The road ahead of him... a dead road.
The sky... gray as a shroud, no sun, no moon, only thick smoke filling the horizon. The entire earth breathed the candles of death.
Koran walked.
He didn't know how much time had passed.
His steps staggered, his body bled, the blood drying on his skin like a layer of black mud, but he felt nothing.
Everything around him was shattered.
The houses he passed every day on his way to school, the shops where he used to stand with Timo, the sidewalks he once ran across as a child...
All of them were now rubble.
But he kept walking... because only his feet knew the way. His face was rigid, his eyes like two opaque glass bottles—no tears, no blinking, nothing.
(The Fifth Kingdom)...
The idea crept into his mind like a whispered curse.
(They did this... they killed everyone.)
His throat dried, but he didn't stop thinking.
(They poisoned the festival... they killed my mother... they slaughtered Timo...)
His features darkened, and his fists clenched slowly until they turned white as ash, but his expression remained cold—no screams, no sobs.
He whispered, his voice no longer his own:
< "The Fifth Kingdom..."
Then he smiled... a cold, strange smile, like a wound opening on his face.
"I will kill you all..."
The words were dead, soulless, as if they were an inevitable promise, with no need for anger.
He paused for a moment, staring at the destruction, his mind unraveling.
- (I will kill them all... every person belonging to the Fifth Kingdom... every child, every elder, every soldier, every woman... all of them).
But he didn't notice his steps faltering.
His body moved like a broken machine, rising, falling, rising again, cursing them inside, damning them, but his voice remained silent, without screams.
(Why don't I feel anything? Why don't I cry?
(Is everything inside me dead?)
He kept walking, the smoke filling his chest, the air like a sharp blade piercing his lungs.
Along the way, he saw the corpse of an old man holding a small flag of the Fifth Kingdom, lying in a pool of frozen blood and terror.
Koran stopped in front of him for a moment, looked at the flag, then stepped on it calmly, without reaction, without hesitation.
He whispered, his voice like a stone being crushed under his foot:
- "You will all die."
Then he continued walking, his body swaying, but his eyes fixed on the horizon, where something glimmered in the distance, something large moving behind the fog...
His feet dragged his body over the rubble, each step as if pulling his soul backward.
The road ahead grew rougher... rocks, collapsed walls, charred thorns, all forming a black hill of ash and ruin.
He stood before it for a moment.
He lifted his trembling eyes to the summit, barely able to glimpse something behind the thick fog.
Everything whispered to him to stop, not to climb... but his foot moved on its own, as if knowing that atop this hill, something awaited that would shatter him further.
He placed his hands on the charred stones and began to climb.
His fingers slipped on the ash, feeling the roughness of the rocks cutting into his palms, but he didn't care.
Inside him, his voice whispered bitterly:
(I am the one left. No one else. Everyone is dead... Timo... my mother... even I am no longer the same person.)
His breath grew ragged with each crawl, his chest burning with every push, as if the sky's air itself had turned to poison.
He suddenly fell, sliding slightly downward, his body landing on cold rocks oozing black liquid.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the smoke-covered sky, whispering soundlessly:
(Why don't I die? Why am I even here? What's the point of living when nothing remains?)
He smiled bitterly, his lips trembling in the dust.
(Perhaps to witness the end. Yes... the end.)
With a mechanical motion, as if he had lost the ability to think, he continued climbing. Every wound on his body became a fresh memory: the soldier's blow, his mother's tears, Timo's laughter, the festival's explosion.
(I am just a body crawling over the corpse of a city.)
His final step to the summit was heavy, sluggish, but it finally happened.
When he stood, his body trembled as if he had crossed a century of time.
He lifted his eyes to the horizon before him... and suddenly, everything became clear.
The sight of war.
For a moment, time stopped again, and his heart sank with a new rhythm, whispering inside him in a pale voice, as if surrendering to fate:
(Nothing is over yet... everything begins now.)
When Koran reached the top of the hill,
he felt as if the air itself had grown heavier...
The earth seemed to brace itself before slaughter.
He fell to his knees, trying to comprehend the scene before him,
his weary eyes opening slowly, like someone waking from a nightmare only to find
a worse nightmare unfolding.
Before his eyes,
the vast plain stretched out, as if the entire earth had gathered here to witness
what was about to happen.
Two armies.
To the right, the army of the First Kingdom.
Their white banners, adorned with the emblem of the sun, rose above their heads,
their ranks tightly packed, their shields reflecting the glow of the fire
from the burning city behind them, their long swords polished like shards of ice.
At their forefront stood a man,
his features stern, his body tall and broad, his gray hair tied back,
his eyes sharp like a wounded eagle.
Koran, despite the distance, recognized him instantly.
- (Kinzawi... commander of the First Kingdom's army).
He whispered the name inside, his body trembling.
- (I've always seen him in the news... he's the symbol of the kingdom... the man who never falters... he's really here...).
Then Koran turned to the left, where the army of the Fifth Kingdom stood.
They were nothing like the First Army, more like frenzied beasts clad in crude armor.
Their armor was black, tinged with red as if scorched by fire, and all of them wore terrifying iron masks that hid their faces, their weapons strange—long like spears but wrapped in twisted skins.
But what truly made Koran hold his breath was their commander.
A young boy, barely sixteen. His face angular, his skin lightly tanned, his hair dark and shaved at the sides, his narrow eyes holding a mysterious spark, like a dormant volcano.
