The Tables Have Turned

On the opposing side of the battlefield stood a towering figure, a giant whose striking white hair seemed to shimmer in the dim light. His piercing eyes glowed with a sinister reddish hue, lending him a demonic allure that was impossible to ignore. Adorned in an elaborate dark ensemble, his flowing black garments billowed gracefully around him, each piece intricately detailed, as if whispering secrets of ancient power. A cigarette rested delicately between his elegantly posed fingers, the smoke curling around him in mystical tendrils, enhancing his calm yet dominant presence.

Black crows, ominous and watchful, flitted around him, some perching on his shoulders, their glossy feathers a vivid contrast against his dark attire — a harbinger of death, intrigue, and sorcery.

The battlefield was drenched in an eerie silence, broken only by the harsh, ragged breaths of Princess Amelia as she struggled against the overwhelming force that had ensnared her. Her long, flowing black hair cascaded over her shoulders, tangled with dust and sweat, yet her presence remained regal. Heavy golden jewelry adorned her slender frame, each piece glinting with an almost menacing brilliance, a testament to the royal lineage that ran through her veins. But now, her noble heritage did little to aid her against the nightmarish ordeal unfolding before her.

Towering above her, Darius loomed, his crimson eyes gleaming with malevolent glee. His presence was suffocating, an embodiment of sheer darkness and malice. The twisted smirk on his lips deepened as he watched Amelia's futile attempts to free herself, her delicate hands clawing against the invisible force holding her captive.

"Oh, how fragile you are," he murmured, his voice dripping with sadistic amusement. "It's a shame, really. A princess of such beauty… wasted on resistance."

Amelia clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, though her trembling form betrayed her fear. She was at his mercy, and he knew it.

Then, in the suffocating tension, a sudden spark of yellow flame flickered into existence with a sharp, crackling hiss. The air around it warped with a heavy, burning noise, its brightness so intense that both Amelia and Darius instinctively turned their attention toward it. A split second later, a loud buzzing filled the air, piercing through the stillness. The spark began to spin violently, gaining momentum with unnatural speed.

Darius's smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as he gripped the hilt of his black sword, an artifact of forbidden magic steeped in darkness. Without hesitation, he swung his blade at the spark, its enchanted edge slicing through the air with lethal precision. The moment his blade made contact, the spark erupted into a furious blaze, sending waves of scorching heat rippling through the space between them.

And then, from within the inferno, a figure emerged.

Mikael.

His presence was overwhelming, his aura pulsating with raw, unrestrained power. Flames danced around him, licking at his armor, but he remained untouched, his golden eyes locked onto Darius with an intensity that could have melted steel. His expression was one of pure, unbridled rage, a fury so deep and consuming that it radiated from his very being.

Darius's gaze flickered with intrigue, and a slow, mocking chuckle escaped his lips. Tilting his head slightly, he observed Mikael's stance, the unnatural precision of his posture, the way his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Hmm," he mused, his voice laced with amusement. "A new strategy? How… interesting."

Mikael said nothing. His stance only grew stronger, his grip tightening, his resolve unshaken.

Darius, ever the sadist, pressed on, his grin widening. "You're human. A mere mortal. What do you hope to achieve?" His eyes glinted with cruel delight as he added, "Humans are meant to serve. To kneel. Perhaps your sister would make an excellent pet… she does have quite the exquisite body."

The moment the words left Darius's mouth, Mikael erupted into a pillar of fire. The sheer force of his movement shattered the ground beneath him as he launched forward, moving faster than the eye could follow. Before Darius could react, Mikael's fist connected with his face with a devastating force.

The impact was cataclysmic.

Darius was sent hurtling backward, his body crashing through four massive buildings in quick succession. The structures crumbled into dust, the shockwave from the blow sending debris flying in all directions. When the destruction settled, Darius lay embedded in the shattered remnants of a wall, his body motionless for a moment.

From the rubble, a low voice emerged, laced with a mixture of irritation and intrigue. "Who healed you?" Darius murmured, his crimson eyes flickering as he pushed himself free. "Ah… was it Alexia?"

Before he could even process his thoughts, another spark of golden flame burst forth, this time with an even greater intensity. Mikael's form blurred as he reappeared beside Darius, his speed defying comprehension. Without a word, he seized Darius's head and began smashing it into the stone with relentless force, over and over again. Each strike sent shockwaves through the battlefield, the sheer aggression of the attack preventing Darius from regenerating.

Then, in a final, decisive move, Mikael lifted Darius into the air, his grip like iron, and with an immense show of strength, he hurled him skyward. Darius's body twisted in the air, his demonic wings struggling to unfurl, but before he could right himself, Mikael was already upon him.

Mikael moved like lightning, appearing above Darius in an instant. His leg shot forward, his kick slamming into Darius's skull with bone-crushing force. Darius plummeted downward, slamming into the ground with such intensity that the earth itself cracked and trembled beneath the impact.

The battlefield fell silent for a moment, dust and debris hanging in the air like specters of destruction.

Mikael wasted no time. Summoning his sword, the yellowish glow of divine energy surged through the blade—a unique weapon, forged from the remnants of a goddess's power, bestowed upon him for his valor in the S-Rank Gates. A blade that required sacrifice. A blade that had been drenched in the blood of civilians to attain its unparalleled strength.

