Fearful army

The Pilturian headquarters was a floating fortress, a massive steampunk airship suspended over the battlefield like a leviathan of brass and steel. Smoke billowed from its towering chimneys, the hiss of pressurized steam punctuating the tension that hung in the air. Inside, within the war chamber, Pierre Welter stood at the helm, his gloved hands resting on the edge of a polished mahogany table, a map of the warfront stretched before him. His sharp gaze flickered toward the entrance as the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the chamber.

The doors burst open. A soldier stumbled in, his uniform tattered, his armor dented, his face pale with exhaustion and something far worse—fear. His hands trembled as he saluted, his breathing ragged. He was one of the few survivors from the last battle against the Ilisarian forces.

Pierre barely acknowledged the salute, his cold eyes narrowing. "Report."

The soldier swallowed hard, as if forcing down bile, then spoke, his voice hoarse.

"That army… before they attacked us… they held long sticks—impaled—with our comrades."

A heavy silence filled the room.

"Their guts were rolling over," the soldier continued, his voice quivering. "Limbs torn off… and impaled alongside their bodies—like decorations on a feast table."

A shudder ran through the officers in the room, but Pierre remained still, his expression unreadable.

"Kseradyn."

Of course. Only he would employ such grotesque, calculated horror. This wasn't just brutality—it was a weapon, a psychological strike before the real battle had even begun. Soldiers who witnessed such horrors would falter before they even raised their blades. Kseradyn had perfected this craft, turning fear itself into a weapon sharper than any sword.

The soldier wasn't finished. His eyes darted to Pierre, desperate, as if trying to make sense of the nightmare he had escaped from.

"But that wasn't the worst of it…" He took a deep, unsteady breath. "Their soldiers… they weren't afraid of us."

Murmurs rippled through the war chamber. One general scoffed, but Pierre remained focused.

"What do you mean?"

"They charged at us like men possessed—not with courage, but desperation. It was as if they weren't running toward us but… away from something else."

Pierre's grip on the table tightened. He could already predict the answer, but he asked anyway.

"And what were they afraid of?"

The soldier's face contorted into something close to madness. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"They were afraid of him."

The murmurs ceased. The only sound was the low hum of the airship's engines in the distance.

The soldier licked his dry lips, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"The Butcher Prince… I almost saw him. His figure, far back in the army, but even from a distance, I could feel it. His presence wasn't of a man. It was…" The soldier's voice cracked, his eyes vacant. "A devil."

Pierre let the silence hang for a moment longer. Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned to his assembled generals.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice measured but firm. "We will cease attacking until Sylvain makes an impact from within."

The officers exchanged glances, some nodding, some frowning, but none objecting. Logically, it made sense—Pilturia's forces needed time to regroup. Strategically, they had no other choice.

But more than logic, more than strategy—fear had settled in their bones.

And Pierre Welter knew better than anyone: soldiers who feared their enemy before battle were already dead.

The dining hall was dimly lit, the flickering glow of brass lanterns casting elongated shadows across the polished mahogany table. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine lingered in the air, but to Sylvain, it was nauseating. His mind was still reeling from the past few days, from the suffocating weight of Kseradyn's presence to the whispers of his sister clawing at his mind.

Yet here he was, standing behind Kseradyn, attending to him as the prince leisurely cut into a rare steak, blood pooling at the edges of his plate. Every move the prince made was calculated, deliberate—as if even the act of eating was an art form.

"You really should sit and eat a bit, Azur," Kseradyn said, not looking up as he swirled his wine.

Sylvain's grip on the tray he held tightened. "I'm good, Your Highness," he replied carefully, keeping his voice steady.

Kseradyn chuckled softly, finally raising his gaze to meet Sylvain's. "You know, I have been wondering… What is your end goal, Azur?"

Sylvain stiffened but quickly masked his reaction. "To serve you, Your Highness."

The prince exhaled in amusement, shaking his head. "Don't give me that crap. I mean your actual goal in life."

Sylvain hesitated, keeping his expression unreadable. "I have not given it much thought, Your Highness."

"How dull," Kseradyn mused. "Mine is a bit hard to achieve, but if I could take over Pilturia and become emperor, then it would be at hand…" He paused, as if savouring the words. Then, in a tone dripping with both fascination and madness, he continued, "Destroying the time loops."

Sylvain's blood ran cold.

His fingers twitched, his mind stalling for the briefest of moments. Of all the things Kseradyn could have said, of all the ambitions he could have had—he shared Sylvain's goal.

But why?

And why did the thought of that fill him with such rage?

Sylvain forced himself to react naturally, tilting his head slightly. "What are the time loops, sir?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Kseradyn sighed, setting down his knife and leaning forward, his pale copper eyes studying Sylvain like a predator humoring its prey. "You know what they are, Azur," he said smoothly. "I can see that your eye color isn't as brown as you pretend. I'd wager you're hiding your real ones with lenses."

Sylvain's stomach twisted into a knot.

How?

How could he detect something so minuscule with such certainty? The casual way he said it, as if it were merely an observation of the weather, was far more terrifying than if he had accused him with suspicion.

But Kseradyn merely leaned back, swirling his wineglass lazily. "But I'll forgive you," he added, his lips curling into a smile. "Because you are interesting."

Sylvain felt his breath shallow. His instincts screamed at him—run, kill, do something, but he forced himself to remain still. He bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Your Highness."

Kseradyn smirked. "Do you know why I want to end the time loops?"

Sylvain remained silent, waiting.

"It's simple, really," Kseradyn continued. "Some mutation experiment the Empress put me through. I can sense the feelings of people, but only when they are close to death."

Sylvain felt his stomach turn.

"So I desired something extraordinary," Kseradyn went on, his tone shifting into something breathless, almost reverent. "A cathedral of death. Once the time loops begin again, humanity will meet its fate with the meteorite. Billions will die. Billions, Azur."

His fingers twitched against the rim of his wineglass, his expression alight with twisted excitement.

"Could you imagine the screams? The sheer magnitude of emotions that would flood me in that moment?" He inhaled deeply as if savoring the mere thought. " A massacre that would make for the most beautiful cathedral of death."

Sylvain's vision darkened at the edges. His grip on the tray turned white-knuckled, his entire body screaming with contained fury.

How dare he? How dare this maniac, this psychopath, share the same goal as him?

Sylvain wanted to break free from the loops—to end the suffering, to stop the shackles that bound people to a fate they never chose. And yet, this was the man who shared that desire? This monster who sought destruction not for liberation, but for his own grotesque pleasure?

It was unacceptable.

It was sickening.

And it made Sylvain's blood boil.

"So what about you, Azur?" Kseradyn asked, tilting his head. "What is your grand ambition?"

Before Sylvain could even think, before he could filter his words—his lips moved on their own.

"My goal for now is to kill you."

The room fell into an eerie silence.

Sylvain's heart skipped a beat.

Kseradyn's eyes widened slightly—then, to Sylvain's horror, he threw his head back and laughed. A deep, genuine laugh that echoed through the dining hall like the toll of a funeral bell.

"I knew you were interesting," Kseradyn said between chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "My eyes would never lie."

Sylvain stood frozen.

The worst part wasn't that he had let those words slip, the worst part was that Kseradyn wasn't even angry.

He was amused.

And that terrified Sylvain more than anything else.