There were no scars or wounds on his face, but everything about him screamed cruelty.
He stood there, calmly, as if the chaos around him meant nothing, and in his hand was a short, gleaming spear, tapping it rhythmically against the ground, like a countdown to massacre.
Koran swallowed hard.
< (Who is this...? Their army's commander is a child? No... it can't be... his face is young, but his... eyes are ancient.)
He kept staring at his face, a cold feeling creeping into his spine.
< (He looks like... like those from the tales... the young commanders, drenched in bloody genius...)
Koran didn't know his name yet...
but deep in his bones, he felt this boy was worse than all the others.
And at that moment, a deep horn sounded across the horizon.
The two armies moved as one, and the earth trembled.
Koran gasped,
whispering with dry fear:
< "It's starting... the war."
The ground began to shake.
Koran, watching from the hill, felt every particle of his body vibrate under the footsteps of thousands of advancing soldiers.
The ranks of the First Kingdom's soldiers moved forward slowly, with rigid discipline.
Their armor gleamed, their weapons reflecting the flames consuming the city behind them.
They moved as if from the same body, not to defend but to slaughter.
In contrast, the Fifth Kingdom's army moved...
but their motion was inhuman.
They ran, charged like animals, the sound of their footsteps like a herd of beasts rushing through fire and ruin.
Koran gasped,
he had never seen anything so savage.
There was a vast difference between the two armies, not just in numbers... but in intent.
The First Kingdom's army fought out of duty...
But the Fifth Kingdom's army fought only to kill.
At the center of the field, the two commanders stopped, facing each other, separated by mere meters, but the air between them was like a drawn sword about to snap.
Commander Kinzawi, with the demeanor of a man accustomed to death, stared at the young commander and said in a cold voice, loud enough for even Koran to hear from afar:
- "So, you are Zain Falim... the beast of the Fifth Kingdom."
At the mention of the name, something inside Koran shuddered—that name alone carried a curse.
Zain Falim didn't answer immediately.
He simply smiled faintly, barely noticeable, his eyes narrowing further, like a predator ready to strike.
Then, in a tone as cold as if it came from an abyss:
- "You should be proud, Kinzawi... you will die by my hand."
He raised his short spear and struck the ground lightly. At that moment, his army let out a collective, monstrous roar, as if summoned from hell itself.
Kinzawi showed no hesitation, merely issuing a stern command with his hand.
- "All units, to positions."
The armies of the First Kingdom prepared for battle,
rank after rank, arrows nocked, swords ready, eyes fixed on one goal:
survival.
Koran, from his perch on the hill, felt as if everything was about to explode.
- (These are not humans... no one here is human... not even Kinzawi... in his eyes is the same dark spark as that boy Zain Falim... this isn't a fight for honor or land... this is a battle of starving beasts.)
Koran gasped suddenly when he saw Zain Falim move:
Zain Falim moved.
Faster than any human could imagine,
he charged ahead of his army like a demon thirsting for blood.
He roared savagely:
- "Cut off all their heads!"
And hell erupted.
The plain was engulfed in screams,
the clashing of metal,
blood raining like a downpour,
and the sound of bones breaking like burning wood.
Koran couldn't even scream,
all he could do was kneel and watch as soldiers fell one after another.
His head spun, his pulse raced.
< (The fate of the kingdom, no, the universe, is being decided now).
The battle had reached its peak.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
Koran watched from the hill, his vision blurred, his face covered in smoke and blood, but his eyes fixed on the heart of the massacre.
At the center of the invading army... was Zain Falim.
It was no surprise to see him there,
everyone knew the "Beast of the Fifth Kingdom" led every attack personally.
He walked through the battlefield with calm steps, no shouting, no commands,
his long sword dripping blood,
every time he raised it, a neck fell,
and every time he stepped forward, enemy heads bowed as if being slaughtered without resistance.
Koran, despite his shock, wasn't surprised.
- (It's Zain Falim... the one they say doesn't need an army... alone, he changes the course of any battle.)
On the other side, Kinzawi Ridvan, commander of the First Kingdom, fought like a wounded beast,
striking, roaring, leading his men through hell himself.
His voice thundered amid the destruction, his black sword carving through bodies like a machine.
But far from the center of the battle...
An ordinary officer from the Fifth Kingdom's army stood, wearing a tattered gray cloak,
his face pale, his eyes sunken, as if he hadn't slept for days.
He whispered coldly to the soldiers beside him, glancing at an old watch strapped to his wrist:
- "Ten minutes..."
A soldier nearby asked nervously:
- "Sir... ten minutes until what?"
The officer smiled coldly, emptily, then said in a dry tone:
< "Ten minutes, then we retreat from this field... as fast as possible."
He raised his finger to the sky, pointing somewhere beyond the black clouds and thick smoke.
He whispered coldly, as if stating an obvious truth:
< "Prepare yourselves... for the worst."
Then he turned, issuing orders for the soldiers to gather equipment and retreat tactically, without any drama, as if it were just another routine of war.
Koran noticed their movements from afar but didn't fully understand their meaning.
< (Why are some of them suddenly retreating? What does... "the worst" mean?)
The phrase echoed in his head,
as the war raged before his eyes, and a strange feeling overwhelmed him...
as if the entire earth was about to explode beneath his feet.