chapter 23.1

The rhythmic sound of Alcard's horse echoed through the desolate ruins of what was once a thriving village. The path ahead was littered with debris—scattered stones that had once been part of sturdy homes, charred wooden beams from buildings that had succumbed to fire, and remnants of shattered lives. His grip on the reins tightened as he surveyed the devastation around him.

This place had once been full of life. He could almost hear the faint echoes of laughter that once filled these streets, the chatter of merchants bartering in the marketplace, the playful shrieks of children running along the cobbled paths. But now, silence was the only thing that remained. The walls that had stood tall were now broken and crumbling, roofs had collapsed into themselves, and the air carried the bitter scent of ash and lingering death.

"Erased without a trace," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the whispering wind that carried the remnants of destruction.

He urged his horse forward, but as he neared the center of the village, his breath caught in his throat. In the open square, where a well had once been the heart of the settlement, now stood something far more sinister—a heap of burned bodies, still smoldering, their charred remains twisted in grotesque shapes. The acrid stench of scorched flesh hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Alcard dismounted, his movements slow and deliberate. His boots crunched against the blackened earth as he approached the grotesque pile. He knelt beside it, his gloved fingers reaching out to brush against the ashes that still held warmth. There was no sign of armor, no discarded weapons—only tattered remnants of simple clothing.

These were not soldiers.

Not warriors.

Just villagers.

His jaw clenched, a quiet fury bubbling beneath the surface. This was no battlefield. This was a massacre.

"They were defenseless," he muttered, his voice laced with an edge of restrained rage. "They didn't deserve this."

He could see it in the scattered belongings left behind—a wooden doll, half-burned but still clutching its painted smile; a rusted cooking pot toppled on its side, its contents long gone; a woven blanket now blackened with soot, still wrapped around the skeletal remains of a child.

Alcard exhaled slowly, the heat of his anger burning deep in his chest. War had rules. Even the most ruthless commanders, even the bloodiest battles, still followed an unspoken code. But this—this was not war. This was the work of monsters who wore the faces of men.

With a heavy heart, he stood and walked back to his horse. This was not the only village that had suffered this fate. He had seen others—each a reflection of the same merciless destruction.

Village after village.

Ruins upon ruins.

It was as though a great beast had swept across the land, consuming everything in its path, leaving behind nothing but dust and sorrow. Some homes had been burned to the ground, their wooden structures reduced to skeletal remains. Others had been abandoned in a rush, doors left ajar, possessions scattered as if their owners had fled in sheer desperation.

He saw abandoned farms, fields of crops that had once fed hundreds now trampled into the dirt, left to rot under the unforgiving sun. In some places, he spotted hastily dug graves—evidence that not all had perished instantly, that some had tried to bury their dead before they, too, succumbed to the cruelty of war.

"All of this… for what?" he asked the wind, his voice barely a whisper.

He already knew the answer.

The war had started as a struggle for the throne. But it had become something far worse—a conflict that no longer recognized sides, a storm that devoured everything in its wake. The nobles fought for power, the generals for glory, but it was the common people who paid the ultimate price.

His grip on the reins tightened, knuckles turning white as his fury simmered just beneath his composed exterior.

"The greed of men," he spat, his tone laced with venom. "This is what it leads to."

He had once believed in honor. In duty. In the idea that war, though brutal, had rules. That there were limits, that there were lines that even the most hardened warriors would not cross. But standing here, among the ashes of those who had died nameless, he knew now—those ideals had died long ago.

He thought back to his days as the commander of Jovalian's army. He had fought for his kingdom, had bled for it, had led men into battles where lives were the currency of victory. But he had fought with a purpose. He had fought to protect.

And yet, what had become of that kingdom now?

Torn apart by the ambitions of those who sat upon velvet thrones.

Destroyed not by enemies beyond their borders, but by their own hands.

His mind drifted further back—to a time when he had believed in the system, when he had believed in the kingdom that he had sworn loyalty to. He recalled the promises he had made, the oaths he had taken.

"I fought for them," he muttered, bitterness creeping into his voice. "And this… this is what remains?"

He let out a slow breath, trying to push back the rising tide of emotions. But the past refused to loosen its grip on him.

He had once led soldiers into battle with unwavering conviction. Now, he rode alone through the remnants of a kingdom that no longer existed.

And yet, he could not turn away.

Despite the bitterness that gnawed at him, despite the knowledge that Jovalian was beyond saving, he knew there was something he had to do. Something that went beyond revenge, beyond settling old grudges.

There were still people caught in this war, innocents who had no part in the ambitions of kings and nobles. He had seen their suffering, had smelled the burning of their homes, had walked through the remnants of their lives.

Perhaps he could not change the course of the war.

Perhaps he could not bring back what had been lost.

But he could still fight.

Not for the kingdom.

Not for the crown.

But for those who had no one left to protect them.

With a final glance at the ruins behind him, Alcard turned his horse forward.

His path was set.

The kingdom that had betrayed him still lay ahead, waiting.

And this time, he would not return as their soldier.

This time, he would return as the reckoning they never saw coming.