Lucian POV
I moved without hesitation. Demon King's range of eyes—those infernal, unblinking
coals that burned with untold centuries of malice—fixed on me. But I didn't give him
the satisfaction of a stare-down. Instead, I used my full speed, my body blurring as
I darted behind him, the wind screaming in protest against my velocity.
My blade slashed through the air, the steel keening with deadly purpose as I aimed
for the Demon King's spine. The strike was precise, fueled by the full force of my
rage, but Thanarion—his real name, the one that carried more weight than a thousand
lifetimes of tyranny—was no ordinary foe.
He turned at the last second, his clawed hand intercepting the blade with an impact
that sent a shockwave through the ground. Sparks erupted between us, his inhuman
strength halting my strike as though it were child's play.
Thanarion's voice rumbled, low and amused. "Fast. But predictable."
I didn't answer. Words were pointless now, a waste of breath. My body moved
instinctively, a flurry of attacks aiming for his weak points. Each strike was met with
equal ferocity, his monstrous form moving with an unnatural grace that belied his
size.
The battlefield around us shuddered under the weight of our battle. The ground
cracked and groaned, stones rising into the air before shattering like glass. The very
air seemed to warp under the force of our conflict, a tempest of power threatening
to rip the world apart.
Yet through it all, I felt it—the difference between us. His strikes weren't reckless,
nor were they born of desperation. Every movement he made was calculated,
efficient, as though he had choreographed this dance of destruction long before I
had even drawn my blade.
But I didn't falter. I couldn't.
This wasn't about winning. It wasn't even about survival.
It was about making sure Thanarion died, no matter the cost.
I pressed forward, the sheer weight of my attacks shaking the ground beneath us.
Yet no matter how fast I moved, no matter how precisely I struck, the Demon King
met me with an almost detached ease. His strikes weren't designed to kill me
outright—they were calculated, defensive. He wasn't trying to win; he was trying to
hold back.
The realization burned hotter than any fire. He was pitying me.
"Fight me!" I roared, my voice cracking under the strain of my rage. "Don't stand
there like a coward!"
Thanarion's crimson eyes flickered, and for the first time, I thought I saw something
there—pain.
"I'm not holding back for your sake," he said, his voice low but heavy, like a mountain
shifting under its own weight. "I'm holding back for mine."
I ignored him, my fury rising to a fever pitch. My strikes grew faster, wilder, fueled
by the molten anger coursing through my veins. I could feel the mark on my chest
burning, feeding off my hatred, amplifying my strength. The battlefield responded
to my power—stones rising and shattering, the air growing heavy with the pressure
of my bloodlust.
But no matter how much power I unleashed, he didn't falter.
Instead, the Demon King's stance changed. His weapon—a monstrous blade as black
as the void—shimmered and dissolved into nothingness, leaving his hands empty. His
arms fell to his sides, his body relaxed. And then, as if mocking me, he opened his
arms wide.
It wasn't a gesture of surrender. It was an invitation.
"Go ahead, Lucian," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the storm of
destruction around us. "Strike me down."
I froze for a moment, my blade trembling in my hand. This wasn't a trick. There was
no malice in his posture, no tension in his muscles. He was inviting me to kill him.
"Don't stop now," he continued, his voice tinged with something I couldn't place.
Regret? Sadness? Relief? "Hope is the only thing that keeps people living on. For me,
it's just a mere illusion. I've lost everything—my family, my purpose, even my hatred.
It doesn't matter if I have hope."
He met my gaze, his eyes softening. "But if killing me gives you the hope to live on,
then so be it."
My grip tightened on my blade as my fury peaked. I lunged forward, letting out a
guttural roar, my weapon slicing through the air.
"I won't regret the actions I took!" I shouted, the words tearing from my throat like
a final declaration of defiance.
The blade struck true, carving through flesh and bone with terrifying finality.
Thanarion's body jerked under the force of the blow, his head tilting back as his lips
curled into the faintest of smiles.
As he fell, his voice echoed softly in the stillness, a whisper that carried no malice,
no hatred.
"Thank you… Lucian."
