"This is your end."
The words echoed—not loudly, not shouted—just a verdict spoken as if nature itself had decreed it long ago. The blade in Yoshihara Kanata's hand reflected the dim light from the darkened sky above, as though silently endorsing the sentence.
The Grand Hall of Archduke Villiers, once filled with centuries-old golden mosaics and stained-glass windows, had now become a pit of ruins. Its walls cracked like the broken bones of an ancient giant, the marble floor shattered by countless explosions of magic and brutal physical blows. The scent of chalk dust mingled with the metallic tang of freely flowing blood, forming a thin mist that blurred vision.
Kanata stood amid it all—the figure who had become the world's hope. The Greatest Hero of This Century. Sá Myrkrs Endar. Sá Ljóss Sendimaðr. Those grand titles from the northern continent now felt hollow, almost laughable to the young man who could barely stand from the wounds still pouring blood.
He felt a sharp throb on the left side of his cheek, torn open by his nemesis's final strike. The blood had dried, clinging to his skin, yet the sting remained raw. His body trembled—not from fear, but from the rage he had been struggling to contain all this time.
Calm… breathe… He tried to steady himself again. This final battle had drained not only his body but his emotions as well. Yet the air he inhaled was thick with dust and the acrid smell of burning.
Above them, the sky looked like a forge crafted by a melancholic god. Asperitas clouds hung low, wildly undulating like an inverted black ocean suspended in the air. The delayed sunrise was trapped behind the dark swirling masses, casting a bruised orange glow across the horizon—like a bruise on the edge of the world.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Or perhaps… it was waiting for something. Waiting for the inevitable.
Darion Valdis Villiers, the young man standing just a few steps away, looked more like a shadow than a human being. His coat was scorched, his black hair disheveled, and blood seeped from wounds that should have killed an ordinary person half an hour ago.
The Law of Fantasy made it nearly impossible for him to die so easily, even from clearly mortal injuries, and yet he still stood with that same arrogant posture.
But those violet eyes… Eyes that always made Kanata feel as though they could see straight through to his bones. Even now, on the brink of death, they stared at Kanata with an unquenchable spark.
"Your end… huh?" Darion chuckled, but the sound quickly turned into a wet, heavy cough. Dark blood spilled from his lips, dripping to the floor. "How poetic. You always did have a talent for drama."
Kanata didn't respond. He knew Darion was only trying to provoke him. This young man had always been like that—every word a snare, every smile a sharpened dagger. He wouldn't fall for it again. Not anymore.
"How ridiculous," Darion continued, lifting his face. The orange light from the sky reflected in his violet pupils, making him look like a monster forged by a dying sun. "You stand there, glaring at me with eyes full of rage… Is this your revenge, neatly wrapped in the guise of grand justice?"
That voice—so light, as if he were recounting a trivial anecdote about Kanata's struggles, his sacrifices.
"After all, back then you cried like a puppy when your mother died right in front of you," Darion went on, as though he weren't running out of breath. "I almost… felt sorry for you."
A hot pulse surged from Kanata's chest to his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs as if trying to escape. His teeth clenched. That memory—the one he had buried so deeply—rose again without mercy.
Don't take the bait. You knew this would happen. You fought him because he's insane. Because he's dangerous. Not out of revenge.
He tried to convince himself. But something inside him had cracked, something that had once nearly driven him to madness.
"You…" Kanata started to speak, but the words burned on his tongue, turning into a low growl. He gripped his sword tighter—a reflex from a body nearly overtaken by emotion.
Darion saw it. And he smiled—that small, cynical, horrifying… and utterly loathsome smile.
"Ah, that look," he murmured. "The look of someone who wants to kill for personal reasons, yet has to pretend to be a holy hero."
Kanata held his breath. The hand gripping his sword trembled slightly.
You're wrong. You've always been wrong. But he wasn't sure whether he was thinking that to refute Darion or to convince himself. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. The next words came like a curse. A curse that had haunted him ever since his mother's death.
"You must hate how weak you are, don't you?"
