The ground shook—not because of bombs or shifting tectonic plates, but because of the countless footsteps of soldiers marching toward a revolution that would reshape history as we knew it.
A history stained with death and blood, born from an endless cycle no one had ever truly understood.
Rain fell with every step, as if the sky itself mourned the fallen. Everyone had a single thought in this battle: to recover what had been stolen from humanity... the meaning of being human.
Unknown Character's POV
When I was a child, one of the few good memories I had were the stories my parents told me. They were disguised as cheerful tales, but in truth they were lessons—preparations to survive in a world where hope was fading.
My parents called that story The Last Breath.
I still remember the nights I hid under my blankets, trying to block out the sound of falling bombs and the never-ending gunfire.
They knew that comforting me with kindness wouldn't be enough. They understood that to keep me alive, they needed to prepare me… even if that meant using stories as mental shields against reality.
An incredible civilization—that's how my father described it. A super-intelligent race… yet profoundly ignorant.
People say we understand the world through our beliefs and experiences, but in a place so diverse—where the only thing we all share is being alive—it's hard to grasp anything beyond our own inner universe.
Humans, beings capable of reaching places even the gods could not see… ended up causing their own destruction.
(Present Day)
The clash of metal snapped me back to reality. The stench of gunpowder and burnt flesh hung thick in the air, making it heavy—almost suffocating.
Cries of pain and clashing blades filled the battlefield. A relentless symphony of war.
Everything reminded me why I was here. How I had become one of the protagonists of that childhood tale which, once made real, had turned into a living slaughterhouse. A war no longer fought between good and evil, but between ideologies, convictions, and egos.
My eyes locked onto the twisted stare of a man who had helped shape this ending. Another one who spoke of peace yet dreamed of control.
I instinctively dodged— an attack grazed my head by a hair's breadth. His sword whistled past my ear, sending a chill down my spine.
When he lowered his guard for an instant, I attempted a sweep followed by a punch. He avoided it with a quick leap backward.
"Seriously, is that all you've got?" scoffed the Prophet as he brandished his sword. "I thought after all these years of trying to get rid of you, you'd learn something."
"How pathetic..." he continued, raising his sword into the air. "Do you still believe things will change?"
"Shut up and go to hell!" I cut him off, raising my sword. I charged at him with a horizontal slash. He blocked it easily, knocking my weapon out of my hands.
He countered with a vertical strike from his free hand. I barely dodged, and in that moment of imbalance, I took my chance.
A quiet satisfaction rose within me when my fist sank into his stomach. Without giving him time to recover, I kicked him in the jaw.
"Everything will change. I just need to kill you," I muttered, retrieving my sword from the ground.
"You know…" I said, picking up his provocation as I stretched my neck and closed my eyes for a moment, "if I've learned anything from all these years you've tried to kill me… it's that you're a real nuisance."
I inhaled deeply, focusing. Then I whispered:
"Calur."
Time stops…
Everything froze instantly. Silence returned to the battlefield as dust and ash hovered motionless in the air, trapped in the moment.
I fell to my knees, breathing heavily. My body begged for rest. I didn't want to stand 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 wandering through my head were comforting. Not a single one.
Who would have thought that the gods cared so much about our suffering that they gave us weapons... weapons designed specifically for us to kill each other?
We placed our faith in them, hoping for an answer that would help us understand ourselves—something to stop the chaos, to end the death.
But instead of a solution, they abandoned us. Like children with new toys… dangerous ones.
I pushed myself up slowly, leaning on my sword. My intention was clear: cut the Prophet's throat while the world remained frozen in time.
But something stopped me.
A voice.
One I knew all too well.
"Marcois."
"Matías… Matías… Matías, what are you doing here, old friend?" he said with unsettling calm. "I see you're still using the only eye you have left. A shame your transmitter doesn't work properly without both."
He scratched his chin and smiled with irony.
"I was the one who took that eye from you, wasn't I?"
Transmitter weapons… the tools granted to us by the gods. Capable of freezing time, manipulating minds, altering reality.
Divine weapons in the hands of a species that never knew how to use them.
It was ironic: every time humanity received something that could help it advance, it always ended up using it to destroy itself.
"That time," he added as he began to draw his sword, "if I remember correctly, you didn't walk away in great shape."
Right then I had to turn my head to the right. A dagger cut through the air. The Prophet was attacking again—angry.
Time resumes…
My single eye began to water. Not with ordinary tears, but with blood.
Blood from the pain I was condemned to carry.
It was my own decisions that dragged everything to this point… but what was the point of dwelling on it now?
I had already chosen my path, and now I was simply dragging my sentence behind me.
"Great, two against one…" I sighed, exhaustion weighing deep in my soul.
I gripped the hilt of my sword tightly and threw myself into the fight.
Our blades clashed in every direction, lighting up the throne room with sparks that scattered like infernal fireflies. Explosions outside set the rhythm.
A symphony of chaos.
A reminder of what we were.
Of what we had always been: selfish beings proud of their wars.
"BOOM!"
