It was the year 2736. My home was destroyed, burned to the ground by the heretics who had invaded the outskirts of our holy kingdom. I lost both of my parents that day, their eyes wishing for salvation, their prayers to the Almighty drowned by their screams of pain. They cried for me to run; they gave their bodies to protect me.
So I ran. I ran as fast as I could through the fields of grain, through the trees, to the open plains. I ran until I couldn't. But the heretics were unrelenting. They did not rest. They did not stop. They followed me, they chased me—not as predators, but as if I were a plaything. They kept pace but never stopped me. They wanted to see how far I could go before my small feet gave out.
And finally, they did.
I still remember their faces—those grotesque monsters who had relinquished the Almighty. They chanted that they were the true gods, that humanity itself was the true divine. They disgusted me. They wanted me to convert, to abandon my faith and worship myself… worship them.
But no. My faith is unmovable. My body, my soul, shall burn to dust and go to hell before I let my faith be shattered. I welcome death if that is what it takes to show my devotion.
I closed my eyes and welcomed what was coming.
He raised his gun, and—boom—a defining sound rang through the air.
Yet I was still there. Breathing. Thinking. What's going on?
I opened my eyes slowly to see that one of the heretics had lost his head. Then, in a commanding voice, I heard:
"Kill all the heretics. Punish them for the disgrace they have shown upon God's dominion."
I saw them. They had finally come.
The Paladins. The sword of God themselves.
I could only watch in awe as they dispatched the heretics as if they were nothing more than common thugs. Wearing armor ornamented with holy relics, weapons blessed with faith itself, and a presence that could only be described as salvation.
Then I saw him.
Even in the middle of the carnage, riding his horse, he stood apart. A white flag bearing a red cross flowed behind him, and his commanding aura left no room for doubt. He was a captain, serving under the House of Crusaders.
Before I could drift into my thoughts, I was pulled forward by the commander himself. With a voice both commanding and reassuring, he asked,
"What are you doing here, boy?"
I hesitated, then said,
"I… I am a resident of that village. The heretics attacked us out of nowhere. Only I survived. They killed and burned everyone. They killed my parents."
Hearing this, the captain softened slightly and said,
"It seems you are protected by the Almighty's grace. It is by His will that you survived. Be not sad, for I will avenge your parents. I, the capta—"
Before he could finish, a priest in red and white appeared before us.
"Captain, the army is ready."
I stared for a moment at the priest. I could feel the faith emanating from him. What amazed me most was the thorn crown he wore—made of iron and wrapped in vines. It covered the priest's eyes, yet he could see perfectly.
I wondered.
Before I could think further, the captain turned to me.
"Boy, it is time to avenge them. Do not close your eyes. Do not look away. Burn this memory into your mind. This is what heretics deserve."
Then he shouted,
"DEATH TO THE HERETICS. CHARGE!"
An army surged forward from behind him—raging machines painted blue, streaked with a strange brown stain; ordinary humans carrying rifles engraved with prayers; towering mechs that dwarfed everything around them.
I watched as they marched forward and brought justice for my parents. I watched as they cleansed the unholy. I watched as the hand of God delivered divine punishment.
Golden trails of bullets carved across the battlefield.
Paladins charged with these weapons, chanting God's name.
Machines roared with rage as they unleashed devastating attacks.
Gigantic mechs surged toward the heretics, crushing them beneath iron feet.
At the front, the captain led the army, bullets bouncing off him as if turned aside by divine light.
The heretics never stood a chance against God's wrath.
I stayed back, eyes wide, watching the Paladins and their machines tear through the heretics, cleansing the battlefield.
After it was over, I returned to my village—or what remained of it. The ground was charred black. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, friends, foes, and people I once knew. Buildings were still burning around me, and an eerie silence filled the air, broken only by distant gunfire and the roar of machines.
Then I saw them.
The bodies of my parents—almost unrecognizable.
I couldn't do anything. I couldn't protect them. I couldn't cry. I couldn't scream. But I felt it. I felt my anger boiling—at myself, at my weakness, at the disgusting creatures that took everything from me.
When the sorrow faded, only rage remained.
And with fire in my eyes, I vowed:
In the ashes of my village
In the blood of my parents
I vow, in the name I was given—
Death to the heretics.