"Man wages war to fulfill his appetite for conquest and power, and when there is no land left to conquer, he looks to the sky and beneath the earth."
I still remember that day with crystal clarity. Dark, ghostly clouds loomed over the lands where thousands of armed soldiers marched toward the highest tower of the citadel. Their bodies were drenched in the freshly spilled, boiling blood of the recent battle.
The march was uniform; it conveyed a sense of elegance through its rhythm, yet also revealed an overwhelming dominance in the sheer force of their feet thundering against the ground.
Units of the army converged from all directions, each bearing the same stern expression on their faces and the same force in their footsteps.
I observed all of this from the top of the tower. What else could I have done? A general's role is to inspect his soldiers' movements closely, to identify even the smallest imperfections and correct them in later drills. Yet now, I watched them from far above. They had grown a great deal — and so had he.
As the marchers approached the tower, the trumpets were blown with full force. The soldiers raised their swords in their left hands and reversed their grips before thumping the hilts against their chest plates. Each strike was heavier than the last. The sounds rose high, yet seemed too distant for him to fully hear.
Then, with all their might, the soldiers began to chant in unison:
We are, we are — WE ARE, WE ARE!We are, we are — WE ARE, WE ARE!Immortals, Immortals — IMMORTALS, IMMORTALS!We are, we are — WE ARE, WE ARE!We are, we are — WE ARE, WE ARE!Immortals, Immortals — IMMORTALS, IMMORTALS!
Immortals — the title the emperor had bestowed upon his colossal armies. A title well deserved, for the feats they accomplished were such that even immortals might lack the strength to face them.
With the strikes and chants, the weather only intensified the severity of the scene. Haunting black clouds began to circle above the citadel. The rain was light, but the wind gusts were merciless, accompanied by continuous thunderclaps.
The atmosphere had changed so drastically that even a simple chant could be mistaken for a war cry.
Soon, the chants began to slow as horns were blown from the high tower above. From the inner darkness emerged the emperor's councilors — fourteen in total, each possessing immense knowledge in their respective fields, far beyond the comprehension of ordinary men.
They were all dressed in black cloaks, with silver symbols engraved upon the back of each garment.
From the lower floors, they ascended toward me to gain the highest vantage point. No one spoke. They simply formed a line and bowed in unison.
As for me, I bow to no one — especially not to him.
Then, at last, a presence revealed itself from the shadows. It was the emperor, dressed in a heavenly white suit, draped in a silken white cloak adorned with heavy golden engravings. Slowly, he stepped forward, and my gaze was drawn to his face — the fairest face I had ever seen. It bore an unsettling innocence, with mismatched pupils — his right eye blue, his left yellow — and long, lustrous blond hair tied into intricate strands.
It is still inconceivable that such a face could have slaughtered his own family for the sake of a mere throne.
The emperor's gaze did not rest upon the soldiers below, nor upon the spectacle of their victory. Instead, it lingered far beyond them — upon the chains.
Those chains, vast and iron-wrought, stretched across the battlefield like the tendons of some ancient beast. Yet even they seemed diminished by what they restrained. Bound within them was a being so immense that, in comparison, the chains resembled nothing more than a leash fastened to a horse.
Engines groaned and strained to drag the iron links forward. Still, the creature offered no resistance — as if defiance itself had long since abandoned it.
Soon, every man within the High Tower bore witness to what had been brought before them.
A silence followed — not of peace, but of comprehension.
The head commander stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"My lord… your expedition has reached its end. The first layer of the 'world beneath' has been purged. This demon stands as proof."
He gestured toward the broken figure.
"It has cost us two million lives. But we have secured victory."
Victory.
The word lingered in the air, hollow and uncertain.
The creature was fastened to a great cross-like frame, displayed not as a prisoner, but as a statement. It towered nearly twenty meters in height, its massive form ravaged by war. Its body — if it could still be called that — was carved with wounds both fresh and ancient, layered upon one another like a history written in suffering.
Its legs had been severed. Blood flowed endlessly from the stumps, dark and unceasing, pooling beneath it like a second shadow.
A massive bull's skull had been placed upon its head — perhaps as a mark of dominion, or perhaps mockery. Yet as the structure settled, the skull slipped free and crashed to the ground.
What it revealed was worse.
A face.
Not monstrous in its shape — but in its stillness. In its endurance. In the quiet refusal to break.
Its eyes — deep, hollow, and unyielding — rose and fixed themselves upon the High Tower.
Upon the emperor.
And the emperor… did nothing.
No triumph. No curiosity. Not even disgust.
Only disappointment.
As though this — this ruin, this sacrifice, this proof of unimaginable conquest — was insufficient.
As though two million lives were a trivial offering to an unappeasable will.
Below, the soldiers still roared his name, their voices trembling with reverence, with devotion —
with blindness.
I heard them. But I did not listen.
Because at that moment, there was only him.
The face I once knew.
The child I once shaped.
Gone.
In his place stood something colder. Something vast. Something that no longer required reason — only obedience.
This is no king.
This is no man.
This… is a calamity wearing a crown.
And I know now what must be done.
He must die —
— or all heaven and earth will crumble.