THE BURDEN OF A SWORD

Han Cheng sat alone in the dimly lit tent, his eyes dull as the flickering lantern cast long shadows on the weathered canvas walls. The familiar scent of blood and sweat, mingled with the lingering smoke of a dying battlefield, filled the air, suffocating him in its unyielding grip. The silence outside was unnerving, a far cry from the chaotic clamor of war that had filled his ears for as long as he could remember. Tomorrow, they would march to the capital, victorious once again.

Another victory.

Another day where death hadn't come for him—yet.

But Han Cheng no longer felt victorious. Every triumph on the battlefield felt like a deeper cut, each victory coming at a cost he could barely bear. At twenty-eight, he had seen more death than most men twice his age. And with each battle, the weight of his sword felt heavier. Not just because of the countless lives he had taken, but because of the people he had lost.

The faces of his fallen comrades haunted him. They were men he had grown up with, fought beside, laughed with—until they were gone. He had no one left. Everyone who mattered was buried beneath the cold earth, their names etched in stone, while he was left standing, a mere shell of the boy who had once believed he could change the world.

Han Cheng sighed deeply, running his hand over the scarred hilt of his sword. The same sword his father had given him when he was four. The same sword that had been his constant companion, cutting down enemy after enemy, turning him into a weapon that the kingdom so desperately needed. His father's voice echoed in his mind, as it had done every day since that fateful moment on the battlefield.

"Remember our name, Han Cheng. Protect the kingdom... no matter the cost."

Han Cheng had been only a child, too young to understand the true meaning of those words as his father lay dying in his arms. But now, after twenty-four years of bloodshed, he understood all too well. The cost had been everything.

His father, General Han Yifan, had been a hero in the eyes of the people. But to Han Cheng, he had been a father who died too soon, leaving him with the impossible burden of carrying on the family legacy. His father's last words had chained him to the battlefield, trapping him in a life of violence and death.

"I've given everything, Father," Han Cheng whispered into the silence, his voice breaking. "But it's never enough."

His chest tightened, a lump forming in his throat as he remembered his father's lifeless body cradled in his small arms. The man who had been invincible to him, struck down like any other soldier. And in that moment, Han Cheng had vowed to make his father proud, to live up to the weight of his legacy. But now… now he wasn't sure what he had been fighting for.

Tears stung his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. He wasn't a child anymore. He was a general—a hardened warrior known for his ruthlessness. But no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, the pain was still there, clawing at his heart.

He had no one left. No family, no comrades. Everyone who had ever mattered was gone, their lives cut short on the battlefield, just like his father's. What was the point of it all? What was the point of fighting for a kingdom that only knew how to destroy?

His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white as he tried to steady his breathing. Tomorrow, he would return to the capital. And he had made his decision. He would tell the king that he was done. He would lay down his sword and walk away. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't keep watching people die, knowing that each battle was fought not for peace, but for the king's insatiable hunger for power.

"I'm tired," Han Cheng murmured, his voice barely a whisper. His body ached, not from the physical toll of battle, but from the emotional scars that had never healed. He had given everything—his youth, his strength, his very soul—to the kingdom, and for what? More war? More death?

His mind drifted to the faces of the young soldiers who had fought under his command, boys barely old enough to grow beards, sent to die for a cause they barely understood. Boys who had looked up to him, who had trusted him to lead them to victory. But victory meant nothing when the people you cared about were gone. They had all died—one by one—until he was the only one left standing.

And he was so, so tired of standing.

His father's dying words echoed in his mind again, relentless and cruel.

"Protect the kingdom, Han Cheng. Don't let them forget our name."

But what was there left to protect? What was left of the boy who had believed those words, who had carried his father's legacy like a badge of honor?

Nothing.

Han Cheng's breath hitched as the memory of his father's final moments washed over him again, the image seared into his mind. His father, a man so strong, reduced to nothing but a fading heartbeat and a dying wish. Han Cheng had been too young to understand then, but now, the weight of that moment was unbearable.

"I can't do it anymore, Father," Han Cheng whispered, his voice trembling. "I've given everything… but I have nothing left."

The tears he had held back for so long finally slipped down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting. He let them fall, his shoulders shaking as the grief he had buried for so many years finally broke free. He had been a weapon for the kingdom, a tool in the king's hand. But he was still a man—a man who had lost too much, who had seen too much.

Tomorrow, he would tell the king the truth. He was retiring. He was done being a sword for a king who only saw him as a means to an end. And if the king refused? If he demanded Han Cheng continue to fight?

Then so be it.

"If I perish, I perish," Han Cheng muttered through clenched teeth. "There's nothing left for me to lose."

His comrades were dead. His father was dead. His life had been nothing but war, and if the king wanted to punish him for choosing peace, then Han Cheng would accept that fate. He had spent his entire life fighting to protect a kingdom that didn't care about him, and now, he was ready to lay down his sword—even if it cost him his life.

The thought brought him no peace, only a hollow resignation. He had lived through so many battles, seen so many people die. But tomorrow, he would face his final battle—not on the battlefield, but in the halls of the king's palace. And this time, he was fighting for himself.

As the lantern's flame flickered, casting long shadows across the tent, Han Cheng wiped the tears from his face, his expression hardening. Tomorrow, he would stand before the king and tell him that he was done. And whatever happened next… it didn't matter anymore.

"I've given enough," Han Cheng whispered to the empty tent, his voice barely audible. "If I perish… I perish."

The night stretched on, the silence unbearable, but Han Cheng sat in the dark, his mind numb. Tomorrow, everything would change. But for now, all he could do was wait.