No signal. No shout. Kanata moved like a shadow exploding from pent-up tension.
His unique skill, Authority, activated. Complex magical circles manifested across Darion's entire body, appearing out of nowhere. The space around the young Archduke seemed to warp for a moment, as if time itself had been bound by invisible hands. The intricate patterns ensnared him, locking his body so tightly that even his fingers couldn't twitch.
Kanata stepped forward. Once. Twice.
Then his sword pierced Darion's chest.
The sound of metal sinking into flesh rang out, almost mournful in the dreadful silence. Darion jerked, but there was no scream. Only a broken gasp, like the sigh of a monster in a dark valley. A faint tremor ran through Darion's body. Not from pain. But from… suppressed laughter.
"You impolite lowlife…" Darion whispered with venom, more blood pouring from his lips. "Not even giving me a chance for a final monologue?"
Kanata pushed the blade deeper in response. He wanted this over as quickly as possible. To end it all. To stop this bloody era. This wretched era…
"Let's finish this. Just die already, so there won't be any more suffering you've created."
"Your good intentions are touching… but unfortunately…" Darion let out a weak, amused chuckle. "I've enjoyed every single second of this." Those violet eyes didn't dim. If anything, they grew clearer, deeper, more revolting. "Do you think Kaivalya will become a better place because of you?" Darion asked softly. "Do you think all this chaos will end when I die?" His voice wasn't taunting. It was more like a prophecy. Or perhaps a curse.
Kanata clenched his jaw. "People won't mourn the death of someone like you."
"Of course not," Darion admitted. "But the world won't become better because of you either." His murmur was barely audible. Then he smiled—mocking? Sincere? Kanata couldn't tell, but it looked arrogant, as though saying he was never wrong, that everything he did was never wrong. "Your Highness, the great Hero… You only won… because I… allowed myself to lose…"
Kanata yanked his blood-soaked sword free. Darion's body collapsed without fanfare, hitting the cold stone with the dull thud of flesh on rock. His violet eyes remained open—staring straight upward, piercing through the dark Asperitas clouds toward the faint clear sky on the horizon where the sun was finally beginning to rise.
Darion's end held no regret. He didn't change. He felt no remorse for his actions. He died exactly as he had lived. With eternal arrogance.
That arrogant smile still adorned his lifeless face, as though Darion would never ask for forgiveness. There was one sentence that kept ringing in Kanata's mind at that moment—a sentence like poison, yet also truth.
"I never make mistakes. I only create causes far more interesting than the planned consequences. You were just an unplanned midpoint… so know your place, because you're far beneath me."
An utterly arrogant statement. But perhaps it was the truth. Kanata had never planned to end up in a situation like this, to suffer through so much pain and struggle until the very end… Yet he had chosen to stand here of his own will, with the goal of ending it all.
"If I truly am an unplanned midpoint, then I'm also not part of the script you can control. You call yourself the cause, but your entire life was nothing more than a consequence. You failed to realize that until the end, and you'll never admit it, will you? Just like how I never considered myself a hero… yet people still call me one."
Kanata gritted his teeth as tears finally spilled down his cheeks. He remembered his home, his parents, his siblings, his adventures, the people who supported him, the warmth he once knew…
"In truth, I'm just a loser who kept chasing dawn for a peaceful future. I just wanted to go home… Why… is something as simple as that so impossible to reach?" His voice broke into choked sobs, each one heavy, as though something was tearing his lungs apart. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. Then he looked up at the ashen sky, now reddening like a burn bruise, as though the heavens themselves were mocking his struggle...
The bastard who never considered himself wrong was the guilty one. Yet Kanata didn't fully hate him...
He hated himself more. What kind of hero was he? He couldn't even save the people who mattered most in his life… If only he had been stronger back then, if only he hadn't taken everything lightly, maybe he could have protected them. But regret changes nothing—that's why he had walked this path and ended up here.
Was this suffering finally over? Or was that just what he wanted to believe… In truth, what was left after all this struggle?
The answer: only himself.
To be continued.