Lord of Deception

The battlefield was not a battlefield anymore. It was a slaughterhouse.

The once-mighty encampment of the Holy Order, a grand war camp filled with golden banners and sacred relics, now burned under the crimson moon. The scent of blood and ash mixed into the wind, carried far across the valley. The screams of dying men echoed through the night, their voices lost amidst the laughter of the reapers that hunted them.

The knights of the Holy Order, so proud and righteous, now ran like cornered prey. Some tried to fight back, but their swords met only shadows. Some attempted to pray, their desperate cries for divine intervention choked by the blood pooling in their throats.

Lucian watched as a group of his men—men he had fought beside for years—were dragged into the darkness. Their screams turned into gurgled gasps, then nothing. Only silence.

His grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. His once-gleaming holy armor was stained with mud and blood, his golden cape torn and tattered.

"This can't be happening," Lucian whispered, his breath unsteady. This wasn't war. This was annihilation.

Then he felt it.

A presence.

A suffocating force pressing down on the battlefield, unseen yet undeniable. It was not magic, nor was it divine power. It was something more absolute. More terrifying.

Lucian slowly turned his head.

And then he saw him.

Atop a mountain of corpses, Kael stood.

The flickering flames of the burning war camp cast his shadow long and twisted, as if the darkness itself bowed to him. His black coat, adorned with silver embroidery, remained untainted by blood. His crimson eyes gleamed with cold amusement, as if he were merely an observer of a tragedy he had orchestrated.

Lucian felt his chest tighten, his breath hitching in his throat.

Kael descended the mound of bodies with unhurried steps, his movements fluid, effortless. Untouched by the chaos. Each step he took sent a ripple through the battlefield, as if reality itself acknowledged his presence.

Then he spoke.

"I expected better from you, 'Hero.'"

His voice was calm, mocking, and absolute.

Lucian felt his teeth grind together. Rage. Fear. Desperation. The emotions warred within him, but he forced himself to stand firm.

"You think this is over?" Lucian spat, forcing his trembling hands to steady his sword. "As long as I stand, the Holy Order will never—"

Kael vanished.

The next thing Lucian felt was cold steel pressing against his throat.

His entire body froze.

He hadn't even seen Kael move.

Lucian's instincts screamed at him to move, to fight back, to do anything, but his body refused to obey. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, his breathing shallow and ragged.

Kael leaned in, his breath ghosting against Lucian's ear.

"You're trembling."

Lucian's eyes widened.

Kael stepped back slightly, his crimson gaze holding Lucian in place as if he were nothing more than an insect pinned beneath glass.

"How disappointing," Kael sighed. "I expected resistance. I expected fury. But look at you."

He tilted his head. "Kneeling."

Lucian realized—his legs had given out.

He was kneeling before Kael, his sword slipping from his fingers, his entire body shaking.

Kael's smile was cold. Empty.

"Tell me, Lucian," Kael whispered, his voice devoid of emotion. "Do you regret it?"

Lucian clenched his teeth, but no words came out.

"Do you regret drawing your sword against me? Against my people? Against everything you thought you stood for?"

Lucian felt sick.

Kael's tone remained impassive, but there was an underlying finality in his words.

"You never stood a chance."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Kael turned away.

The moment he did, Lucian collapsed completely, his forehead pressing against the dirt. He gasped for air, his body no longer his own, his spirit shattered.

The Holy Order was finished.

And Kael had delivered not just their death, but something far worse.

Their utter ruin.

To be continued....