Taking an unorthodox stance, Mikael's voice was low, menacing. "Let the carnage begin."

The very next instant, he struck.

Darius's body shuddered as he felt something unnatural course through him. A split second later, his vision blurred. When he looked down, his own form was cleaved in two, his flesh parting like silk, his blood spilling onto the shattered earth below.

Blinking in shock, Darius's mouth opened in a silent scream. Then, as if time had rewound itself, his body stitched back together, whole once more.

His breath came in ragged gasps. "W-What… the fuck is happening?"

Then it happened again. His body split apart, his own severed halves falling in opposite directions. The agony was beyond comprehension, a pain so visceral that his mind could barely process it. And yet, again, he was whole.

Again, his body was torn asunder.

Again.

And again.

The sheer, unrelenting torment of being repeatedly butchered, of feeling his own essence torn apart over and over, was enough to drive even a demon to madness. His body trembled, his form growing weaker with every cycle of devastation. He could no longer process reality.

Mikael, still as a statue, watched impassively. And then, in a voice colder than death itself, he uttered, "The fun is just getting started. Sit back… and enjoy the anticlimax."

The battlefield reeked of death and despair, but amidst the chaos, Lazarus moved with unyielding purpose. Blood-stained streets stretched before him, littered with the broken bodies of innocents, their lifeless forms scattered like discarded remnants of a forgotten world. The horror clawed at his soul, the grotesque imagery searing itself into his mind. He had witnessed countless battles, but nothing compared to this—thousands of corpses strewn across the ruins, their eyes frozen in eternal agony.

His hands trembled, but he steeled himself. Now was not the time to grieve. Now was the time to act.

"I could not save most of you," he murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. "But I will make sure each and every civilian left here will make it out safe, alive beyond these walls."

Without wasting another moment, he turned toward the terrified survivors—men, women, and children huddled together, their faces marred by fear and exhaustion.

"Follow me!" he commanded, his voice laced with urgency. "Stay close, and do not look back."

He led them through the desolate remnants of the kingdom, his every step calculated, every motion precise. The streets were infested with nightmarish creatures, monstrous beings that lurked in the shadows, waiting to feast upon the weak. But Lazarus was relentless. With a single swing of his blade, he carved through them, his movements swift and merciless. Each enemy that dared stand in his way fell, their bodies dissolving into nothingness as he pressed forward.

At last, they arrived at a hidden passage—an underground tunnel concealed beneath the castle's foundations. The very same pathway General Asgard had once discovered during his midnight training. It had been used for stealth exercises, for secretive wanderings beyond the castle walls, and now, it would serve as their salvation.

Lazarus ushered the civilians inside, his keen eyes scanning the darkness. The tunnel stretched for miles, its damp walls echoing with the hurried footsteps of those desperate to escape. Every so often, the distant growls of lingering creatures reached his ears, but he did not falter. He cut them down without hesitation, guiding the survivors deeper into the underground labyrinth.

Hours passed before they finally saw it—the faint glimmer of moonlight reflected on the surface of a plain river. The sight brought a wave of relief over the civilians, their hope rekindled.

Lazarus leapt out of the tunnel first, his boots landing firmly on the damp grass. He scanned the area, ensuring it was safe before turning to the others.

"Slowly," he instructed. "One by one."

One after another, the civilians emerged, their weary faces illuminated by the silver glow of the moon. Nearly 5,000 souls had made it this far. Lazarus would not allow even one to be lost now.

A short distance away, hidden behind the dense foliage, lay a fleet of ships he had stored away for this very moment. With his borrowed sword, he hacked through the trees, clearing a path to a concealed cave where the vessels awaited.

"Board the ships," he urged, handing them a map of the region. "Head south and follow the route General Asgard marked. There is hope beyond the borders of this kingdom."

The civilians hesitated. A woman, clutching her child to her chest, stepped forward. "Prince Lazarus… why don't you come with us? What's the matter?"

Lazarus's gaze softened, but his resolve did not waver. "I have something more important to do," he said, his voice firm yet laced with an unspoken sorrow. "Now go."

With one final glance at their savior, the civilians obeyed, setting sail down the river that would lead them beyond the kingdom's ruined walls.

The river wound its way towards the main entrance of the kingdom, where a flicker of hope beckoned to the weary civilians. Determined, they began their march southward, believing that safety lay just beyond the horizon. However, after only a few minutes of travel, an unsettling sight halted them in their tracks.

Dark silhouettes appeared on the horizon—massive warships slicing through the water with unrelenting speed, the sound of their engines roaring like thunder. Fear gripped the hearts of the civilians as they spotted a towering figure standing ominously at the bow of one of the lead ships. He wore a rusted, grey mask that obscured his features, but his piercing gaze burned through the mask, radiating a chilling intent.

Behind him, a formidable fleet of thousands of warships advanced, churning the river's surface into a frothy chaos. The sight was overwhelming, the air thick with the stench of impending doom. Anxiety turned into panic, and the once hopeful journey transformed into a desperate fight for survival.