The Imperial Palace of Zephyria stood tall beneath the endless sky, no longer shadowed by war or bloodshed. For the first time in years, peace reigned.
Yet within the palace walls, a different kind of battle had been waged.
Lucian stood outside the royal birthing chamber, his back against the cold marble wall, his hands clenched at his sides. Every sound —every muffled voice, every hurried footstep of the midwives —sent his heart racing.
Vivienne's cries echoed through the halls, raw and unrestrained.
He had fought on countless battlefields. He had faced death without flinching. But this? The wait, the uncertainty, the sheer helplessness clawing at him —this was unlike anything he had ever endured.
The doors creaked open.
Lucian's head snapped up, his breath caught in his throat as the midwife stepped forward.
"A healthy boy, Your Majesty."
For a brief second, he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Then he was inside, his boots silent against the polished floors.
Vivienne lay upon the bed, exhausted yet radiant, her golden locks damp with sweat. When she turned her head and met his gaze, a soft, tearful smile touched her lips.
She had fought through pain, through exhaustion, and now —her battle was won.
The midwife approached, placing a small, delicate bundle wrapped in white silk into Lucian's arms.
He hesitated, fingers trembling. He had carried the weight of an empire, of loss, of war... but never had he carried something so fragile.
And then —he looked down.
Raven -black hair, soft and thick even as a newborn.
Lucian's breath hitched.
The baby did not wail as most newborns did. Instead, he lay nestled in his father's arms, his tiny face relaxed, his breathing slow and steady. Though his eyes were half-lidded from exhaustion, there was a quiet awareness in them, as if he were already observing the world around him.
Lucian stared, frozen.
It was as though time had collapsed in on itself, pulling him back to memories of blood-soaked battlefields, of a life lost too soon.
He had only ever seen this expression in the past.
A face that had stood beside him in every ordeal.
A face that had been torn from this world too soon.
His brother.
His chest tightened, an ache blooming deep within him. The past threatened to drown him.
But then —a soft sound.
A tiny, helpless whimper.
The newborn stirred, shifting slightly in his arms, his tiny fingers curling near his cheek.
Lucian's grip tightened instinctively, pulling him closer, shielding him.
No.
This child was not the past. He was the future.
Vivienne reached out weakly, her fingers trembling as she touched their son's cheek. "Lucian..."
Lucian turned to her, his heart full, his voice thick with emotion.
"Our Sun has risen."
Vivienne let out a choked laugh, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. Lucian inhaled deeply and looked down at his son once more.
A new life, untouched by the horrors they had endured. A symbol of everything they had fought for. A life that would never know war, never know suffering.
He pressed a soft kiss to his son's forehead, his voice steady as he whispered: "Alaric."
The name hung in the air like a solemn vow.
Vivienne closed her eyes, a peaceful smile on her lips. "Alaric..." she repeated softly, as if the name itself was a promise.
A promise that the past would be honored.
A promise that the future would be bright.
Lucian held them both close, a warmth filling his chest like the first light of dawn.
Outside the palace, the sun broke over the horizon, painting the sky in gold.
The people of Zephyria would wake to another peaceful morning, their empire strong, their rulers unwavering. The war was over. The shadows had passed.
And as the newborn prince curled his tiny fingers around Lucian's thumb, the Emperor of Zephyria finally allowed himself to believe — This was their happily ever after.
----------
Elyssia devoured the final chapters of her favorite novel, her eyes darting across the screen with growing anticipation. Each word, each line, pulled her deeper, her heartbeat syncing with the final climactic moments.
And then —it ended.
She stared at the last sentence, her mind lingering in the aftermath of the story. A deep wave of satisfaction washed over her, leaving her feeling both fulfilled and hollow.
She let out a slow, contented sigh and tilted her head back against the headboard. The glow of her phone screen cast faint shadows across the dimly lit room, the once-vivid words now blurring as the tension in her shoulders melted away.
With a soft click, she set her phone aside, placing it on the nightstand with practiced ease. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustling of the blankets as she shifted, nestling into the warmth of her pillows.
The fatigue she had ignored for hours—lost in the world of fiction—finally caught up with her.
Her eyelids grew heavy, her body sinking further into the plush embrace of her bed.
A deep breath in. A slow exhale.
The world faded, the edges of reality dissolving into the tranquil darkness of sleep.
And with that, Elyssia drifted into slumber, her heart still lingering in the echoes of a story that had now come to an end.
----------
Woken up by an unbearable noise, Elyssia switched on the transit device. The transit message was something she never expected, a scenario she thought was impossible.
'FLASH: this is Command. Utmost-Priority alert. A traitor has been identified within the team. The enemy is aware of Squadron-6's location and has full Intel on their operations. A hostile element is en-route to your location with orders to neutralize identified assets. The team is currently at Grid 9-7-3-4, 4 clicks north of your position. Repeat 4 clicks north, Grid 9-7-3-4.
