The Night Of Massacre

Lazarus remained rooted in place, his mind a whirlwind of frozen thoughts, while a deep sorrow etched itself across his features, the pain in his eyes betraying the inner turmoil he was grappling with. The air around him hung heavy with an oppressive silence, stretching into what felt like an eternity. Suddenly, the stillness was shattered as one of the soldiers, driven by malice, lunged at Lazarus from behind, intent on delivering a treacherous blow.

In that split second, a serene smile graced Lazarus's lips, an unexpected contrast to the impending violence. As he turned slightly, the dim light caught his right eye, unleashing a magnificent red aura that blazed to life like a molten sun, illuminating the darkness around him. In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted, charged with an energy that threatened to engulf anyone nearby.

Lazarus moved like a streak of lightning, his blade carving through the air with lethal precision. His sword was an extension of his fury, a razor-sharp testament to his grief and wrath. The soldiers swarmed him like desperate insects, their weapons raised high, but none could match the sheer brutality of his movements. With a single slash, he ripped through the first line of attackers, his sword biting deep into flesh, severing muscle, and shattering bone.

Crimson sprayed across the battlefield, painting the once pristine ground in an ocean of death. Every motion was a deadly dance; his sword became a whirlwind, slashing across torsos, tearing through armor as if it were paper. A soldier lunged at him, his spear aimed at Lazarus's heart. With inhuman reflexes, Lazarus twisted, dodging the thrust before delivering a devastating counterattack—a horizontal sweep that split the soldier's chest open. The man collapsed, choking on his own blood.

Seeing their comrades fall so easily, fear settled into the remaining soldiers. But instead of retreating, they screamed in unison and charged, believing that numbers would overpower this monster in human form. Lazarus narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening around his weapon.

"Fools."

He leaped into the air, his sword flashing under the dull sunlight. Like a shadow, he descended upon them, cutting, slashing, breaking bones with sheer force. His blade slashed through necks, decapitating some, while others were left with gaping wounds that painted the battlefield with red rivers. The sound of flesh tearing and bones snapping echoed through the vast expanse. He took three steps back, his chest heaving, only to propel forward again, his sword cutting through the remaining warriors like they were nothing more than dolls.

It wasn't just a battle; it was a massacre.

Heads rolled, limbs flew, and the battlefield soon became a graveyard of the fallen. The once-vibrant land was now soaked in blood, a testament to Lazarus's fury. He did not stop until the last soldier fell, his eyes wide in horror, his body trembling before his head was removed from his shoulders in one swift motion.

And then… silence.

Only one man stood atop thousands of corpses—Lazarus, drenched in the blood of his enemies, his breaths ragged. He stepped forward, his boots crunching against the remains of the fallen, before kneeling before the lifeless body of Asgard. His fingers trembled as he reached out, his voice a whisper carried by the wind.

"I will avenge you, my friend. I will slaughter every last one of them."

As he spoke, memories of the past flooded his mind, a sharp contrast to the blood-soaked present.

Three years ago…

The summer sun blazed across the kingdom, making the air thick with unbearable heat. Within the grand castle, in a secluded chamber, Queen Alexia stood with a belt in her hand, her expression twisted in fury.

Lazarus, still a child then, stood motionless, his back covered in fresh wounds. His small hands clenched into fists, his head bowed, but he did not cry out. He would not give her that satisfaction.

"You are a disgrace!" Alexia's voice was sharp as steel. "Failing the sword mastery exam? Do you know what humiliation you have brought upon this kingdom?"

The belt struck again. Pain lanced through Lazarus's back, but he bit his lip, refusing to scream. Outside the chamber, a pair of sorrowful eyes watched through a narrow crack in the door. Amelia, his closest friend, trembled as she witnessed his suffering. She wanted to intervene, to stop this senseless beating, but fear kept her rooted in place.

Alexia threw the belt aside, her chest rising and falling with anger. "You are forbidden from using a sword ever again! You will never participate in any events or competitions. You are not worthy!"

She turned and stormed away, leaving the boy standing there, his body trembling with pain and humiliation. His mother's words cut deeper than any blade ever could.

Later that evening, Lazarus found himself wandering far from the castle, past the river shores that lay behind the kingdom. The river's surface shimmered under the fading sunlight, its gentle flow the only thing offering solace. He sat on a broken stone, his eyes lost in the endless stretch of water, his thoughts drowning in self-doubt.

A rustle behind him snapped him out of his trance. He turned sharply, only to find a tall figure standing there. The man had silver hair that glowed under the moonlight and wore the armor of a knight. A golden sword hung at his side, its brilliance mesmerizing.

"Majesty, what are you doing here alone?" The man's voice was gentle, almost playful. "Don't you feel bored?"

Lazarus sighed, looking away. "No. I like being alone. It's as if I was destined for it."

The knight chuckled. "I know what happened this morning. It's alright. If you don't mind, I'd like to train you."

Lazarus's eyes widened. "Really? But it doesn't matter. My mother took my sword. She won't let me train anymore."

The knight smiled. "Who said you need a sword to be strong? True strength comes from within. Even without a weapon, a warrior can still fight."

For the first time that day, Lazarus smiled. "Can I really be strong like Amelia and Mikael?"

"Of course. But promise me one thing—you must never tell anyone. Deal?"

Lazarus nodded eagerly. "Yes, Master!"

From that day on, Asgard trained him in secret. They practiced in the dark forests far from the kingdom's eyes. Lazarus's body grew stronger, his reflexes sharper. Asgard taught him to fight without weapons, to use his body as a blade. When Lazarus struggled with heavy swords, Asgard handed him daggers, teaching him the ways of an assassin.

Each day, the training grew more intense. He was made to hunt birds, to battle creatures in C and D-rank dungeons. He endured harsh conditions, pushing his body to its limits. And with each passing day, he improved.

On the final day of training, Asgard did not give him a lesson. Instead, he handed Lazarus a map, his expression grave.

"This," he said, "is the most dangerous region in the world. No human has fully explored it. If you are ever in danger, if you ever have no other choice… go here."

Lazarus frowned. "But if it's so dangerous, why should I go there? What lurks inside?"

Asgard smiled faintly. "One day, you will understand. And when that day comes… remember me."

The wind carried his words away, and as Lazarus looked toward the dark forest in the distance, a thick mist suddenly rose from its depths, as if the land itself was alive. And just as suddenly, it vanished, leaving only silence behind.

Back in the present, Lazarus stood, gripping Asgard's lifeless hand one last time before letting go. His body ached, his wounds burned, but his heart burned even hotter.

The war was far from over.

And he would not stop until vengeance was his.