The King Who Erased Joy
The sun still ruled the sky when the road went silent.
Not quiet—emptied.
A man near the food tables frowned.
"Why did the birds stop?"
No one answered.
Then a whisper moved through the crowd, spreading faster than fear.
"…Megard."
The word broke something unseen.
People turned.
Black-armored soldiers advanced in slow, deliberate steps. Their boots crushed flower petals meant for dancing. Their faces showed no haste, no hunger—only certainty. The army of Megard did not rush.
They arrived.
At their center rode a man whose presence bent the air itself.
Hizamo za Fahui.
He sat straight on his horse, hands loose on the reins, eyes empty of doubt. Not rage. Not joy. Authority. His gaze swept the village the way fire studies dry wood—deciding where to begin.
A child clutched his father's hand.
"Father… why are they smiling?"
A soldier stepped forward and split a table clean in half.
Rice scattered. Meat rolled into dust. Sweets shattered like glass.
Hizamo lifted one finger.
"Slowly," he said.
The command rippled outward.
Men were struck—not to kill, but to fall. Screams followed seconds later. Someone tried to run.
Hizamo's voice carried, calm and absolute.
"No running."
A spear pinned the man to the ground.
A woman crawled forward, blood on her palms, sobbing.
"Please," she begged. "We will give you everything. Take the food. Take us. Just leave the children."
Hizamo looked down at her for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"You mistake me for a ruler who needs offerings."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I am here to teach."
The soldiers laughed.
Children were dragged from hiding places, screaming for their parents. Fathers died trying to stand tall. Mothers clutched bodies that no longer answered.
One man shouted through tears, voice cracking.
"We were celebrating! We did nothing to you!"
Hizamo turned his head.
"That," he said, "is exactly your crime."
The army ate while killing.
They drank festival wine while people begged beside them. They mocked prayers. They laughed at hope. Joy was not merely destroyed—it was used.
Doors were forced open. Homes were violated, then left broken and burning. Cries poured out and then stopped. Flames climbed walls that had sheltered generations.
Smoke swallowed the sun.
People burned while calling names that would never answer.
A soldier approached Hizamo, shaking with excitement, blood streaked across his armor.
"My king… some are still alive."
Hizamo did not look away from the fire.
"Alive?" he repeated softly.
"Yes, sire."
Hizamo's eyes hardened.
"Then you are unfinished."
The screams resumed.
As the village collapsed into ash, Hizamo dismounted. He walked through the square, stepping over bodies, over toys, over food now blackened and meaningless.
A dying old man reached for his cloak.
"Why…?" he whispered.
Hizamo stopped.
"For the same reason fire burns," he said evenly. "Because it is allowed to."
He turned to his army.
"Leave nothing that remembers happiness."
By nightfall, there was no village.
No homes.
No prayers.
No children.
No future.
Only ash settling where laughter had lived that morning.
A soldier asked, almost in reverence, "Shall we mark this place, my king?"
Hizamo looked back once.
"No," he said. "Let the world forget it ever existed."
The army marched on.
Across Behrda, fear learned a new definition.