The ground trembled—not from bombs or shifting tectonic plates, but from the relentless march of thousands upon thousands of soldiers, heading toward a revolution that would change the course of history as we knew it.
A story stained with blood and death, the product of an endless cycle we were never able to understand.
Rain accompanied every step, as if the sky itself wept for the fallen. Every soldier had a single thought etched into their mind: to reclaim what had been stolen from humanity… the very meaning of being human.
POV: Unknown Character
During my childhood, one of the few good memories I have are the stories my parents told me. Though disguised as happy tales, they were actually lessons in disguise—teachings meant to prepare me to survive in a world where hope was fading.
They called that story The Last Breath.
I still remember the nights I hid beneath the sheets, trying to block out the sound of bombs falling and the gunfire that never ceased.
My parents knew that soft words wouldn't be enough to soothe me. They understood that to keep me alive, they had to train me… even if that meant using bedtime stories as mental shields against reality.
An incredible civilization—that's how my father used to describe it. A super-intelligent species... yet also deeply ignorant.
They say people understand the world through their beliefs and experiences, but in a place so diverse, where the only thing we share is being alive, it's hard to see beyond our own inner universe.
Humans—beings capable of reaching places even the eyes of gods could not—ended up becoming the architects of their own destruction.
(Present Day)
The clash of steel was the spark that dragged me back to the harsh reality. The stench of gunpowder and scorched flesh clung to the air, making it thick—almost suffocating.
Cries of agony and the clash of blades filled the atmosphere. It was a war symphony that knew no pause.
All of it reminded me why I was here. How I ended up becoming one of the main characters in that childhood tale that, once made real, was nothing but a living slaughterhouse. A war that was no longer between good and evil, but between ideologies, convictions, and egos.
My eyes locked onto the twisted gaze of a man who had also authored this ending. Another one who spoke of peace, but dreamed of control.
I ducked on instinct, just barely avoiding a slash that could've taken my head off. The edge of his sword whistled past my ear, stirring a gust of cold air in its wake.
Noticing he had dropped his guard for a moment, I went for a sweeping kick followed by a punch. He managed to dodge it by leaping back.
"Is that really all you've got?" said the Prophet, twirling his sword. "After all these years trying to get rid of you and your damned revolution... what were they called again? Oh, right—the Insurgency."
"How pathetic..." he added, readying himself for another strike. "You still believe things can change? After all these years of war and—"
"Shut the hell up and go to hell!" I shouted, cutting him off as I raised my blade. I charged at him with a horizontal slash, which he easily blocked, sending my weapon flying out of reach.
He struck back with a vertical blow from his free hand. I barely evaded it, and in that brief moment of imbalance, I counterattacked.
A quiet smile crept inside me as my fist sank into his gut. Without giving him time to breathe, I followed up with a kick to his jaw.
"Everything will change. I just need to kill you," I muttered, retrieving my sword from the ground.
"You know…" I said, picking up where his provocation had left off, stretching my neck as I closed my eyes for a second. "If there's one thing I've learned from all these years of you trying to kill me… it's that you're a real pain in the ass."
I inhaled deeply, focusing.
Then, in a low voice, I whispered:
"Calur."
Time stops.
Everything froze within seconds. Silence returned to the battlefield, while dust and ash hung motionless in the air, trapped in that suspended moment.
I collapsed to my knees. My breathing was ragged, and my body cried out for rest. I didn't want to get back up.
My mind began to drift, searching for refuge in the past—trying to escape the present.
But to be honest, none of the memories floating in my head were comforting.
Not a single one.
Who would've thought that the gods of our world would care so much about our suffering… enough to gift us weapons? Weapons designed so we could slaughter each other.
We placed our faith in them, hoping for an answer—one that would help us understand ourselves, to prevent more chaos, more death.
But instead of a solution, they left us alone. Like children with new toys… dangerous ones.
I stood up slowly, leaning on my sword. My intention was clear: to slit the Prophet's throat while the world remained frozen in time.
But something stopped me.
A voice.
One I knew far too well.
"Marcois."
"Matías... Matías… Matías, what are you doing here, old friend?" he said, with unsettling calm. "I see you're still using that one remaining eye. Shame your transmitter doesn't fully work without both."
He scratched his chin and smiled with bitter irony.
"I was the one who took that eye from you, wasn't I?"
The transmitters… those weapons the gods gave us. Capable of freezing time, altering minds, bending reality.
Divine weapons given to a species that never knew how to wield them.
It was ironic—every time humanity received something meant to help them move forward, they ended up using it for their own downfall.
"That time," he added, beginning to unsheathe his sword, "if I remember correctly… you didn't come out of it in one piece."
Just then, I had to snap my head to the right. A dagger sliced through the air. The Prophet was on the move again, furious.
Time begins to flow again.
My one remaining eye began to weep. Not tears. Blood.
Blood born of the pain I was condemned to carry.
It was my own decisions that had dragged everything to this point… but what was the point of thinking about it now?
There was no going back. I had already chosen my path, and now I was simply dragging my sentence behind me.
"Great… two against one," I sighed, the exhaustion in my voice echoing from somewhere deep in my soul.
I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword and launched myself into the fight.
Blades clashed in every direction, lighting up the throne room with sparks that danced like infernal fireflies. The explosions outside kept the rhythm.
A symphony of chaos.
A reminder of what we were.
Of what we had always been: selfish beings who took pride in their wars.
Boom.
