"Why…"
The word slips from his lips, the only sound he can make after witnessing the unthinkable. A question without an answer, yet his soul demands one. He believed he had seen everything—wonders and horrors no human could imagine—but this shattered all faith he had left.
"Why? What did I do wrong? Where did it go wrong? Why is it not over? Isn't it over?"
No reply. The universe remains silent, indifferent. He stares at the girl's silhouette through the smoke and rubble. His vision is failing from the relic's brilliance, yet his gaze clings to her form, desperate for an answer.
"Why…"
He lies sprawled on the grand floor, blood seeping from his eyes onto the intricate carvings beneath him. Beauty and ruin converge here. Once, this place might have been sacred, but tonight it bears witness to betrayal—his betrayal. Once a god, now powerless, he has never been able to change the outcome.
His spirit fractures. Still, he forces himself upright. One hand, then his torso, then his knees.
"You…"
Unsteady, he rises to his feet.
"Because of you…"
"You stole what was mine!"
Sanity abandoned him long ago. Now only obsession remains. He mutters to himself as if reasoning with a phantom.
"Doesn't matter who you are."
"Doesn't matter who sent you."
"Doesn't matter what you are."
"I earned it. I will take it back!"
He draws the sword at his side and advances. His eyes burn with nothing but the intent to kill. The girl is no longer a person in his mind—only a vessel blocking his salvation. He craves his true self, the godhood stripped from him. He hates this human life of injustice, loss, and death. Death most of all.
He closes in. Her broken body lies motionless in the rubble. This is the moment. He raises his blade, a twisted grin spreading across his face.
The strike lands—on stone. The sword bites deep into debris, stuck fast. He pulls, wrenches, struggles—but the girl is gone. She has vanished.
He stares, bewildered. Miracle or mockery, he cannot tell. His sword remains lodged, useless. He thinks of all he has seen: innocents burned, children slaughtered, families shattered, empires playing games with lives. But none of it cuts deeper than this emptiness. His heart screams. And then—nothing. No grief, no rage. Nothing.
Was the pain too great? Or is the blame his alone? He doesn't know. Seconds stretch into minutes. Minutes into hours. Still he stands before the rubble.
Then a sound escapes him. A scoff. A laugh.
"Haha…"
The emptiness erupts into madness.
"Hahahahahaha!"
He thrashes, flings his arms like a mad beast. His mind, his reason, long gone. He stumbles to the castle doors and shoves them open. The colossal gates slam against the stone walls as he collapses outside. Rainwater and mud soak his body. The storm has passed, but within him, chaos rages.
Flat on the ground, he looks to the dawn sky. A single ray of light strikes the Citadel. The bell tower's bronze gleams in the sunrise. He stares at it with dead, hopeless eyes, remembering who he once was: the eldest son of Eden, heir to royalty greater than anything on Earth. His siblings pursued glory while he dreamed small. He never had the chance to tell them. Now all is gone.
The question returns, a broken whisper.
"Why…?"
He pounds the mud with his fist, the blow cracking stone beneath. His voice rises in fury.
"ENOUGH!"
The ground trembles. Invisible power bursts from him—the wrath. Heat engulfs him. Soil dries, steam rises, his garments burn away. Naked, consumed by fire, his face becomes the embodiment of rage.
At the horizon, a cliff gleams in the newborn light. He walks toward it, flames consuming what remains of his clothes. But as he steps beyond the gates of the Citadel, something begins to form around him: a robe, dark and divine, radiating not holiness but an unholy majesty. He no longer cares. He is what he is.
Waves crash below. Winds lash against him, tossing his hair. To any eye he is beauty and divinity incarnate, but within his gaze burns the fury of a thousand suns. The sea boils against his heat. Each step leaves scorched ground. He is an abomination among mortals, a being of pure wrath.
At the cliff's edge, he raises his hand. A sword materializes—golden hilt, leather grip of a beast unknown to mortals, a blade so sharp it could pierce divinity itself. Dawn's first light runs down its edge. His eyes blaze, his voice resounds.
"Enough."
And so, he takes the oath.