In a world of fallen kings and forgotten pawns, only those who refuse their fate can rewrite the game.
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Yes. It was decided.
The Hero would go first.
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Somewhere in the subcontinent of the ruins, where a once-great human kingdom had thrived, now lay nothing but the scattered remnants of a forgotten past.
The kingdom of Laluche, once a proud jewel in the empire's crown, had been reduced to desolation after a cataclysmic war—one that left the land scarred and lifeless.
Its ruins lay on the western edge of the vast Graham Forest, positioned at the very heart of the human empire—a region that had once pulsed with vibrant life.
Now, it stood shrouded in an eerie, oppressive silence.
As if the very earth itself mourned its loss.
Before its fall, Laluche had been the beating heart of the empire. Its rich soil, abundant harvests, and flourishing trade had made it a vital hub for merchants and nobles alike.
The streets had bustled with life—merchants haggling over silks, artisans crafting intricate jewelry, and warriors training under the watchful gaze of their commanders.
All had been united under the rule of a king whose name was spoken in both reverence and fear—King Valthor.
His iron fist had kept order, but his ambition had sown the seeds of ruin.
Then came the catastrophe. A war, a betrayal, or perhaps something darker.
Laluche's prosperity crumbled like the stone walls that now lay in heaps, overgrown with vines and moss. The once-mighty kingdom had become nothing more than a graveyard of memories.
And at the heart of it all lay a single act that had sealed its fate.
The summoning of a hero.
Not to battle demons. Not to fend off foreign invaders.
But to confront the kingdom's very core.
To stand against its king.
The reason behind this dire mission remained shrouded in mystery—a secret so heavy that even the winds seemed to carry its weight in mournful sighs.
What crime had the king committed? What unforgivable act had led the gods themselves to send forth a champion?
No one knew.
No records remained to tell the tale.
Some whispered of betrayal, others of a forbidden ritual gone horribly wrong. But no one could say for certain what King Valthor had done to deserve such a fate.
The truth had been buried with the kingdom, lost to time and ash.
Now, Laluche was nothing more than a graveyard of shattered dreams.
Amid the rubble and ruin, only one soul remained alive: a golden-haired brat—the so-called hero, summoned to deliver judgment.
His survival was nothing short of miraculous, a defiance of the destruction that had swallowed everything else.
The ruins around him—crumbled towers, shattered statues, and the skeletal remains of a once-grand castle—stood as a silent testament to the chaos he had either caused or failed to prevent.
Yet here he sat, alone on a throne of broken marble, his golden hair catching the faint, mournful light of a dying sun.
His presence was a paradox—a lone survivor in a sea of desolation.
Why had fate spared him when all else had perished?
He was alive because of a twist of destiny, a fragile thread of fate that refused to be severed.
He was alive because someone, or something, still had plans for him.
He was alive because the universe itself had other battles in store, other trials that demanded his cursed existence.
Or was he alive simply because he refused to die like this?
A question that demanded an answer.
A fucking unique existence, this one.
"What do you want?"
His voice cut through the stillness, sharp yet strangely soft, as he sat upon his makeshift throne.
The ruins around him remained silent, save for the occasional groan of settling stone, but his words hung in the air—heavy with exhaustion, laced with defiance.
Then, like a crack splitting through glass, came the response.
"You have a new assignment."
The voice belonged to a figure emerging from the shadows—a woman, yet not entirely human.
Her presence was enigmatic, teetering between alluring and unsettling.
She moved with an unnatural grace, her very form defying logic, her ample bosom seeming to mock the devastation around them with each exaggerated bounce.
Her purple eyebrows, striking against her pale, almost luminous skin, twitched with a mixture of disdain and curiosity as she studied him.
"What is it this time?" the hero asked, his tone flat, weary—burning with both rage and resignation.
His eyes, once bright with purpose, now held only the flickering embers of something volatile. A storm of despair and defiance churned beneath them, reflecting the last dying light of the sun.
The woman remained silent for a moment, her piercing gaze stripping him down to nothing. Like a predator assessing wounded prey.
'Pitiful and broken,' she mused, the words curling through her mind. 'He's lost everything—his kingdom, his purpose, his goddess—and yet, he still clings to that fragile thread of hope. Like a child grasping at straws.'
Her purple eyebrows furrowed, the barest flicker of irritation crossing her face. But just as quickly, she smoothed it away, replacing it with a cold, knowing smile.
"Who said you were allowed to question?"
Her voice snapped like a whip, slicing through the moment, dripping with authority.
Before she could bask in her dominance, a suffocating pressure crashed down upon her, heavy and unrelenting, as if the very air had solidified around her.
Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the cold, unyielding ground, the dust of the ruins clinging to the pristine fabric of her flowing robes.
The hero rose.
A presence like a storm barely contained.
"You, a mere messenger," he growled, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped forward.
Each footfall echoed through the hollow remains of the once-great kingdom, boots crunching against shattered stone and splintered wood.
He loomed over her now, close enough that she could see the sharp glint in his golden eyes, framed by hair that burned like a dying sun.
The scent of ash and ruin clung to him, thick and unshakable, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood—his own, or someone else's, she couldn't tell.
"Who allowed you to talk like that?" His breath was hot against her skin, his words laced with something feral, something ancient.
