And so, between the smoke of forgotten battles and the whisper of withered flowers, Axel faced ▫️▫️▫️▫️. You know? It's curious: even broken weapons leave scars. Forged in the fire of unkept promises, he raised his voice like a warrior defying an eclipse. But ▫️▫️▫️▫️… ah, he had always been a master of mirrors, reflecting twisted truths like serpents coiled in the garden of illusion.
And then… we step into "the story."
—Save us? —▫️▫️▫️▫️ laughed, and the sound was the crackle of ice on the Lethe—. You're a poorly written verse in the poem I composed. Do you truly believe Aphrodite fights for you? Her tears, Axel… they petrify. Like you, she is… a tool.
Axel stepped back. His spine brushed against the statue of a faceless hero, its feet buried beneath black chrysanthemums. The air smelled of familiar incense.
—Your lies are Morpheus' veils! —Axel shouted, as his blood stained the floor of flowers—. I saw Hecate weep among ruins! I saw the Cyclopes drag chains for following your…!
—Enough! —▫️▫️▫️▫️ raised a hand, and the world held its breath—. You are the echo of a name she once spoke, when the sun was young and gods did not tremble before prophecies. Do you remember? She called you "Axel"... as one might name a poem.
And Axel… fell. Not like Icarus, but like Achilles before the Scamander: proud, wounded, drowning in his own nemesis. His blood traced runes upon the earth—a message only ⚪⚪⚪⚪ could decipher. ▫️▫️▫️▫️ watched, impassive, as both their faces began to crack.
—Do you see? —the Creator murmured, stroking the head of a petrified chimera—. Even Prometheus understood his place. You… are merely the price of a future that never belonged to you.
Axel wanted to laugh, but instead, he spat. His eyes—mirrors of a burning Olympus—searched for ▫️▫️▫️▫️ one last time. Anger? Sorrow? No. It was the gaze of a wounded man who, at last, sees the stars beyond the dark forest.
—A… gift? —he coughed, as his body unraveled like sand in Cronos' hourglass—. Do you offer… mercy… oh great architect of…?
—No —▫️▫️▫️▫️ interrupted, carving a symbol into the air—. I will give you what you always wanted: to see. You will witness every thread of the tapestry you destroyed… every life your stubbornness damned.
And then… Axel saw. Not the future he longed for, but the present: Aphrodite bleeding in a swamp, centaurs dragging corpses clad in modern armor, a minotaur singing lullabies to a human child… His scream had no sound, yet it shook the pillars of Erebus.
—Does it hurt? —▫️▫️▫️▫️ smiled, and for a fleeting moment, his face showed genuine pity—. This is how death should feel.
And Axel… understood. Not the "why," but the "when." When did he stop being a tool and become a thorn? When did his love become just another crack in the walls of Troy?
—Kill me… —he pleaded, clutching the fragments of his mask—. But… her…
—No —▫️▫️▫️▫️ turned away, stepping on lilies that turned to ash—. You will live. Until you accept that this pain… is your only truth.
—I refuse —Axel lowered his face. At last, he had shattered completely. Not just his body—his will, too. It was agony… wasn't it? Yet, even in that state, he lifted his head once more. With his final strength, in his last motion, he spoke:
—You are unworthy to be human.
He only stared coldly. Then said:
—Weeds must be cut.
Perhaps it was an arrow. Or something like it. When it struck his chest, he felt pain for only a few seconds. Then he dissolved into thousands of red petals, carried away by the cruelest wind.
This is how Axel dies