The fields of Redovan were a bloody mess.
Once, this land had been a painter's dream — sweeping emerald hills stretching for miles beneath wide, open skies. Now, the grass was slick with gore, stained black and red, trampled under the boots of war. Corpses littered the plains like discarded dolls, limbs twisted, faces frozen in agony. Flags from half a dozen nations lay torn and half-buried in the mud, their emblems smeared and meaningless.
The air reeked of iron, of rot, of blood that no longer belonged to anyone.
Over a hundred thousand warriors had fought here —
Not for honor.
Not for justice.
But for the glory of their lords.
...or whichever lord had paid the most.
What was once clean grass—soft, untamed, full of life—was now drowned in entrails and shattered steel. Crushed helmets. Broken spears. Arrows protruding from empty eye sockets. Shields split in two like skulls. The ground didn't breathe anymore. It bled.
A painter might have called it a tapestry of carnage.
But for Kael Rhydan, this wasn't art.
This was betrayal.
"Fucking pieces of shit!" Kael roared, voice hoarse and ragged, throat torn from shouting over steel and screams.
His sword — once a gleaming masterpiece of Karneth steel, an heirloom forged by the empire's finest smiths — was now nothing more than a jagged stick of mangled metal. The blood of friend and foe alike caked the blade in a thick layer of filth, dulling its gleam, but not his fury.
And yet —
He moved like death itself.
Kael's strikes were merciless, surgical. He carved two heads off two oncoming soldiers in a single sweep. Their bodies hadn't even hit the ground before he pivoted again, stance shifting low, shoulders loose, blade tucked to the side — elegant. Brutal. Flawless.
A perfect technique.
Honed since childhood.
And now wielded in vain.
Around him, the Unbreaking Fang's elite — his brothers-in-arms, the pride of Karneth's war academies — lay broken. Eyes wide, mouths agape. Dead.
Loyal to the end.
And it had earned them nothing.
Far off, the rest of the Karneth Army had already fled, their banners lost in the wind. Generals had chosen survival over legacy, retreat over valor. Cowards. Politicians in armor.
They had left Kael alone.
One man against the storm.
The enemy surged toward him in a tidal wave of steel and teeth — the Ecliptix Dominion's black-clad hounds. They came fast and shrieking, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
Kael squared his stance.
"I'll take you all down! Bastards, all of you!"
Ten more came at him.
Fast. Hungry.
Fools.
Kael met them. He became movement. Steel. Precision. Rage.
Their limbs flew. Heads rolled. Blood painted his armor crimson in great arcs as he cut them down, one after another. His breathing was labored, each exhale a rasp, but his technique never faltered.
Technique over strength.
Rage over fear.
Purpose over pain.
But then—
One more stepped forward.
He didn't scream. He didn't charge like the others. This one walked. Deliberate. Controlled. His armor bore the insignia of a high war-captain — silver wings across his chestplate, black plumes in his helm.
Kael's instincts flared.
Commander. Veteran. Dangerous.
Their eyes met across the blood-soaked field.
Kael gripped his sword tighter. His arms burned. His leg trembled.
Just one more, he thought. One more bastard to send to hell.
He roared, lunging forward.
The commander stepped into him — poised, unreadable — and their blades collided with a thunderous CLANG.
Steel sparked.
Kael twisted for a killing arc.
But then—
It happened.
His sword shattered.
Not chipped. Not cracked.
It shattered, the steel exploding in his grip like brittle glass.
Too much blood. Too much strain. Too many bodies. Too much rage.
A heartbeat of hesitation. Just one.
That was all it took.
The enemy's blade plunged downward in a clean, vicious arc.
"You've served the wrong lord," the man murmured — almost gently.
Kael felt the kiss of cold metal. Then fire.
The sword cleaved into his thigh and calf, slicing through flesh and muscle like wet parchment.
His legs gave way.
Before he could scream, the commander drove the hilt of his blade into Kael's kneecaps.
CRACK.
"Aghhhh!!"
Kael hit the mud hard, blood pooling beneath him, staining the broken ground. His hands clawed at the dirt, trying to rise — but his body refused.
Still—
He wasn't done.
"Fucker...!"
With what little strength remained, Kael reached up and seized the commander by the greaves, yanking him down with a growl, trying to drag the man close enough to land one last blow — a final death grip, a warrior's spite.
But it was over.
The war-captain brought his knee up with brutal efficiency.
CRACK.
Kael's head snapped back.
Stars burst behind his eyes.
Darkness rushed in like a tide.
And there, amidst the ruins of the greatest battle the continent of Erdyn had ever seen…
Kael Rhydan — The Unbreaking Fang — fell.
Broken. Bloodied. Forgotten.
Temporarily.