Do not engage in combat. Evacuate the site immediately. Transmission ends. Command out.'
The hollow beep of the emergency transmission still rang in her ears as Elyssia darted to the window, her pulse pounding. Cold dread gripped her gut.
She pressed her back against the wall and stole a quick glance outside—a black chopper cut through the night sky, its blades slicing through the air with a deafening roar. The searchlights flickered to life, scanning the perimeter. Three armored wagons, standby in the premises.
The alert was too late.
They were coming.
Her breath hitched. The traitor had sold them out. This wasn't a warning—this was an execution.
No time to think. No time to hesitate.
Elyssia snatched her transit device from the bed, her fingers moving with razor-sharp precision as she switched to the squadron's secure channel. The device crackled as she patched through.
"All units, evac now! I repeat —Evacuate the site immediately! Code 'Echo Sierra' is now active!"
She hurled herself away from the window, boots skidding against the floor as she grabbed her sidearm. The faint thuds of approaching footsteps echoed in the hallway —they were already inside.
"Route Alpha has been compromised. Extraction Point Bravo —move!" Her voice was sharp, commanding, but beneath it, urgency pulsed like a warning siren. "Get the hell out, NOW!"
The comms exploded with voices.
"Copy, moving out—"
"Shit, we've got movement near the stairwell!"
"Team Three is pinned down —requesting cover fire from--!"
The building shuddered as an explosion rocked the lower floors. Dust rained from the ceiling. Elyssia barely had time to steady herself before she caught a new sound —boots pounding up the stairs.
A sharp creak from the neighboring room sent a spike of adrenaline through Elyssia's veins.
They were here. The hunt had begun.
She didn't wait to listen the cries. No time.
She moved.
In a single motion, she snatched her phone and transit device, stuffed them into a zip-lock bag, and sealed it shut. Her fingers worked with razor-sharp precision, but her mind screamed at her to hurry.
The footsteps grew louder —closer.
She grabbed her Beretta, heart hammering, and turned to the window. No hesitation.
A single breath —then she launched herself into the night.
The wind ripped past her, the rush of freefall lasting less than a second before —impact.
She struck the cold night air like a bullet, body twisting mid-air as the roaring river below rushed toward her.
She barely had time to register the icy reflection of the moon on the surface when — A gunshot.
A violent, gut-wrenching force slammed into her back, sending a fiery explosion of pain tearing through her chest.
Her vision flashed white.
A split second later, she saw it —her own left arm, severed at the shoulder, spiraling through the air like a discarded doll limb.
Her breath hitched —then failed completely.
The force of the .50 BMG round had torn through her like she was paper. Point-blank.
She never even heard the second shot.
The world spun, twisted, inverted. Her body crashed into the river with a deafening splash, the frigid water swallowing her whole.
Pain.
Indescribable, inescapable pain.
Her body was no longer hers. She couldn't feel her legs. Couldn't feel the weight of her weapon.
She was drifting.
Down.
Down.
The current wrapped around her like a cruel embrace, dragging her further into the abyss.
Her vision blurred, darkness pressing at the edges. Her lungs burned, screaming for air she couldn't reach.
And in the void of pain, in the suffocating cold, her mind wandered.
Memories.
A younger Elyssia, barefoot and hungry, picking through the remains of a war-torn city.
Gunfire cracking in the distance. Bodies slumped in doorways. Eyes staring at nothing.
The day she was rescued —or was it the day she was conscripted?
Her fingers wrapped around a rifle for the first time. The weight of it heavier than her entire body.
The sound of her first kill. The sound of the last.
The war had made her.
The war had broken her.
She had been trained to be a weapon, made to imitate and kill anyone, but deep inside, she had only ever wanted to live.
But peace had always been just out of reach.
Just a dream.
Now, it didn't matter.
The throbbing agony in her chest pulsed one last time before fading. The cold felt less cruel.
She closed her eyes.
A single tear slipped free, dissolving into the current.
Maybe this was it. Maybe she would finally rest.
No more orders. No more war. No more running.
Just—
A presence.
Elyssia's eyes flickered half-open, the water distorting her vision.
Something was there.
A figure.
Human-like, yet impossibly dark, as if carved from the very void itself. It stood motionless, just beyond the reach of the river's pull. Watching. Waiting.
The currents dragged her closer, her limp body drifting toward it.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was Death itself.
The black figure did not move. Did not speak.
It only stared.
Her fingers twitched —a feeble, dying motion.
She almost reached it.
Almost.
Then —everything went still.
The light in her eyes faded, her body succumbing to the abyss.
Elyssia Becker took her last breath.
And the world went dark.
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