The next day, Astrian Camp
The sun barely peeked through the clouds, casting a dull, eerie glow over the battlefield. The air was thick with the scent of steel, sweat, and something far worse—anticipation.
The Crown Prince stood before his soldiers, his voice firm but filled with an unshakable resolve.
"Till now, we have lost many of our brothers in this war. But we will not stop here. We will not break. We will win this battle and return home victorious!"
The soldiers roared in unison, their voices shaking the ground beneath them.
"Yeah!"
Their spirits burned like fire. But none of them knew what awaited them on the battlefield.
At first, the Astrian army surged forward, cutting through enemy ranks with terrifying efficiency. Their path was clear. The enemy was retreating.
But something was wrong.
The Crown Prince, along with the Duke and Alexzander, led the charge, their blades stained crimson. The enemy soldiers fell back as if luring them forward.
Then—the world opened up.
As they pushed past the forest and into the vast plains, they saw it.
The enemy army.
Their numbers stretched beyond the horizon, a sea of black and silver armor standing in eerie silence.
The Crown Prince raised his hand. "Halt!"
Something felt... wrong.
Alexzander’s breath hitched. His sharp gaze locked onto a particular banner fluttering in the wind—a golden dragon on a field of blood-red silk.
He went pale. "The King has come."
The Crown Prince stiffened.
The enemy soldiers parted, making way for a single man.
A figure rode forth on horseback.
He wore a dark red uniform, embroidered with a golden dragon. His long hair cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face carved in steel—merciless, unreadable, inhuman.
In each of his hands, he held a sword—not as weapons, but as extensions of himself.
The sheer aura that surrounded him made the battlefield suffocating.
Some soldiers shivered.
The Crown Prince narrowed his eyes.
"Who is he?"
Alexzander swallowed hard. Ferdinand V Velkan. The Tyrant King."
Silence.
Even the wind refused to move.
Then—the first move.
The last war begins
The two armies faced each other in deadly stillness.
The Crown Prince turned to his men.
"The gods have answered our prayers and sent their king to the battlefield. This is our moment. We strike now, and we end this war."
He raised his sword high.
"War is never won by numbers! It is won by strength—by those who refuse to break!"
The soldiers roared.
"LONG LIVE ASTRIA!"
An arrow pierced the Crown Prince’s shoulder.
Blood sprayed into the air.
The Astrian army exploded forward like a vengeful storm, charging with a fury unlike anything before.
The battle erupted.
Blades clashed. Screams tore through the sky. Steel met flesh. Blood rained down in rivers.
No one knew who was winning. No one cared.
It was a slaughter.
Far from the battlefield, in the pits of the forgotten dead, Lucian’s eyes fluttered open.
Pain.
His body ached. His wounds had long since dried, but something inside him had changed.
He pushed himself up, his fingers scraping against bone. Corpses surrounded him.
He staggered forward.
Then—he heard it.
The battlefield.
The clashing steel. The distant screams.
Lucian’s mind raced.
He didn’t remember where he was—who he was.
Then—a soldier appeared.
The man saw him. His face twisted in terror.
"H-HOW…?! YOU''RE DEAD!"
The soldier lunged.
Lucian saw everything.
The movement of the blade. The weak points in the soldier’s stance. The openings. The mistakes.
His body moved without thinking.
CRACK!
Lucian caught the soldier’s wrist, twisting until the bone snapped.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
A scream.
Then—more came.
Five men rushed him.
One aimed for his throat. Lucian ducked.
Two swung their swords together. Lucian slid beneath them.
Another grabbed him from behind.
Lucian’s head hit the ground.
Something inside him awoke.
The memories rushed in.
The war. The betrayal. The truth.
He remembered.
Everything.
His name.
His pain.
His rage.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt of a fallen blade.
He didn’t hesitate.
The first soldier fell.
The second—cut down in a single strike.
The third—slaughtered.
The voice returned.
"Did you enjoy it?"
Lucian’s lips curled.
"It''s amazing."
The voice laughed.
"Don’t overdo it. Your body still needs time."
Lucian wiped the blood from his face, his smile widening.
"I’m free."
The voice purred.
"Go hunt them. Show them who the King of Monsters is."
Lucian tilted his head.
Then—he ran.
Straight for the battlefield.
Straight toward his next hunt.
And as he ran—
He laughed.
The Velkan King stood atop the battlefield, his dark red cloak billowing like a shadow swallowing the sun. His golden dragon insignia gleamed, but his expression was one of pure disgust.
His piercing gaze swept over his army—his butchers, his warriors—and yet, they trembled like frightened insects.
