"Crescentine Fleur! Go forth and deal with the rebels. Those kingdoms don't know when to give up!"
Emperor Karvian Von Medalline has always been greedy.
He raised me to be a knight at the age of twelve. A soldier. His weapon. Conditioned to strike my enemies down without a single ounce of emotion.
I followed his every command. Protected Medalline with my life on the frontlines. And every time I returned from the battlefield, the empire's citizens welcomed me home like a hero.
Now, he wants me back on the battlefield again, to fight off rebels.
And it hasn't even been long since I returned from the last one.
This has grown tiring.
My purpose as a hero was being weaponized. Slowly, deliberately. Until there was nothing left of it but the blade he pointed at whoever stood in his way.
Those rebels he speaks of?
They're the remnants of Branklore's royal loyalists.
I destroyed Branklore for this empire. Without batting an eye. Without flinching.
I was fourteen back then.
They begged. They pleaded. But I cut through every royal bloodline in that palace without hesitation.
I was cold-blooded.
To the other kingdoms, I was the villain. To the Empire of Medalline, I was their hero.
Two sides of the same sword.
"Crescentine, are you listening to me?"
Emperor Karvian sat on his throne, elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped against his knuckles. Regal and authoritative in his borrowed power.
"I am listening, Your Majesty."
I never bowed before the emperor. I never had to. Growing up under his orders, I had long seen through what he truly was, a coward.
One who hid behind my strength and my status as the Hero, letting me bleed for wars he was too afraid to fight himself.
"The Kingdom of Branklore's royal bastard has started gathering his army again. You failed to wipe out every bloodline in that kingdom. You disappoint me, Crescentine."
I remained neutral. Unreadable. He didn't deserve my explanation. Without me, this empire would have crumbled into chaos long ago.
"The information given to me was lacking, Your Majesty. I was never informed the king had an illegitimate son outside of the palace."
I said it calmly. Coldly. Accurate to the point.
I caught the slight twitch on his face at my response.
"Crescentine Fleur! How dare you speak to me like that!"
He rose from his throne and descended the steps, stopping directly in front of me.
SMACK.
SMACK.
Twice. Left and right across my face.
I didn't flinch. My emerald eyes stayed cold and fixed ahead.
"You're starting to act up. Do you think you'd be called a Hero without my backing?"
There it was. The arrogance that defined his crown.
Emperor Karvian Von Medalline, a man who dreamed of uniting all of Philantria under his rule. Who convinced himself that dream was noble. That the blood spilled for it was necessary.
If it were still the younger me, I might have believed him.
But eight years on the battlefield changes a man. I had met people. Heard stories. Seen faces on the other side of my blade, faces that had nothing to do with the power struggles of kings.
Everything he ever told me was a lie.
A means to mold an orphan into a weapon. A fabricated illusion of family, carefully constructed inside the imperial palace to keep me compliant. Loyal. Grateful.
The manipulation. The conspiracy. The quiet betrayals folded neatly beneath the pretense of being a father figure.
I saw through all of it now.
Eight years I fought for this empire. Eight years I killed, soldiers, innocents, people who were simply standing on the wrong side of someone else's greed.
And that ends now.
"Get out of my sight and prepare to eliminate every loyalist of that bastard prince. And bring me his head."
I turned on my heel without a word and walked out.
At the stables, I took my stallion and mounted without ceremony.
I didn't need an army. I never did. One man on a horse was enough, or so the Emperor believed.
What he didn't know was that I was already a magic swordsman. I had kept that hidden from him, from everyone.
As far as Karvian knew, I was a swordmaster and nothing more. The magic was mine alone. My one secret in a life that belonged entirely to someone else.
I rode back toward the borders, retracing the same road I had traveled just days ago.
By the time I arrived, the Branklore rebels were already pushing against the empire's walls, desperate, relentless, even knowing it was futile.
The walls were fortified with magic. Indestructible.
"Open the gate. Let me through."
The knights at the post barely looked at me. They stood loose, relaxed, not out of discipline, but out of indifference. As though the battle on the other side of the wall was someone else's problem entirely.
Which, to them, it was.
The gate lifted. I rode through without waiting for it to fully rise, my stallion clearing the gap as they pulled it back up behind me.
