Lucas walked through the heart of Citra.
This time, not as a prince.
Not as a savior.
But as an executioner.
The morning mist clung to his cloak like the guilt on his soul. He and Irvin stood before the town's remaining citizens.Without hiding anything,they told them about what's going to happened. Faces once lit with hope were now hollow, accepting. No one screamed. No one ran. Perhaps, in some twisted mercy, they had made peace with it all. Perhaps dying by their prince's hand gave them comfort—better than rotting into monsters.
A small hand waved from the back of the crowd.
Renin.
Still smiling.
Still too young to understand what death really meant.
He waved both arms excitedly. "Prince Lucas!"
Lucas felt his chest tighten, a dull ache blooming behind his ribs.
The townsfolk returned to their homes—to hold their loved ones one last time, to say goodbye with the little breath they had left.
But Renin stayed.
The boy clutched his worn football and ran up to Lucas.
"Play with me, Prince? Just one more time?"
Lucas nodded silently. His throat burned. His legs moved on their own.
The two kicked the ball beneath the amber skies of dusk. Each pass is slower than the last. Renin's movements were clumsy now. His limbs were heavy, his skin pale, and patches of sickly fungus crept across his arms and neck. Yet he smiled. So bright. So innocently.
"Why's everyone sad, Prince?" Renin asked as he sat down, panting.
Lucas turned his head away, wiping the tears that betrayed him.
"If… If I die," Renin continued softly, "will I get to see my family again?"
Lucas dropped to one knee beside him. His voice cracked as he replied, "Yes… Yes, Renin. You'll get to see them. You'll get to play with your brothers again. No more pain. No more fear."
Renin's eyes lit up. "Then… I wanna die. I really do. I miss them so much. And I'm so tired, Prince. It hurts all the time."
He looked to the sky, as if he already saw them waiting for him.
Lucas stayed with him long after the boy fell asleep.
He held Renin's hand as if it could keep him here just a little longer.
But the night came.
And with it, the final hour.
Lucas and Irvin walked quietly to the well in the center of town. All of Citra had gathered. The infected knights stood with their brothers in arms, faces pale but proud. Parents clutched their children. Lovers whispered last words. Not a scream was heard. Not a single soul ran.
Renin stood at the front, holding Lucas's hand tightly.
His body barely moved, fungus covering almost half of his face now. Yet he smiled with a peace the prince could never understand.
Somewhere, deep within the camp's largest tent, the Saintess stirred. She awoke in silence, the weight in her chest telling her something was wrong. The air felt too still. Too quiet. Her guards stood watch, but something in their gaze unsettled her.
"Where is everyone?" she asked, voice trembling.
"You need to rest, My Lady," one replied firmly. "Your body cannot take any more."
But their concern felt hollow. Their words—too rehearsed. Her heart pounded. She tried to leave, but they stepped in her path. Again and again, they blocked her. As if they were stalling her on purpose.
Then it hit her—they were.
She didn't wait for an explanation.
Barefoot, she broke past them, running down the muddy hill, breath ragged, white robe fluttering in the cold wind, praying—begging—that she wasn't too late.
....................................
At the heart of Citra, flames flickered in Lucas's trembling hands.
Irvin stood beside him, solemn. His voice barely rose above the wind.
"I'm sorry… for placing this weight on your shoulders, Your Highness."
Lucas said nothing.
He simply raised both hands to the sky—an offering of grief to the heavens.
His voice rang out over the town like the final toll of a funeral bell.
"People of Citra… your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Even if the world denies you, I will remember you. Every name. Every face."
But laughter echoed back at him.
Delirious. Broken.
The townsfolk, twisted by the plague, could no longer understand his words. They giggled, danced, and smiled like children—oblivious to the pyre built beneath their feet.
Renin stood in front, eyes half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness. Yet… he smiled. A boy who never learned to hate. Who smiled until the end.
Lucas whispered, "With mercy of the flame."
Heavenly Flame Art — Third Form: Blazing Tempest.
A column of fire screamed down from the heavens, engulfing the village in a sea of red. The heat was unbearable. The sky burned with it.
Irvin, unable to bear their cries, raised his hand.
Heavenly Thunder Art — Fourth Form: Wrath of God.
The sky darkened instantly. A thousand bolts of lightning tore through the heavens, striking the dying in radiant judgment. There was no pain—only light.
In his final breath, Renin turned to ash.
But before he vanished, he looked to Lucas, his voice barely a whisper, smiling through the flames—
"Thank you… big brother."
And then… he was gone.
Ashes. All of them.
The fire began to die down.
And that was when she arrived.
The Saintess stumbled through the smoke, barefoot and soaked in rain and sweat. Her eyes widened.
There was nothing.
Nothing left but ash.
The buildings. The sky. The people.
Gone.
She saw Lucas—his cloak singed, his skin blistered—walking aimlessly to where Renin once stood. A hollow shell of a prince.
She ran to him.
And she hit him.
Over and over again with her fists. Screaming. Crying.
"Why?! Why did you do it?! Why?!"
Lucas didn't flinch. Not even once.
He simply collapsed to his knees.
Tears ran freely now.
"They'll call me a hero… but I'm just a murderer."
The Saintess sank beside him, weeping into her hands.
They didn't speak again.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Irvin watched from a distance, his back to them. Rain fell over the ruined town—not as punishment, but as penance. As if the heavens themselves wept… and forgave their sins.