I dodged an attempt to sever my leg and countered with a slash, but the Prophet returned the blow with twice the strength.
I felt the castle floor begin to shake. Bombs were falling everywhere. My people against his.
My vision… against his desire for a world ruled by control.
I ducked just in time to avoid a kick from Marcois. I released my sword into the air and, spinning, swept his legs out from under him, slamming him into the ground.
"BOOM!"
A second bomb exploded nearby, shattering the throne room windows. Glass rained around us like falling blades.
I leaped back.
I caught my sword—still suspended mid-air. I placed a hand over my eye and whispered:
"Calur."
Time stops…
"You're the only one who isn't affected when time freezes, Marcois," I said, kneeling, clutching my head with both hands. "I'd better kill you quickly."
"We'll see if you can, Champion Castleboard," he replied with a smile heavy with history.
His words, though not a weapon, hurt like a knife—because they brought back what I most wanted to forget.
Your father… dying in your arms, begging you to take care of your mother and your sister.
Your sister… fading away, pleading for help. And you, unable to do anything.
And your mother… crying as she watched you leave with hatred burning in your eyes.
And in your mind… only one word.
Revenge.
I lifted my head and cried tears made of a pain time had never healed. Pain for never saying goodbye.
"I was a fool to think a title was enough to protect them," I whispered, my voice breaking. I clenched my teeth. I felt no pain, no fear.
Only the duty to uphold what it meant to be a Champion.
"I'll kill you, old friend," I said firmly as I took my fighting stance.
We launched ourselves forward at the same time, driven by the same intention: to kill the other. In his eyes, I saw a reflection of our past—one filled with nostalgia and pain.
When two leaves fall from the same tree…
…one always reaches the ground first.
Time resumes…
A sword dripped with blood… but it wasn't mine.
When I looked Marcois in the eye, I saw no hatred—only peace.
A smile greeted me. I tried to control myself. I couldn't break now. Not here.
I tried to ignore that image… that smile which once belonged to a great friend. To a brother.
"Haha… looks like you got me," Marcois said, coughing up blood as he placed a hand on my head and pressed his forehead to mine. "Take care, little one."
I swallowed hard.
I watched his body slowly collapse. My hands trembled as I pulled my sword from his chest. Blood spread across the floor like ink writing the final chapter of a good man's story.
"Now it's your turn," I said, pointing my sword at the Prophet, feeling every emotion surge through my fragile, weakened body.
Because that's what I was: a human—not a machine, not a god.
The Prophet raised his head with a sadistic grin. He burst into laughter, as if Marcois's death meant nothing to him.
"Matías, you're a fool. Why cry for him? It's just one more life."
"I thought you'd already lost enough to stop suffering over more," he shouted, covering his face with one hand.
Then he lowered it, revealing a face full of limitless arrogance.
"Believe me when I tell you that my heart is colder than ice," I said, feeling my lips tremble with pain.
Swallowing my feelings with difficulty, without another word, I charged at him.
Time felt thick, heavy… as if something were warning me that this would be the end. But it wasn't Calur, —just a premonition carried by instinct.
Our swords crossed like a melancholic symphony—soft, melodic… yet filled with power and desperation.
Every time sparks flew from the clashing blades, my arms felt the true weight of this battle.
Then I saw an opening—a fraction of a second I didn't waste. I lunged, lowering my sword and angling it toward his neck.
Within moments the impact was unmistakable; I heard flesh being pierced before watching him collapse completely lifeless.
I was the only one left standing.
I had done it.
After so many years of suffering… it was finally over. Yet… why did victory taste so bitter?
I lowered my right arm slowly and placed my hand over my abdomen, feeling a warm liquid.
When I looked closely… it was blood.
My blood.
There was a hole in my chest—I could see the floor through myself.
I spat that red liquid onto the floor, staining the cracked marble.
I used the last of my strength to activate 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 even trying to save myself, I walked toward the Prophet's body, seeing he was in no better shape than me.
How ironic… I thought he'd live long enough to witness the world I worked so hard to build.
With the final scraps of energy left in me, I moved toward the throne. The floor was drenched in our blood… his, Marcois's… and mine.
Step by step, I approached the Prophet's throne and claimed it—not as a king, not as a savior— but as someone who only wanted to keep a promise.
A future that no longer belonged just to me, but to everyone who had believed in me.
Who am I kidding?
"They just believed my lies..." I murmured, feeling a bitter smile form on my face as I slumped down on the throne.
A single tear formed in my eye, frozen in the halted time—suspended, unable to fall.
My duty was already fulfilled.
"I… I did it," I whispered. "Mother… Father… Sis…"
Time began to move again…
I watched that lone tear drop slowly, shattering against the pool of blood at my feet.
Then my senses started to fade. The last thing I heard—besides my ragged breathing—were the trumpets and cheers. They were announcing our victory.
A victory that would finally bring peace.
My peace.
How many wars did humanity have to endure to reach this point…?
My eyes slowly closed. My body weakened. The spark of life within me flickered out… Until, at last, I let them close.
And I died.
I died a hero—yet knowing that, in this world…I had also been a villain.