The disrespect was nothing new. But I felt it more sharply now, fully, clearly, in a way I had once trained myself not to.
I pushed into the rebels alone and worked through them steadily. One by one they fell, not dead, just unconscious. My strikes were precise and deliberate, enough to put a man down without taking his life.
From the walls above, the knights watched.
"The Emperor truly raised himself a weapon. Look at him, not even a flicker of hesitation. Cold-blooded."
One of them scoffed.
"Be grateful. Because of our great hero, we can just stand here and drink. No need to dirty our hands with rebel blood."
I heard every word, even while cutting through hundreds of men on my own.
When the last rebel dropped, I used the moment, no witnesses, no eyes on me, and snapped my fingers.
Every unconscious body vanished, teleported back to their camp in an instant. Not a single soul saw the magic.
I turned back and called for the gate to be lowered.
They brought it down halfway. Just enough for my stallion to jump the distance.
I let it go.
For now.
And returning to the palace was the same as it always was.
Disdainful eyes dressed up as courtesy. The cheers of the citizens had faded over time into something hollow, perfunctory applause from people who had grown too comfortable with victory to feel anything about it anymore.
My presence had become a necessity. Expected. Unremarkable.
"The Hero Crescentine Fleur has arrived!"
The royal guard's announcement echoed as the throne room doors swung open. I walked in without breaking stride.
Emperor Karvian was mid-conversation with Duke Garion, his brother, lord of the Garion territory, and barely acknowledged my entrance.
"If it isn't Medalline's Hero," the Duke said, turning to look at me with that particular brand of mockery he'd never bothered to hide. "Have you thrown the trash from the borders away?"
The Emperor shifted his tone. Fatherly. Warm. Calculated.
"Crescentine. You've done well again, as always. It pains me to say this, but I must send you out once more. The Kingdom of Amlada to the west, Singrael to the east, and Winterly from the north have all sent their armies toward Branklore. I imagine you already understand why."
"Branklore sits at the center of Philantria," I said flatly. "Whoever controls it controls every major trade route across the continent. With Branklore destabilized, the other kingdoms see an opening."
"Precisely." Duke Garion stepped forward, as though the conversation were his to steer. As though he held the same authority over me as the Emperor did. "And we cannot allow that."
"Crescentine, my son." The Emperor's voice softened further. The performance was seamless. "I want you to hold Branklore until the Crown Prince can take charge of the palace. Clear out every rebel. Protect the territory. Be the hero you have always been."
I held his gaze.
He hated that. He always had. But he had never been able to say it outright, not to me. So the Duke said it for him.
"The audacity! His Majesty shows you nothing but kindness, treats you as his own son, and you repay him with that insolent stare?! Bow, you ungrateful wretch!"
Duke Garion swung his foot into my calf, trying to force me to my knee.
His foot recoiled. He let out a sharp grunt, stumbling back, the impact had done far more damage to him than to me.
"This bastard, you'll pay for this!"
"Someone assist the Duke to the drawing room and call for a physician." The Emperor's warmth evaporated instantly. His eyes hardened as they found mine.
"And you, Crescentine, I have been far too lenient with you. I will not overlook this. Go back to Branklore and do as you're told. Do not return to this palace without the bastard prince's head."
I said nothing.
I turned and walked toward my chambers.
I didn't take much. A simple tunic. A satchel I had kept hidden, filled with enough gold coins to last a while.
He said never come back.
I looked around the chamber one last time, the room I had occupied for eight years inside this palace. Stone walls. A soldier's bed. Nothing that had ever truly felt like mine.
I felt no attachment to any of it.
My heart had long gone hollow. Emptied out by years of doing what I was told without ever being allowed to feel the weight of it. But my mind, my mind had finally caught up. It had quietly, steadily, been refusing for longer than I had let myself admit.
I was done.
I was done killing for someone else's crown.
Done being the blade at the end of Karvian's arm.
Done watching innocent people fall and calling it heroism because an emperor needed a reason to sleep at night.
I mounted my stallion in the courtyard below and rode out without looking back.
That night, I traveled alone, towards Branklore, away from the empire.
And I promised myself, this will be my last battle.