A few days had passed since the fall of Mesh and his five-thousand-strong army. The battlefield where the legendary "Crimson Wind" had carved a path of death through the very forces she once served now lay silent, littered with blood and broken steel.
But silence did not last long.
News of Mesh's defeat spread like wildfire across Fallcry. Whispers turned into shouts, and those shouts became proclamations in the streets and strongholds of every faction still locked in the two-decade-long war. From the shadowed alleyways to the underground war rooms, the name "Crimson Wind" ignited a new wave of curiosity and chaos.
"She wiped out Mesh's elites by herself?" one faction commander scoffed, half in disbelief.
"I heard it was some kind of demon girl," another muttered, a map of Fallcry trembling in his fingers.
"Forget who she is—can we salvage the weapons from Mesh's dead?" said a third, more practical than curious.
Still, not all voices were dismissive or greedy.
A grizzled veteran of the Eastern Resistance stood up at a war council meeting, his voice low and grave. "Whoever this Crimson Wind is… she just ended the reign of the man who controlled half this cursed city. If she wants peace, we should listen. If she wants war, gods help us all."
But Shina Mariposa—Crimson Wind herself—was nowhere to be found.
Not on the battlefields where the flags still burned.
Not in the ruins where children wept.
And not among the factions now clawing at each other for a new slice of the dying city.
She was standing alone, high atop a broken watchtower in the city's north end. A silent sentinel. A ghost of her own making.
From this crumbling height, she could see it all: the blood, the fire, the endless smoke rising from the bones of Fallcry. The war had not ended with Mesh. If anything, his death had ripped open the fragile balance that held the factions at bay. Now, with no dominant force to fear, the smaller groups turned on each other like starving dogs.
Shina watched them. Watched the screaming, the smoke, the blades drawn over old grudges and new ambitions. She no longer knew whose side anyone was on. Perhaps there were no sides anymore—only survivors trying to write their own versions of the future in blood.
And she? She felt nothing.
No triumph. No justice. No peace.
Only the ache of her failure to protect the one thing that had mattered: the village, her mother, her uncle. All gone.
She had become what Mesh wanted—a monster of war. And in doing so, she had lost everything that tethered her to her humanity. Even the sword at her side felt heavier than usual, as if mourning with her.
A voice echoed in her memory—Mesh's voice, twisted and smiling:
> "You'll use your power to end this war."
But the war hadn't ended. It had only changed shape.
Her crimson eyes stared into the flames far below. Somewhere in those fires, someone was crying. Somewhere, someone was killing. Somewhere, another child was about to lose everything just like she had.
Her knuckles clenched the edge of the crumbling stone.
If no one was going to end this war—then maybe she had to. But not as a weapon. Not as Mesh's legacy. As something else.
A silence settled around her, heavy and sharp. The wind tugged at her cloak, now tattered and soaked in old blood. She closed her eyes for a long time, listening not to the city, but to herself. Her breath. Her heartbeat.
She had no orders now. No chain of command. No village to return to.
All she had… was choice.
And that, perhaps, was more powerful than any sword.
---
From her perch, Shina's eyes caught a small flicker at street level. A child—barely more than five or six—stood in the ruins of a collapsed house. He was holding a jagged kitchen knife with trembling hands, his face streaked with tears and ash. Before him stood a grown man—scarred, armored, his sword already half-raised. His eyes were wide with pain and regret, like someone forced to do something unbearable.
Shina jumped down without hesitation.
When she landed between the two, the man hesitated. Their eyes met—both weary, both ruined by war. Shina did not lift her weapon. She did not pose a threat.
"I'm not here to kill you," she said quietly, her voice almost breaking. "If you want to strike me down… then do it."
She dropped her sword to the dirt.
The man stared at her, disbelief overtaking his pain. He lowered his blade slowly.
They were the same, she realized—victims of a war neither of them had asked for.
Then came the sound. Horns.
From the higher ground to the east, shadows appeared—rows upon rows of warriors descending in a formation. Their armor was varied, their weapons mismatched, but they bore the same flag: a white banner with a red lion and three golden stars above its crown.
A unified force. A Guild of Warriors.
At the head of the column rode a man on a black horse. He was old, but powerful, draped in a cloak of silver and crimson. His presence was commanding—like thunder held in human form. The soldiers behind him stood straighter when he raised his hand.
He dismounted, walked forward with calm, fearless steps, and stood before the chaos that had been Fallcry.
His voice rang out, deep and resonant.
"People of Fallcry. My name is Tsar. A Warrior. I come not as a conqueror, but as a protector."
Silence fell across the ruined city.
"I and my guild, the Lionstar, will bring an end to this war. No more killing. No more slavery. No more exploitation of children. From this day forward, i would take care of you all !!!"
Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowds.
Tsar. The man who once walked into Fallen Heaven and conquered half of it. The man whispered of in both fear and awe. A living legend.
One by one, the remaining factions lowered their weapons. The fighting ceased. Even the most hardened killers paused in reverence.
Shina fell to her knees, her legs finally giving in under the weight of it all. Her eyes welled with something she hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
She whispered to herself, almost afraid to say it out loud:
"…Is it really over?"
{Chapter 49 end}