The battlefield was silent.
The wind is all that is moving, Its odor of iron and burnt flesh Blows through the wasteland. Bodies were scattered to the last place the eye could see, and broken and twisted in unnatural fashion. Blood was lying in the mud, a blood-sea that coloured the earth with blood.
This was no ordinary fight.
The dead had not been human beings.
Their bodies eloquently explained everything--the shattered bones, the blows of weapon turned to paper, the deep scratches in the ground made with a scorch-mark. Whoever battled here had exercised powers and strength well beyond the domain of men.
But still, in this aftermath, there was but a single figure that moved.
One man in a skull mask strolled among the dead bodies. His boots spurted in pools of blood. He had a pistol in his hand which was still faintly smoking. He was oppressive, stifling, as the shadow that was not part and parcel of this world.
He was slow in his walk, his head turning as though he sought something--or somebody.
Then, he saw her.
One of the girls was squatting next to the body of a man. Her physique was shattered and blood was leaving her ripped garments and her breath was a whisper. Somehow she was still alive against all odds.
The masked man approached. He had stopped in a jump short of her.
Her eyelids quailed, and opened. The looming figure was stared at with weak eyes and clouded with pain. and as she looked at him the ghost of a smile came to her lips.
Oh… at last, you are here, she said, her voice so weak, it almost broke at the wind.
The man tilted his head. his voice was deep, and its sound was distorted behind the mask.
Apparently you were anticipating me. Why were you here, Sir, should I come?
The girl cleared her throat, and crimson streamed out of her mouth. "It's… a long story. I don't… I have not time to relate it all.
"Then keep it short."
Her sunken lips were drawn in a weak, bitter smile. "Hah… you never changed. Am I... may I at least see thy face Before I go?
His man was as icy-tongued as steel. "Stop talking nonsense. Get to the point."
Her eyes trembled and stood. She came out with the emerging remnants of strength.
but remember what you always used to tell me? 'Don't lose to the sky.'"
The hand of the masked man jerked.
I tried, I tried, she continued with tears in her eyes. "I really tried…"
Her body was trembling and her breathing shallow. Her desperation showed in her face and she stretched out her hand to him with shaky fingers.
Please, take care of my family, keep me up to date.
Her hand fell limp. Her chest stilled.
The light faded from her eyes.
A long time the masked man stood still. Thousands of dead lay round him, and he looked down at the dead body of the girl. The mask he wore was a faint light, a deep haunting light, which burned in its hollow sockets.
His position was not sorrowful. No grief. Only silence.
And in that silence the burden of her last words was pressing like a sword upon his heart.
Nothing would lead to nothing--this massacre, this moment, would not pass into the oblivion dust of history. It would cut itself out of the premiss of a generation.
The Ironblood Legacy did not start with a win, with a royal coronation, but with a massacre in blood.
And one man, who was a lone survivor among the dead.