The Demon King's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. I stood over him, my breath
ragged, my hands trembling. The battlefield was silent once more, save for the quiet
howl of the wind.
Each step felt heavier, though not with exhaustion—no, it was the weight of finality
pressing down on my shoulders. The dawn broke further, spilling hues of crimson and
gold over the ravaged land, a cruel mockery of beauty against the desolation. I
clenched my fists, feeling the sticky residue of blood on my palms, the faint sting of
cuts I hadn't noticed in the heat of the battle.
Ahead, the remnants of the Demon King's castle loomed in the distance, its jagged
spires reaching toward the heavens like a shattered monument. Smoke curled lazily
from the cracks in its foundation, the echoes of our clash still lingering in the air.
For a moment, I almost felt the urge to turn back, to glance one last time at the
battlefield—but what was the point? There was no one left to see me, no one left to
remember.
The wind picked up, carrying the acrid scent of ash and charred earth. I paused at
the edge of a cliff overlooking the ruined city below. Once a symbol of defiance, of
hope, it now stood as a testament to futility. The people who had clung so desperately
to their beliefs were gone, their voices silenced beneath the weight of their own
hypocrisy.
And yet, in the pit of my chest, something stirred—a hollow ache that no victory
could fill. I stared at my hands, flexing my fingers as if expecting them to tremble,
to hesitate, to feel something. But there was nothing. The Demon King's words
echoed in my mind, unshakable and haunting.
"Hope is the only thing that keeps people living on. For me, it's just a mere illusion.
I've lost everything, so it doesn't matter if I have hope. But if killing me gives you
the hope to live on… so be it."
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle over me like a shroud. For
all his power, he had accepted his end with open arms, as though it were a gift. As
though I were granting him release. His final act wasn't defiance—it was surrender.
Perhaps I should have felt triumphant. Perhaps I should have felt righteous. Instead,
all I felt was the crushing void of clarity. He was right. Hope was an illusion, a fragile
thread people clung to because they couldn't face the emptiness of truth. But now,
there was no one left to cling to anything. Only me, standing at the edge of oblivion.
I turned my back to the cliff, the faint light of dawn casting my shadow long and
thin against the crumbling earth. The wind carried the sound of distant fires
crackling, the occasional groan of collapsing stone. This world had no place for hope,
no place for redemption. All that was left was silence.
As I descended the path toward the ruins, my steps slow and deliberate, I caught
sight of the Demon King's blade lying half-buried in the rubble. Its edge glinted
faintly in the morning light, its once-mighty power reduced to nothing more than a
relic of a forgotten war. I crouched, brushing dirt and ash from its surface, and
gripped the hilt tightly. It felt cold, lifeless, but it was mine now—a symbol of what
I had taken, of what I had become.
Rising to my feet, I looked toward the horizon, where the first rays of sunlight
pierced through the haze. It was a new day, but there was nothing to celebrate. No
kingdom to rebuild, no people to save. Just an empty world and a man who had lost
everything—including himself.
I exhaled deeply, letting the silence stretch, letting it consume me. Then, with the
blade resting heavily across my shoulder, I began to walk.
And for the first time, I truly understood what it meant to be alone.
And then I saw him. Seraphim—or what was left of him. His head still lay where I
had placed it, his lifeless body sprawled across the blood-soaked ground. For the
first time, I felt the weight of the silence pressing down on me. The world seemed
quieter now, too quiet, as if it were mourning him alongside me.
I stood there, my shadow stretching long and thin across his remains. My lips parted,
and I found myself speaking to the void, to him, or maybe to myself. "Look at this
world, Seraphim. Look at its ruins."
The words echoed, hollow and unanswered. My grip on the Demon King's blade
tightened, the cold metal biting into my palm. I could almost hear his voice, faint and
familiar, questioning me the way he always had. Is this what you wanted, Lucian?
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as if to silence the phantom memory. "If you
were here to ask me that, I would have ignored you, like I always did. Brushed you
off with some half-hearted excuse." My voice wavered, not with weakness but with
something I couldn't quite name. Regret? Pain?
