In the center of the arena, a man knelt alone. His skin was pale—white as marble—and his once-white hair had taken on a faint scarlet hue, stained by the sweat and blood streaming from a wound on his head.
A cold, strangely soothing wind drifted through the battleground, brushing gently against his battered face. His hair clung to his skin, matted with blood and sweat, limp and heavy.
His face was almost unrecognizable beneath the thick smears of blood—masking every feature, every trace of who he once was.
He opened his eyes with great effort and slowly regained consciousness. A numbing pain coursed through his body, but it was dulled by confusion and exhaustion. Voices echoed all around him—loud, angry, merciless.
"Kill that cursed bastard and that bitch!"
"They are a shame on our country!"
He blinked slowly, trying to understand where he was. The sky above was a dull gray, smoke and ash swirling in the air. He was lying in the very center of what had once been a battlefield. Now, it looked more like a cruel stage. His body was drenched in blood, his right hand missing entirely, the shoulder torn and mangled.
Around him stood people. Not soldiers, not enemies—spectators. Their faces were twisted in hatred, eyes burning with fanaticism. It was as if they had gathered to witness an execution, not a fight in arena. And in front of him, lying barely a few feet away, was a girl. Her silver hair was soaked in blood, her once-white dress now stained red. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
Who was she?
And why were they here?
He tried to sit up, but the pain surged through him like lightning. Just then, a sudden cry pierced through the air:
"Ahh!"
It was her.
She was trying to speak, to move, despite her obvious agony. He turned his head slowly, every motion an ordeal, and saw her lips trembling. She was whispering something, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
"Please... don't go."
He frowned, confused. Why was she saying that to him? Where did she think he was going? He didn't even know her—at least, that's what his mind told him. But something deeper stirred inside him. An instinct. A feeling. A voice that said: Don't make her sad.
So, with great effort, he nodded his head ever so slightly and whispered, "Okay."
A faint smile touched her lips, despite her pain. And in that moment, the chaos faded. For just a heartbeat, the screams, the hate, the blood—it all disappeared. He felt warmth in her smile, in that shared glance. Something real.
But the world was not kind.
The voices returned, louder now. Angrier.
"Kill them both! Let no traitor live!"
He still didn't understand. Who were they calling a traitor? A bastard? A shame?
Then a thought crept into his mind—a realization.
They mean me.
It was almost laughable in its absurdity. He didn't even know who he was. He didn't know who she was. How could he be hated with such passion, with such venom?
And then—
A searing pain.
A blade pierced through his chest, its cold steel sliding between his ribs, pushing through his heart and emerging out the other side. Time seemed to stop. He gasped, blood spilling from his mouth, and suddenly the pain in his shoulder was dwarfed by this fatal wound. Yet somehow, even as death reached for him, there was no agony. Only numbness. Emptiness.
He turned his head slowly, his body resisting the motion. There, holding the hilt of the sword with both hands, stood a man. An old man, his hair snow-white, his face lined with age and sorrow. Tears streamed from his black eyes, even as he kept his grip tight around the sword.
Something stirred again in the boy's mind. Recognition. Not from memories, but from instinct.
Father.
The man was his father.
But why? Why was he the one holding the blade? Why did he have to do this?
Before he could ask, before he could scream, a voice rang out across the battlefield.
"No!"
It came from the throne—a grand seat perched high above the field. Standing before it was a man clad in golden robes, his long red hair glinting like fire under the sunless sky. His expression was complex—fear, sorrow, confusion. He looked like a man who had just realized the price of his decisions.
The boy's mind was in turmoil. Why was the king reacting this way now? Wasn't he part of this trial, this execution? Why did he suddenly care?
And the girl?
Who was she, this bleeding angel that everyone cursed but who had only shown him kindness in this final moment?
The sword was pulled free with a violent jerk. His father's arms trembled, but he still pushed the boy forward. The motion was enough to tip him over, and he collapsed onto the girl's body.
Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the blood gushing from his chest. She tried to say something, but her voice failed her.
So like a helpless human all she could do is cry or cry—loud, broken sobs that echoed across the field like a dirge.
He couldn't move. Couldn't lift his head. But he could see her face.
And in her tears, he saw truth. Not answers, not explanations—but truth. The truth of shared pain, of lost love, of stories untold.
Thunder cracked across the sky.
Lightning streaked overhead.
And then, a voice from above. A voice that seemed to come from the heavens themselves:
"Let your pain end."
It was not a threat. It was a promise.
And he accepted it.
He looked at her one last time and tried to smile. But the smile never fully formed. His eyes remained open, but the light had vanished.
His life was gone.
The battlefield fell into silence, broken only by the girl's sobs. And in that silence, the world seemed to mourn.
And then, the ground began to tremble. At first, it was subtle—like the heartbeat of the earth itself. But within seconds, the rumbling grew violent, splitting the silence like a roar of ancient rage. Stones cracked, banners fell, and terrified gasps spread through the crowd. Horses reared, soldiers stumbled, and the sky darkened further, as if mourning demanded more than silence. A massive pulse of energy erupted from the center of the battlefield, radiating from the fallen boy's body. The wind howled like a beast unleashed. And everything ends.