The sky was burdened.
Lightning tore through the heavens again and again, splitting the clouds apart as thunder roared without end. Ash filled the air, falling like black snow, coating the ruined land below.
Dark clouds pressed down heavily, swallowing all light, making it impossible to tell whether it was day or night.
Mountains crumbled in the distance.
Once-towering peaks shattered, their bodies collapsing into avalanches of stone and dust.
The land itself burned. Rivers had long since dried, forests reduced to nothing but smoldering remains. Flames spread endlessly, consuming everything in their path.
Death ruled the sky.
Massive wings blotted out what little light remained. Scales reflected the fire below, casting twisted shadows over a battlefield that had fallen eerily silent. The sound of battle had faded, replaced only by the crackle of fire and the distant rumble of destruction.
The battlefield was a grave.
Broken weapons lay scattered across the ground. Swords snapped in half. Shields crushed beyond recognition. Bodies—human bodies—were strewn everywhere, unmoving, their blood soaking deep into the earth.
The smell was unbearable: smoke, iron, and burned flesh mixed into a suffocating stench.
Yet, at the very center of this chaos—
Two figures still stood.
Humanity's last heroes.
One was a swordsman.
His long silver hair clung to his face, heavy with dirt and blood. Cuts covered his body, his armor shattered and barely holding together. His breathing was rough, uneven, yet his posture never bent. His grip on his blade remained firm, unwavering.
His eyes were fierce.
Even after everything, even after twenty years of war, there was no hesitation in them.
He moved.
With a single step forward, the sword swung. The blade tore through the air, carrying overwhelming force. In one clean motion, a large number of enemies were cut down at once, bodies falling before they even realized they had been struck.
Beside him stood a mage.
The mage's long blue robes were torn and scorched, stained dark with blood. His hands trembled as he leaned heavily on the staff in his grasp. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, yet he forced himself to stand.
Slowly, he raised his staff.
A massive magic circle appeared in the sky above them, glowing brightly despite the darkness. Symbols spun within it, crackling with unstable energy.
Lightning surged.
Bolts descended instantly, striking the enemies below. Screams echoed briefly before being swallowed by thunder. When the light faded, nothing remained where they had stood.
Dragons.
Once, dragons and humans had lived in peace and harmony. The two species shared the world, respecting each other's strength and existence.
That peace endured for generations—until the Dragon Monarch, Zephoris, made his decision.
He declared himself a god.
He demanded that all humans kneel. That they worship dragons as divine beings.
Humanity refused.
And so, the war began.
Humans fought back with everything they had. Warriors of legend rose from every land. Kingdoms that had once been divided by hatred and pride united as one. Old grudges were forgotten. Old enemies stood shoulder to shoulder.
All to face a single threat.
A war that lasted twenty years.
Twenty years beneath darkened skies.
Twenty years of endless bloodshed.
Twenty years where hope slowly faded, year after year.
"Cough… cough…"
The mage staggered.
Blood spilled from his mouth, splashing onto the broken ground below. His staff slipped from his fingers as his legs finally gave out. His body began to fall forward.
"You were always slow, my old friend," Aden said quietly after delivering another strike.
He turned just in time and caught the mage before he hit the ground.
Aden held him tightly, lowering him gently despite the chaos around them.
"But don't worry," Aden continued, his voice steady despite the pain burning through his body. "I'll end this."
He clenched his jaw.
"For the survival of humanity, I promise you—your death will not be in vain."
Flap.
Flap.
The sound echoed across the battlefield.
Each beat was heavy, oppressive, shaking the air itself. Flames descended from above, followed by an overwhelming presence that crushed down on the land.
A colossal figure emerged.
Wings of fire spread wide, blocking out the sky. A body larger than any mountain descended slowly. Scales as thick as metal reflected the flames below.
Crack.
The ground shattered violently as it landed. Deep fissures spread outward, splitting the earth apart.
"Sword God, Aden Vale."
The voice boomed across the battlefield, filled with arrogance and authority.
"Feel honored. I, Zephoris, bestow upon you the title of the strongest mortal to ever exist—for you stand before me."
Aden laughed.
It was hoarse. Bitter. Filled with exhaustion.
"You coward."
His grip on his sword tightened.
"You hid all these years, never showing yourself even once. And now, when our forces are defeated, you finally decide to appear?"
He raised his sword and pointed it forward.
"You are nothing. Just a fucking lizard playing god."
"You will soon be dead anyway," Zephoris replied mockingly. "Consider this my final act of mercy."
Then—
A crushing wave of aura exploded outward.
The ground trembled. The air itself felt heavy, as though the world was being pressed down by an invisible force.
"What?!" Zephoris roared. "You still have this much power? Impossible!"
"Thank you for coming here, you fucking lizard," Aden said coldly. "With your death, the souls of my comrades will finally rest in peace."
Zephoris sensed it.
Aden's aura was burning—bright and unstable. He was using his very life force.
The Sword God had crossed a realm no mortal had ever reached. He stood on the edge of divinity itself. An authority had awakened within him.
There was nothing his blade could not cut.
Not flesh.
Not steel.
Not even fate.
"How can a mortal be this strong?" Zephoris thought bitterly. "This power defies nature itself. Dragons are supreme beings… so why?"
Why did fear grip his heart?
"No!" Zephoris roared. "I am a god! The supreme being of this world! Come at me, mortal!"
A massive magic circle formed before him.
A fireball the size of a meteor appeared, burning so brightly it painted the sky red.
"This will be my final strike, my friends," Aden whispered.
He stepped forward, holding his sword steady, his stance unshaken as the enormous fireball rushed toward him.
The fireball shot forward.
Aden raised his hands and swung.
A single vertical slash.
The fireball split cleanly in half, exploding midair. The shockwave tore through the land, shaking mountains miles away.
The slash did not stop.
A blade of light surged forward.
It was the last thing the Dragon Monarch saw.
Zephoris's massive body split in two.
The Dragon Monarch fell.
The Sword God stood firm, his feet planted on shattered ground.
And so ended an age.
And so ended an era.
Sword God Aden Vale died—standing victorious, after slaying the Dragon Monarch.