I knelt beside his head, the dirt and blood staining my knees. "But now… now if you
asked me, I'd tell you the truth. I don't know, Seraphim." My gaze swept over the
battlefield, the endless destruction that stretched in every direction. "This world—
it's too empty. It's too broken. Even if I wanted to fix it, there's nothing left to
save."
The wind carried the faint sound of crumbling stone, the last remnants of a world I
had torn apart. I let my eyes linger on the horizon, where the dawn was trying, and
failing, to wash away the shadows. "You would've hated this," I murmured, more to
myself than to him. "You would've said there was still a chance, still hope, still
something worth fighting for."
I laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and jagged against the silence. "But hope was
always your illusion, wasn't it? Not mine. I never believed in it. And now… I think I
understand why."
My gaze fell back to his face—those frozen, unseeing eyes. "You fought for a dream,
Seraphim. But dreams don't survive in a world like this. Only power does."
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of ash and death, tugging at my coat as if
urging me to move. But my feet remained planted, my knees rooted in the dirt. I
reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, my fingers trembling
despite myself.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure who I was apologizing to. To him? To
the world? To myself?
The weight of the Demon King's blade seemed heavier now, pulling me back to my
feet. I straightened, my eyes fixed on the horizon. There was nothing left for me
here, but the emptiness stretched far beyond this battlefield. It was inside me, too,
a hollow void that no amount of power could fill.
And yet, I walked. Through the desolation, through the ruins, through the silence
that was both deafening and suffocating. Every step felt like a confession, every
breath a testament to what I had lost. To what I had become.
"I don't know if this was what I wanted, Seraphim," I said aloud, my voice swallowed
by the wind. "But it's all I have now. It's all that's left."
Hours passed like minutes. The battlefield faded behind me as I wandered, aimless
yet deliberate, following the broken paths that led deeper into the ruins of what had
once been. The weight of silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional groan of
a collapsing structure or the distant cry of some unseen bird.
Eventually, I came across a stream, its waters muddied with blood but still flowing—
a cruel reminder that life persists even in the wake of annihilation. Kneeling, I
plunged my hands into the icy current, watching as the crimson washed away in
delicate spirals. The cold bit at my skin, but I didn't flinch. I stared at my reflection
in the trembling surface, a stranger staring back at me.
My face was calm, almost serene, but my eyes… they were empty. Hollow. They no
longer belonged to the man I once was.
I rose, wiping my hands on my coat, and continued through the skeletal remains of
the city. Each step carried me past markets turned to ash, homes now nothing but
charred husks. Memories of life clung to the ruins—shattered pottery, a broken doll,
the faint outline of where curtains once hung. In the distance, the skeletal remains
of a temple stood defiant against the chaos, its once-grand spire leaning like a weary
sentinel.
When I reached an old inn that had somehow escaped the worst of the destruction,
I stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of soot and aged wood, but it was
still shelter. Stripping off my bloodstained coat, I found a washbasin and filled it
with water that had somehow remained clean.
The warmth of the water was fleeting, but I scrubbed anyway, letting it scour away
the blood and dirt. Yet, no matter how hard I scrubbed, the weight of what I had
done clung to me, invisible but undeniable.
Later, I scavenged a simple meal from what remained of the inn's pantry—stale bread,
a sliver of cheese, and a bottle of wine. I ate in silence, the food tasteless, the wine
bitter. And yet, as I ate, my thoughts drifted to Lilith. Her laughter. Her smile. The
way her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she teased me about something
trivial.
For a fleeting moment, I almost felt human again. Almost.
But the moment passed, leaving me alone with the quiet and the dark. The flickering
flame of a single candle illuminated the room, casting shadows that danced like
specters on the walls. I stared into the fire, its warmth unable to reach me, and
whispered to no one, "Would she even recognize me now?"
The candle burned low, its light waning, as I sat in silence. Outside, the wind howled
softly, carrying the echoes of a world that no longer existed.
Night had fallen by the time I reached the cemetery. The air was thick with the
scent of earth and decay, a quiet reminder of life's fragility. The moon hung low,
casting a silver glow over the rows of graves like a blanket of quiet sorrow.
