The End of Two Halves
In the year of the 1800s, when the war between the celestial gods and demonic lords reached its peak, two figures stood at the eye of the storm—locked in a battle not just for dominion, but for destiny.
One man, adorned with divine radiance like a faint golden crown hovering above him, pointed a gleaming holy sword at the throat of the other.
A mask covered half of his face—cracked, incomplete—yet his eyes were resolute.
Around them, the world burned. Flames devoured cities, screams of the innocent echoed across the land, and yet... he had but one purpose.
To kill his other half.
The masked warrior moved with elegance and precision, every strike steeped in the grace of royal discipline—like a forgotten prince of heaven.
His opponent, however, fought with raw fury. His blows were brutal, desperate—like a beast backed into a corner. He fought not just for survival, but for something deeper.
Their robes, once symbols of nobility and pride, now fluttered in tatters as the duel intensified, each clash of steel like thunder in the sky.
They danced through the air as if heaven itself were the stage and fate, the audience.
The heavens wept lightning. Beasts howled beneath them. The earth trembled with each swing of their blades.
Cling. Clang.
Sparks lit the darkness. With a final, fluid step forward, the masked man drove his blade through his enemy's abdomen, pinning him to the ground. Blood bloomed like a red lotus across shattered stone.
And still—the fallen man smiled. Even as tears streaked down his face.
"So this is how our story ends," the masked man murmured.
His voice was quiet, almost hollow, as if he had rehearsed those words a thousand times, yet never believed he'd speak them.
"Don't..." the other whispered weakly, golden light flickering from his wounds like dying embers. "Don't let them turn against you. Don't let the world hate you."
His voice wavered—not just from pain, but sorrow. It was more than the blade in his body that hurt him.
The masked man stood silent, his brows drawing together. His lips pressed into a thin line, suppressing words that trembled on the edge of his tongue. For a moment, his hand faltered.
But it was too late.
The light began to scatter. The man beneath him started to fade—his form dissolving into golden motes that floated toward the sky, like a soul ascending.
The masked man closed his eyes.
And then... he smiled.
But it was not the smile of victory.
It was twisted. Cold. Empty.
"Now then," he whispered, standing tall, "I suppose it's time to clean up, isn't it?"
He raised his sword to the sky—and released a surge of darkness so vast, so venomous, the very air turned thick with death. Shadows burst outward in a wave, devouring everything in their path.
His yin—his balance, his soul—was unraveling.
This was not redemption.
This was revenge.
And in that moment, half the world was swallowed by shadow.
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Copyright Notice
© 2025 Kun. All rights reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.