The waiting room was dim, the low hum of monitors and muffled cheering from the stadium outside seeping in through the walls. Kairo sat quietly in his chair, hood drawn low, blue eyes faintly reflecting the glow of the television where the semi-final highlights replayed. His fingers drummed against his knees, tapping out a rhythm that only he could hear—like the beating war-drums of an army preparing to march.
"Hey, Kairo!"
A voice broke through his thoughts. A tall boy with a scarf leaned in, grinning. "That was some sick play earlier. No one could've predicted that triple-flank maneuver. You've got this final in the bag."
Another voice chimed in, softer but more emotional. A girl clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. "Grandma would've been proud… you know that, right?"
Kairo stiffened, then slowly nodded. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he inhaled sharply and closed his eyes.
(Grandma… yeah. This is for you.)
The girl's words lingered in the air like incense. The others around him clapped his shoulder, cheered him on, whispered encouragements, but his world was narrowing to a razor's edge. The finals—the last step.
He rose to his feet, pushing his hood back. Messy black hair spilled across his forehead, his blue eyes sharp as winter glass. For a moment, the noise of the room fell away, and his mind's voice broke through in a low monologue, steady and intimate.
("My name is Kairo. People know me as the Overlord… but that's just a name. In truth, I'm nothing extraordinary. Just a boy who never really fit anywhere.)
(When I was young, my parents tore each other apart, split like a battlefield after the storm. They left me behind in the rubble of their war. And so, I grew up alone. No voices in the house. No laughter. Just silence and games.)
(Games became my world. My only companion. Strategy, battles, numbers—those were things I could understand when people made no sense.)
(But… there was one person who cared. My grandmother. She took me in when the world had discarded me. She wasn't rich, wasn't powerful, but she had warmth. She taught me to eat, to smile, to live… even if I never really learned.)
(When she died—cancer, slow and cruel—she held my hand and whispered her last wish: 'I want you to be happy, Kairo. Promise me you'll find it.')
(I promised her. And today… in this tournament, I will fulfill that promise.)
(This game—Chronicles of War. The greatest RTS ever crafted. A simulation so vast, so merciless, it may as well be reality. Armies clash, kingdoms rise, worlds fall. And me? I'm known there as the Overlord. Not because I'm strong, but because I command with clarity. I see what others cannot. I move where others hesitate.)
(Now, I stand one battle away from victory. One more match, and I will be crowned the best RTS player the world has ever seen. For her. For me.)
The announcement blared overhead.
"Finalists, to the stage!"
The waiting room erupted in cheers as Kairo stepped toward the door. The girl from earlier cupped her hands around her mouth. "Win, Kairo! Make her proud!"
He gave the faintest of smiles—small, brittle, but real. "I will."
The Final Match
The stage was enormous, bathed in neon lights and roaring chants from tens of thousands of fans. Screens towered overhead, broadcasting the match across the globe.
Kairo sat across from his final opponent—a veteran champion known as The Iron Duke. Their eyes locked, not in hatred, but in the cold acknowledgement of warriors.
The match began.
Kairo's hands moved like lightning, his mind weaving strategies as if he were orchestrating a symphony of war. Every click was a command, every decision a step toward inevitability. His forces spread, concealed, reappeared where least expected. Ambushes collapsed armies, feints shattered defenses. The crowd gasped, roared, cried out as though watching a real war unfold.
The Iron Duke's armies fell one after another, crushed beneath maneuvers they never saw coming. Kairo's name thundered through the stadium:
"Overlord! Overlord! Overlord!"
At last, the final stronghold collapsed, flames devouring the Duke's base. The victory screen exploded across the monitors.
Kairo stood, chest heaving, sweat dripping. For the first time in years, his lips parted into a smile so bright it seemed foreign on his face. He thrust his fist into the air.
"I did it! Grandma—I DID IT!"
The arena detonated in sound. Cheering, clapping, chanting. The host rushed forward with the golden Champion's Cup. The moment of triumph, the culmination of years of pain and loneliness, was finally his.
Then—it happened.
A blinding flash tore across the sky.
The stadium trembled. Glass shattered. A roaring scream, like thunder and flame combined, descended.
A column of fire struck the stage.
Kairo's body was flung backward. Pain tore through him. Blood spilled, warm and endless. His last sight was the golden cup, tumbling from the host's hands, clattering uselessly on the floor.
Voices blurred.
"—get him out!"
"—someone call emergency services!"
"Kairo! Stay awake!"
But he couldn't. Darkness swallowed him.
Hours later, television screens around the globe carried the same headline:
[TERROR STRIKE AT CHRONICLES WAR TOURNAMENT – OVERLORD KAIRO DEAD]
The anchors' voices were heavy with grief. "Considered an act of terrorism, the strike claimed the life of champion finalist Kairo, beloved by millions as 'The Overlord.' Fans worldwide mourn his tragic and untimely death."
In the waiting room, the girl who had cheered for him wept uncontrollably. "He… he promised… Grandma would've…" Her words broke into sobs.
The scarfed boy punched the wall until his knuckles bled. "Damn it… he was supposed to win everything. He deserved happiness."
And the world mourned.
The Sea
Kairo's soul drifted. No sound, no light. Only water. Cold, infinite water. He was sinking—pulled downward into an endless sea of oblivion.
"So this… is it,huh." he thought faintly. His voice was distant, detached, as though even his thoughts were dissolving. "No victory. No happiness. Just silence again."
He let himself fall, body limp, surrendering to the abyss.
But then—
A hand.
Fingers, delicate yet unyielding, seized his wrist and yanked him upward. His eyes snapped open.
Before him floated a figure—impossibly radiant, impossibly terrifying. An angel. Yet not the gentle kind painted in prayers. This one bore six colossal wings, feathers black as the void. From her skull curved demonic horns, polished obsidian, gleaming with power. Her body was wrapped in armor darker than midnight, engraved with runes that pulsed with cruel authority.
Her gaze pierced him, merciless yet… searching.
Kairo gasped, the water burning from his lungs as though her very words sustained him. "Who… who are you?"
Her armored hand tightened around his, dragging him upward. The sea trembled, shattered into fragments of starlight.
And then—across the void, burning like scripture—appeared words in jagged, brilliant flame.
[The Command Nexus Has Chosen You]