The sky was not sky anymore.
It hung above the battlefield, bleeding and silent. The taste of ash and blood clung to the air, thick with the silence of death. All around — blood and stillness.
It was… hell.
And in the center of it all, on his knees — Arthur.
He was not the man he once was. He was a hollow shell.
Black hair hung in matted strands over a face painted red. His once-beautiful Radiant Gold eyes were hollow, fixed on the body before him. His armor, once gleaming silver etched with runes, was torn in a dozen places. Blood soaked through the gaps, seeping from wounds that would have killed anyone else.
His left hand was gone — severed at the wrist — the stump cauterized with magic, blackened and smoking faintly.
He knelt not in surrender, but in ritual.
Like the knight in that old painting — The Fall of Valen — where the hero bows not to his enemy, but to the weight of loss.
Before him, laid gently as if sleeping, was her.
She was radiant even in death.
Deep Midnight Blue hair spilled like ink across the cracked earth, framing a face too serene for this carnage. Her skin was pale, untouched — except for the ruin in her chest. A perfect, clean hole, as if someone had reached in and plucked the light from her heart. Blood welled slowly, pooling beneath her like a crimson halo.
Her eyes — Soft Silver-Violet, like twilight through stained glass — were open.
Unblinking.
Staring at him.
Why did you let me go first?
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Words had abandoned him. Voice, strength, purpose—everything had been carved from him, leaving only this: a man kneeling in blood, clutching silence like a prayer.
Arthur finally lifted his gaze — from her, from the past — to the horror around him.
Around him, the dead stretched to the horizon.
Rows upon rows of fallen soldiers—human and elf, dwarf and beastkin, vampire all laid low in a war that had no meaning, no victor, only absence.
Elven archers frozen mid-leap, arrows frozen in flight as though time itself had given up. Beastkin warriors curled like fallen animals, claws raked into the dirt as if trying to claw their way back into breath. Dwarven berserkers still clinging to their axes, faces locked in final roars. Vampiric nobles burst from their stone coffins, reduced to ash and splinters.
Every race who had followed him.
No side spared.
No victor.
Just silence.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
And then — footsteps
Slow.
Deliberate.
They echoed like a clock counting down the final seconds of existence.
Arthur didn't need to turn around. He knew that rhythm.
He didn't need to turn to know who was behind it. He knew.
A laugh cut through the silence — dry, amused, utterly empty of warmth.
From the smoke, a figure appeared. Tall. Beautiful. Long black hair. Lips curled in a smile that held no kindness, only cold amusement. His presence was divine, yet dreadful.
He was the reason they had to fight.
The reason everyone died.
The reason for all of this.
The Abyss King — Kael'thar.
He moved slowly, stopping before Arthur.
His black eyes, empty as the void, stared at the girl.
"…She's dead."
A pause.
As if the words needed time to bleed.
Then, softer:
"I already told you… you couldn't win this war."
Arthur's jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck stood like cords ready to snap. He looked up — slowly — and his eyes burned with something beyond hatred. Beyond grief.
It was ruin.
"You," he whispered, voice raw as torn flesh. "You killed them all. They died because of you."
The Demon King tilted his head. Then he laughed — a sound like glass breaking in a temple.
"I killed them?" He spread his hands. "No. They died because they were weak. Because they chose you. I told you not to believe in gods. They are liars. No. I merely gave them a choice. I showed them the truth. That hope is a lie told by the desperate."
CRUNCH!
He stepped forward, boots crushing bone beneath the ash.
"They knew they would die. They knew. And yet, they marched. They fought. They died—because they believed in you." His smile sharpened. "Look at them. Look what you led them to."
Arthur looked down — back at her. His love. His light.
Then at the people who had fought beside him. His friends. His teachers. His comrades.
His failures.
At the hundreds, thousands, whose names he had once known, whose voices had once called his name in battle.
All gone.
And he had led them here.
Not for justice. Not for peace.
For what?
Pride? The need to be righteous?
Hope? The childish belief that good could triumph?
Love? The desperate need to protect her—only to fail?
