The sky was bleeding.
Max drove his sword through a demon's throat, black ichor spraying across his face. The creature gurgled, clawing at the blade before dissolving into ash. He didn't stop to catch his breath. There were always more.
"LEFT FLANK! THEY'RE BREAKING THROUGH!"
An elven archer—Seris, he thought her name was—loosed three arrows in rapid succession. Each one found a mark. Each demon that fell was replaced by two more. The Demon Lord's army was endless.
Max's mana reserves were nearly spent. His talent, Mana Amplification, had kept him fighting longer than most, but even amplified mana had limits. Around him, the alliance forces were crumbling. Humans, elves, demihumans—it didn't matter. They were all dying the same.
"Where the hell is he?"
Max turned. A human knight, armor dented and bloodied, was shouting at no one in particular. "Where's Beck Aristar? Where's the hero?"
"Probably dead," someone muttered.
"Don't say that!" A demihuman woman—fox ears flattened against her skull—snapped back. "The Blessing wouldn't let him die. He's coming. He has to be coming."
Max said nothing. He knew better.
Beck wasn't dead. Beck was Beck. Somewhere far from this battlefield, the chosen hero was probably napping under a tree, convinced someone else would handle it. Max had known him since they were kids. Had watched him awaken his talent, watched people fall over themselves to praise him, watched him nod along with a smile and never lift a finger unless it directly benefited him.
"He'll save us," the knight said, desperation cracking his voice. "The prophecy—"
A demon's claw tore through his chest.
Max didn't have time to react. The battlefield was chaos. Screams. Fire. The metallic stench of blood mixing with sulfur. He amplified what little mana he had left, pouring it into his limbs, and lunged forward.
His sword caught the demon mid-strike. It shrieked, twisting toward him with too many teeth.
Max was already moving. Slash. Pivot. Amplify. His body screamed in protest but he pushed harder. Someone had to. If not the hero, then who?
The demon collapsed. Max stumbled, blade heavy in his grip.
Around him, the alliance was breaking. Not retreating—breaking. There was nowhere left to retreat to. This was the last stand. The final defense. And they were losing.
"FALL BACK TO THE RIDGE!"
Max turned toward the voice. An elven commander, blood streaming from a gash across his face, was waving survivors toward higher ground. As if it would matter. As if another hundred meters would change anything.
Max ran anyway.
His legs felt like lead. His mana was gone. He was running on fumes and adrenaline, dragging his sword through mud and ash. Ahead, a group of soldiers were trying to form a defensive line. Behind, demons poured over the battlefield like a black tide.
He wasn't going to make it.
A roar split the air. Max looked up just in time to see a massive demon—easily three times his height—barreling toward him. Its eyes burned red. Its claws could split stone.
Max raised his sword.
It wasn't enough.
The impact sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, ribs cracking, air forced from his lungs. His sword was gone. His vision blurred. Blood filled his mouth.
The demon loomed over him, raising one clawed hand for the killing blow.
Max tried to move. His body wouldn't respond.
'Is this it?'
The thought was bitter. After everything. After fighting tooth and nail while the chosen hero sat on his ass. After watching friends die, cities burn, hope crumble. This was the end.
The demon's claw descended.
Max closed his eyes.
And cursed.
'Damn you, Beck. Damn the prophecy. Damn the heavens for wasting the Blessing on someone who doesn't give a shit.'
The world went dark.
'If I had it… if I had his power… I'd do better. I'd actually try. I'd—'
Nothing.
Silence.
And then—
"—welcome to Fey Academy!"
Max's eyes snapped open.
Sound crashed over him. Applause. Chatter. The rustle of hundreds of bodies packed together. He was standing. Upright. Uninjured.
His head whipped around.
He was in a massive hall. Vaulted ceilings. Banners hanging from stone walls. And everywhere—'everywhere'—young faces. Humans. Elves. Demihumans. Students in crisp uniforms, chattering excitedly, their eyes bright with hope.
Max's breath caught.
He knew this place.
An older man stood on a raised platform at the front of the hall, arms spread wide, smiling. "You are the future of our world! The finest talents from across the three races, gathered here to hone your skills and forge the bonds that will protect us all!"
The entrance ceremony.
Max's hands trembled. He looked down. No blood. No wounds. His uniform was clean, pressed, 'new'. His sword wasn't even on him.
This was six years ago.
Six years before the end.
"Today, you begin your journey," the headmaster continued, voice booming across the hall. "Today, you take your first steps toward greatness!"
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Max stood frozen, heart pounding, mind racing.
'I'm back.'
'How?'
'Why?'
His gaze swept the hall, frantic, searching. And then he saw him.
Near the front. Leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed and eyes half-closed.
Beck Aristar.
The prophesied hero. The bearer of Blessing. The boy who would one day let the world burn.
He looked bored.
Max's fists clenched.
'Not this time.'