I stopped before Lilith's grave, the carved letters of her name catching the faint
light. Kneeling, I traced the inscription with trembling fingers, the stone cool and
unyielding under my touch.
"Look at me, Lil… What have I become?" My hands shook as I gripped the edge of
the stone. "I can't even remember your favorite flower. Was it the lilies you used to
pick from the garden? Or those wild roses you said smelled like sunlight? I've
forgotten so much of you, Lilith. And I hate myself for it."
I closed my eyes, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest like an iron
chain. "Look at what I've done to this world you cherished. It's nothing now, just
ashes and ruins. But this is the same world that stole you from me. I couldn't forgive
it. I couldn't forgive them. So, I sent them to you, my love. Every last one of them."
I let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp. "Take care of them if you want…
or don't. They wouldn't have found peace here, not in the ruins of their hypocrisy."
For a moment, the wind stilled, the night holding its breath. And then, as if the
shadows had conspired with my memories, I thought I saw her.
Lilith.
She stood there, radiant yet ephemeral, her form shimmering as though made of
moonlight and dreams. Her eyes, the same ones that once gazed at me with unyielding
love, now looked at me with a mix of sorrow and something deeper—understanding.
"Oh Lucian…" she whispered, her voice soft, like the first notes of a melody long
forgotten. "You've carried so much for so long."
I froze, my breath caught in my chest. "Lilith… is it really you?" My voice was barely
audible, a fragile thread of hope straining against the weight of despair.
She smiled faintly, the corners of her lips trembling as though she shared my pain.
"You've done so much, endured so much. But this path… it's breaking you, Lucian. The
world is empty now, and so are you."
I shook my head, my hands clawing at the ground as if to anchor myself. "I did it for
you. Everything—for you! How could I stop when they were the ones who took you
away?"
She knelt before me, her hand reaching out to brush my cheek. Her touch was cold
but familiar, a phantom of warmth. "I never asked for vengeance, Lucian. I asked for
you. For the man I loved. And now…" Her voice cracked, her expression softening
into something that made my chest ache. "I don't know if you can find him anymore."
Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't dare blink. "I don't know who I am anymore,
Lilith," I admitted, my voice trembling. "I've become a stranger even to myself."
Her form began to fade, the edges of her silhouette dissolving into the night. "Find
yourself, Lucian," she whispered. "Before it's too late. Don't let the ashes bury what's
left of you."
And then she was gone, leaving me alone beneath the cold moonlight, the grave, and
the weight of her final words. I sat there in silence, the wind picking up again,
carrying the echoes of a world I had both loved and destroyed.
Time slipped by unnoticed as I rose to my feet, each step away from her grave
feeling heavier than the last. I walked aimlessly, the ruins of the city stretching
endlessly before me, their jagged silhouettes piercing the sky like the remnants of
a broken crown.
Eventually, I found the tallest building in the city—a skeletal tower that had
somehow survived the onslaught. Its iron frame loomed against the dark horizon, a
monument to defiance or futility; I couldn't tell which. Climbing its crumbling
stairwell, I felt a strange calm settle over me, as if the world itself had finally grown
quiet enough to let me breathe.
Reaching the roof, I stood at the edge, looking out over the desolation. Fires still
burned in the distance, their smoke curling into the heavens. The sky was ablaze with
color—orange, red, and deep purple, as if the gods themselves mourned the loss of
their creation.
The scene was haunting, surreal. For anyone else, it might have been unbearable. But
for me? It was beautiful.
I spread my arms wide, letting the wind whip around me, tugging at my clothes like
unseen hands trying to pull me back. My laughter started as a low chuckle, but it
grew, echoing across the empty city until it became a roar that filled the void.
"This is peace," I said finally, the words carrying weight and finality. "No one left to
give me a title. No gods. No kings. No heroes."
I closed my eyes, feeling the breeze caress my face, the warmth of the fires below
reaching even here. For the first time, I felt… whole. There were no more questions,
no more battles, no more masks.
"Not a villain. Not anything. Just… the end."