He knew, deep in the hollow of his chest, that war had never been the answer. That every sword drawn, every spell cast, every life lost, only fed the endless cycle of destruction. That peace was not won—it was chosen, again and again, in quiet moments no one sang about.
And yet.
He had fought.
He had believed.
He had led them all to die.
The Demon King raised his sword — not some jagged black monster of a blade, but one of perfect, polished obsidian, reflecting the dying sky.
"Let's finish this," he said, calm as a lullaby. "Any last words?"
Arthur said nothing.
No curse. No prayer. No plea.
He closed his eyes.
And in that moment, he saw her again — not dead, but smiling. Laughing under cherry blossoms. Her hand in his. Whole. Alive.
And then —
Cold.
The whisper of steel parting air.
SWISH— THUD!
And then —
Nothing.
The head fell.
Rolled.
Came to rest, eyes still open, gazing toward the girl.
The last thing he ever saw.
The Demon King wiped his blade clean on his cloak.
He looked at the sky.
At the cracks.
At the end of all things.
And smiled.
"Now," he said softly, "it begins."
***
"DAMN IT. FUCK THIS GAME!!!"
SLAM!
I threw my controller down so hard the coffee table rattled, spilling the half-drunk energy drink I'd been nursing for three hours.
It wasn't even midnight, but it felt like I'd been awake for days. Same routine. Same stupid, soul-crushing cycle.
Four years.
Four years I'd been stuck in this digital purgatory called The Hero Chronicles, and for what? To stare into the smug, glowing eyes of the Abyss King one more time while he killed me again?
I mean, come on. It's not even a good story. You're some "chosen one," humanity's last hope, with a god-tier harem… and you still lose.
Every. Single. Time.
I used to think I was close. After grinding for months — farming legendary gear, maxing every skill tree, optimizing elemental affinities — only to get slaughtered by the Demon King and watch him win.
Game over.
I'd been playing this game for almost four years. I followed every update, every patch note, clinging to the hope that maybe this time…
And then the developers dropped the "Final Update" — the one that promised a "fair challenge" and "closure for all heroes."
Fair? FAIR?!
I just spent six hours trying different strategies, and the Abyss King didn't even break a sweat.
He just… laughed.
In-game, of course. But it felt personal.
Frustrated didn't even cover it. I was trembling. So I grabbed my phone, opened the game's review section, and started typing the angriest rant I could muster.
Five stars? Hell no. Zero stars.
"This game is a scam. The final boss is broken. Devs don't care. Abyss King needs a nerf or just delete the game already."
I didn't notice at first. Maybe I was too mad. Maybe the room was too dim.
But something on my screen… changed.
The Abyss King moved.
Not from input. No buttons pressed. He just… shifted. Like he was realizing something.
I froze.
He started to laugh. Not the dramatic, echoing villain laugh from the cutscenes. This was different. Dry. Exhausted. Almost… understanding.
Hollow.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. "What the hell…?"
THUMP!
I jumped back, knocking my chair over. My heart was in my throat. "No. No way. This isn't happening."
I slammed the laptop shut.
Nothing.
The screen stayed lit, glowing through the cracks.
I pulled the power cord. Unplugged everything.
The monitor stayed on.
The Abyss King still stood there, completely still, staring right at me.
Right through me.
I backed up, tripped over a pile of game merch — yeah, I had merch, shut up — and landed hard on the floor. THUD. My breath came in short bursts. This wasn't real. I was sleep-deprived. Hallucinating. Maybe the energy drinks finally fried my brain.
But then he moved again.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The Abyss King turned his head—not toward the character, but toward the camera. Toward me. His black eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, I felt it.
A presence.
Not code.
Awareness.
Then the words appeared—not spoken, not subtitled—but whispered directly into my mind:
"Ah… so you are here."
Did… did this fucker just talk to me?
I was completely still, staring into those black voids.
He moved again.
He raised his sword, swinging it as if trying to tear through space itself.
Like he wanted to tear through the screen.
I panicked.
Fuck fuck fuck, what is happening?
SWOOSH — CRACK!
He swung.
The screen went black in a blast like shattering glass.
I just stood there, half-naked—yeah, I wasn't wearing a shirt, so what?—staring at what was left of my monitor.