At his side, his commander stood, head bowed, beads of sweat rolling down his temple.
The King’s voice came like a growl of thunder."So... you are all afraid of them?"
The commander flinched but forced himself to answer. “N-No, Your Majesty! We were merely... playing with them.”
The moment the word left his mouth, the King moved.
His hand shot forward, gripping the commander’s throat.
A sharp, choked gasp—then silence.
The King’s fingers tightened around the man’s windpipe, lifting him off the ground effortlessly.
The commander’s face turned red—his eyes bulging, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. His hands clawed desperately at the King’s iron grip, but it was useless.
The Velkan soldiers watched in frozen terror.
The King’s lips curled into a sneer.
"Playing, huh?"
His grip tightened.
"And because of your games… you lost me an army?"
The commander’s body spasmed violently. The sound of bones creaking filled the air, his veins bulging under the pressure.
The King leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Win… or die."
Then—he hurled the commander onto the ground.
A violent thud.
The man landed hard, gasping, wheezing, desperately trying to drag air back into his crushed throat.
No one moved.
The Velkan soldiers stood paralyzed, watching as their leader barely managed to crawl away, his dignity shattered.
The King turned to his army, his dark gaze burning through them.
"Listen well." His voice was cold, sharp as a blade.
"Either you return with victory…" He stepped forward, his towering presence making them shrink. "Or don’t return at all."
The wind howled.
No one questioned him.
The soldiers had no choice. They ran toward the battlefield, not with courage… but with the terror of death snapping at their heels.
Lucian moved like the wind, his breath steady, his feet barely touching the ground as he ran toward the enemy’s camp.
His mind pulsed with a rhythm—a violent, pounding melody.
It started slow.
Then—
Faster.
Faster.
Faster.
The night air was cold, yet his blood burned.
Then—
A flash of steel.
Lucian twisted mid-run, a sword narrowly missing his throat.
Two Velkan soldiers blocked his path.
Their mistake.
Lucian didn’t stop.
His blade was already moving.
The first soldier barely had time to blink before steel slashed across his throat. Blood sprayed.
Lucian had already ducked low, spinning behind the second soldier, grabbing his wrist, and forcing his blade through his gut.
A wet squelch. A dying gasp.
Two bodies fell.
Lucian stood, his breath slow, his pulse steady.
The rhythm in his head roared louder.
He kept running.
The enemy camp loomed ahead, flickering torches casting long, jagged shadows.
Lucian’s lips curled into a grin.
"Time to begin."
He burst through the first tent, his blade flashing like a silver fang.
A soldier barely had time to rise before Lucian’s dagger slammed into his neck.
Another soldier lunged.
Lucian dodged left, grabbed the man’s arm, and twisted—
CRACK.
The bone snapped. A scream tore through the air.
Lucian didn’t let go. He used the broken limb as a shield, blocking an incoming attack—then yanked the soldier forward, plunging his sword through both of them at once.
A sharp whistle.
Lucian’s head snapped up.
More soldiers.
Five. No… ten.
Lucian exhaled slowly.
The real hunt had begun.
The first soldier charged—Lucian sidestepped, dragging his dagger across the man’s ribs. The soldier stumbled, his guts spilling onto the dirt.
Another came from behind—Lucian ducked, grabbing the man’s wrist, flipping him over his shoulder, and stabbing him through the chest before he hit the ground.
Three soldiers attacked at once.
Lucian’s mind slowed.
He saw everything.
The sword angles. The foot placements. The weaknesses.
He moved.
A spin. A slash. A dodge. A kill.
Bodies dropped like flies.
The last soldier standing trembled.
Lucian tilted his head, his red eyes glowing like dying embers.
The soldier dropped his sword. "M-Monster…"
Lucian took a step forward.
The soldier turned—and ran.
Lucian let him.
For a few seconds.
Then—he gave chase.
The poor man barely got five steps before Lucian was on him.
He didn’t kill him instantly.
He dragged him to the ground—pressed his blade against his throat.
Then—he whispered.
"Who’s next?"
The soldier whimpered. Begged.
Lucian smiled.
Then—the blade sank in.
His hunt was only just beginning.
The night air was thick with the scent of blood and burning flesh. Screams echoed through the enemy camp—twisted, dying screams.
The Velkan King sat on his black warhorse, gazing at the battlefield with cold indifference. His blood-red cloak rustled in the wind as he listened to the distant chaos. Something was wrong.
A soldier ran up, panting, his face pale. “Your Majesty! There''s—”
The King raised a hand, silencing him. His golden dragon insignia shimmered under the moonlight as he turned to his commander.
“Go. Find out what’s happening.”