Fear gripped her like a dagger to the chest.
She had assumed he was weakened, stripped of his divine blessing now that his goddess had vanished, hiding from the chaos he had unleashed.
But as she stared into his eyes—those storm-laden depths, burning with untamed power—she realized her mistake.
He was not weakened.
He was reforged.
A strength not diminished, but sharpened by loss, honed by rage.
And for the first time, she understood why her master had kept this puppet alive.
Because even broken, he was still a weapon.
Unpredictable. Deadly.
And capable of turning on his handlers at any moment.
She trembled, her confidence shattering, as the weight of his gaze bore down on her.
In that moment, she understood why fate had yet to claim him.
He was still a piece on the board—a player in a game far greater than this ruined kingdom. A game of gods and monsters, where even pawns could seize control if they dared.
But before she could dwell on the revelation, survival became her only concern.
The weight pressing down on her was suffocating, an unseen force that threatened to crush her very essence.
The golden-haired hero stared into her purple eyes, watching her body tremble, seeing no trace of resistance.
Then—without a word—he turned.
And just like that, the pressure vanished.
The sudden release sent her gasping for air, her chest rising and falling in rapid, desperate gulps. Dust clung to her once-pristine robes, a mark of her momentary helplessness.
"Thanks… ufff… ufff… before you ufff… retaliate any ufff… more, let me speak first ufff…" she managed, her voice unsteady, laced with urgent desperation.
He said nothing.
Instead, he returned to his throne of broken marble, the jagged edges biting into his back as he settled. His expression was unreadable, his silence more suffocating than the pressure he had wielded against her.
With a curt nod, he allowed her to continue.
His eyes never left her.
A silent warning. A dare to test his patience again.
She took a shaky breath, straightening as best she could, though her legs still wobbled beneath her.
"My master wants you to investigate the kingdom of Britannia," she said, the words tumbling out in a hurried rush, as if afraid he might silence her again.
The message was delivered.
Now, her instincts screamed at her to leave—to vanish before his volatile mood shifted once more.
"Why is that?" he asked, his voice laced with intrigue.
His golden eyes narrowed, a flicker of curiosity breaking through the lingering haze of rage—like embers reigniting in the ashes.
"My master wishes to understand the anomaly causing havoc in that area," she explained, her tone careful, measured.
An anomaly.
The word alone piqued his interest. Something disrupting the order in that bastard domain—now that was worth his attention. A force strong enough to unsettle even him? Truly intriguing.
And yet, doubt lingered. A whisper of suspicion gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
"Why should I do it?" he pressed, his voice sharp, challenging. Was this a mere errand, or was there something far more insidious at play?
The woman's lips curled into a knowing smile.
She had him.
"Master said this could be your last mission before he fulfills your wish."
Smooth. Confident. Calculated.
She knew the weight of those words, knew how they would hook him.
A final mission. A last step before he could claim what he so desperately sought—whether redemption, revenge, or something else entirely.
He wouldn't question further. Not now.
"I see."
His reply was low, almost to himself.
There was more she wasn't saying. He could feel it. A deeper game was being played, and he was no fool. But the allure of resolution, of finally reaching the end of this endless cycle, was too strong to resist.
And besides—
Something interesting awaited him in Britannia.
He could feel it in his bones.
A presence. A force. A mystery that might finally challenge the monotony of his cursed existence.
Another puzzle piece in the grand, chaotic tapestry of his life.
Without another word, he stood.
Fluid. Decisive. Like a predator ready to strike.
The dust that had settled on his shoulders drifted away as he moved.
His hand found the hilt of his sacred weapon—Durandal—once a symbol of divine purpose, now reduced to nothing more than a tool in his grasp.
Then—
With a single squat, his legs coiled like a spring.
And in the next instant—
He jumped.
The air shattered beneath the sheer force of his leap.
The ruins trembled. The fractured castle quaked as his body vanished into the sky, a golden meteor streaking toward the distant horizon.
Toward Britannia.
Toward the Anomaly.
Toward his Final Mission.
A long exhale slipped from her lips, her shoulders finally loosening. She wiped a cold bead of sweat from her brow, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Well, that was easy."
Sarcasm dripped from her words as she stared at the empty space where he had stood moments ago.
That monster was still far more dangerous than he should have been.
Even with his blessings stripped.
Even with his goddess in hiding.
Even with everything that had been taken from him.
He was still a problem.
A wildfire barely contained. A force capable of consuming everything if left unchecked.
And now, all that remained was to wait. To watch from the shadows.
The stage was set. The pieces were in motion.
Would the hero uncover the anomaly? Would he unravel its secrets? Would her master's plan unfold as intended?
Or—
Would the golden-haired destroyer of kingdoms defy fate once more, leaving only chaos in his wake?
Only time would tell.
And she intended to savor every moment.
With one final glance at the desolate ruins—the fallen towers, the cracked statues, the throne of shattered marble—she melted into the darkness.
Her form dissolved as if she had never been there at all.
And the silence reclaimed the kingdom of Laluche.
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After the snow fight
"What the fuck did you do?"
It was Ymir who spoke this time, his voice edged with disbelief. He couldn't believe what he had just seen.
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