I dodged a strike aimed at severing my leg and answered with a slash, but the Prophet retaliated with twice the force.
I could feel the castle floor trembling beneath me. Bombs were falling everywhere. My people against his.
My vision… against his dream of a life built on manipulation.
I ducked just in time to avoid a kick from Marcois. I released my sword into the air, and as I spun, I swept his legs from under him, slamming him to the ground.
Boom.
A second explosion went off nearby, shattering the throne room windows. Glass rained down around us like a storm of blades.
I leapt backward.
Snatched my sword back from midair. Then brought one hand to my eye and whispered:
"Calur."
Time stops.
"You're the only one who still moves in frozen time, Marcois," I said, kneeling, holding my head in both hands. "Better kill you quickly."
"We'll see if you can, Champion Castleboard," he replied, with a smile heavy with history.
His words, though not weapons, cut deep—because they brought back everything I wanted most to forget.
Your father… dying in your arms, begging you to protect your mother and your sister.
Your sister… dying too, calling for help. And you—unable to do a damn thing.
Your mother… crying as she watched you walk away, your eyes filled with hatred.
And in your mind… only one word.
Revenge.
I lifted my head and wept tears born from a pain that time never healed. Pain for never saying goodbye.
"I was a fool to think that a title would be enough to protect them," I whispered, my voice shattered. My teeth clenched. I felt no pain—no fear.
Only the duty… the burden of living up to what it means to be a Champion.
"I'll kill you, old friend," I said with firm resolve as I took my stance.
We both dashed forward at the same time, with the same intent—to kill the other. In his eyes, I saw the past reflected: a past filled with sorrow and bittersweet nostalgia.
When two leaves fall from the same tree...
...one always hits the ground first.
Time resumes.
A sword dripped blood… but it wasn't mine.
When I looked into Marcois's eyes, I didn't see hatred, I saw peace.
What greeted me was a smile. I tried to hold my emotions back. I didn't want to break down—not now.
I tried to ignore that image—his smile, once worn by a great friend. A brother.
"Haha... looks like you won," Marcois said, coughing up blood as he reached for my head and pressed his forehead to mine. "Take care, little one."
I swallowed hard.
I watched his body collapse slowly. My hands trembled as I pulled the sword from his chest. His blood spread across the floor like ink writing the final lines of a good man's story.
"Now it's your turn," I said, pointing my sword at the Prophet, feeling every emotion ripple through my fragile, worn-out body.
Because that's what I was: a human. Not a machine. Not a god.
The Prophet raised his head, wearing a sadistic smile. He burst out laughing, as if Marcois's death meant absolutely nothing to him.
"Matías, you're such a fool. Why cry for him? He was just one more life."
"I thought you had lost enough to stop grieving for anyone else," he shouted, covering his face with one hand.
Then he lowered it, revealing a face twisted in arrogant disdain.
"Believe me when I say this—I have a heart colder than ice," I said, faking a calm I no longer felt.
"The reason it hurts... is because I still hold on to the feelings that remind me of who I am."
Right as I spoke those words, divine power surged through me—for the last time.
Without saying another word, I rushed at him.
Time felt dense. Heavy. As if something was trying to warn me: this will be the end. But it wasn't Calur, It wasn't my gift. It was something else—a premonition, heavy and absolute.
Our swords met in a melancholy symphony. Melodic, soft... yet brimming with power and despair.
Each spark that flew from our blades made my arms feel the full weight of this battle.
Then I saw it. An opening. A split second I couldn't waste. I lunged forward, sword in hand, slashing downward until the blade met his neck.
In seconds, it was over, I heard the sound of flesh giving way. I watched him fall, lifeless.
I was the last one standing.
I had done it.
After so many years of suffering… it was finally over. But why… why did this victory taste so bitter?
I lowered my right arm slowly, placing my hand on my abdomen, feeling something warm.
When I looked down… it was blood.
My blood.
There was a hole in my chest. I could see the floor through me.
I coughed up blood.
With the last of my strength, I activated the transmitter. I didn't want to fall. Not yet. But the truth was… I wasn't fighting to live anymore.
I had already lost everything.
"Calur."
Time stops.
Before I even thought of saving myself, I walked toward the Prophet's body, seeing he wasn't any better off than I was.
How ironic… I thought I'd live to see the world I had managed to build.
With the last remnants of energy still flickering inside me, I made my way toward the throne. The floor was stained with blood—his, Marcois's… mine.
Step by step, I approached the Prophet's throne and claimed it—not as a king, nor as a savior.
But as someone who simply wanted to fulfill a promise.
A future that no longer belonged only to me, but to everyone who believed in me.
Who am I kidding...?
"They only followed my lies," I whispered, letting my body collapse into the throne.
I felt the full weight of guilt come crashing down on me. A single tear began to form in my eye—trapped in frozen time. Suspended, unable to fall.
I had already fulfilled my duty.
"I… I did it," I whispered. "Father… Mother… Sister…"
Time resumes.
I watched that tear fall, slowly, until it crashed into the pool of blood gathering at my feet. And then… my senses began to fade.
The last thing I heard—besides my ragged breathing—were trumpets and cheers. Announcing our victory.
A victory that would bring with it peace.
My peace.
How many wars did we humans have to fight to finally reach this?
Slowly, my eyes began to close. My body weakened. The spark of my life faded, little by little… Until, at last, I closed my eyes.
I died.
I died a hero…but knowing that, in this world I had also been a villain.