Laoria had been dying for weeks.
The once-proud capital reeked of corpses left unburied, of smoke rising from its charred homes. Streets once filled with merchants and children now lay silent, except for the distant screams from the royal arena.
That was where the end came.
Inside, the Four Horsemen of Laoria fought like shadows of their former selves. Once sworn knights of the king, once the protectors of the realm, they were battered and broken. Their swords were nicked, their armor dented, their knees trembling after hours of resisting the impossible.
The impossible was a man.
Fiedras. The Lord of Blood.
A former general turned abomination, his hunger for conquest had ended kingdoms. Rumor said he had made a pact with something beneath the earth, trading his soul for power. The armies of Laoria had already fallen before him. The Horsemen were the last wall between the monster and the city's final breath.
But even they were crumbling.
With one sweep of his fiery blade, he cast the weakest horseman sprawling. Blood-red flames licked across his left arm, and the weight of his aura pressed the others to their knees. Their hope shattered as he seized one by the throat, ready to end him.
Then came the spear.
It struck his arm and broke the execution's rhythm. Not enough to wound, but enough to save a life.
The Lord of Blood turned.
At the ruined gate of the arena stood a figure no one expected. Dust-stained cloak, tired eyes, posture loose and unsteady.
Mikael.
Once a squire under one of the Horsemen, he had abandoned the order years ago. Too restless, too reckless, too wild. He'd drifted since then, an adventurer with no glory, a drunk, a fool. No one thought he'd see this battle, let alone intervene.
But here he was.
Fiedras's eyes narrowed.
"Child. You dare interrupt me? You will bleed until nothing remains."
Mikael grinned, a madman's grin. His words slurred, yet sharp.
"Fuck you. And your whole blood act. You drama queen."
The Horsemen froze in disbelief.
Fiedras broke Mikael's spear in half and hurled it back at him like a javelin. Mikael didn't dodge. He charged.
Sliding under the weapon, he delivered a savage uppercut straight into Fiedras's groin.
The scream that followed shook the arena. The Lord of Blood staggered, knees buckling.
Mikael pounced. He fought dirty—like the streets had taught him. Elbows, knees, headbutts, gouges, curses spat with every blow. He fought not like a knight, but like a rabid animal. And impossibly, it worked.
For the first time in memory, Fiedras faltered.
But then his monstrous hands clamped around Mikael's wrists. Bones cracked. Flames seared.
"Did you think filth like you could slay me?" the lord bellowed, crushing inch by inch. Mikael's scream echoed, raw and desperate.
The Horsemen staggered to their feet. Broken, bleeding, they struck together, swords biting into the lord's back. The abomination reeled.
Mikael, freed, collapsed, his arms mangled. But he rose again, grinning through the pain.
And with the last of his strength—
he struck again.
Another brutal blow, right into Fiedras's groin.
The impossible happened twice.
The Lord of Blood shrieked, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees.
One horseman's blade carved his throat.
Another split his spine.
And with a final roar, the last brought his sword down and severed his head.
The arena fell silent.
The Four Horsemen stared, trembling. Mikael stood, swaying, bloodied, laughing through broken teeth.
Laoria had been saved—not by kings, not by armies.
But by four shattered knights, and one reckless fool who refused to fight fair.
The Lord of Blood was dead.
And history would never forget it.