Chapter 5 - A Mercy in Blood

Riven carefully laid out the items he had scavenged, arranging them into a neat pile behind the charred remains of a war chariot. The battlefield was drowned in a heavy silence, broken only by the low hiss of the night wind threading through broken steel and blood-soaked earth. He crouched low, holding his breath, and crept behind the massive body of a man clad in black armor lying motionless on the ground.

Then, the corpse moved.

Just slightly, but enough to make Riven freeze.

He narrowed his eyes, watching closely.

The insignia of the Arkham Kingdom was still visible on the soldier's breastplate, though the armor was cracked and blackened. His skin was scorched in places, seared open to the muscle like charred meat. And yet… he lived. Barely. His breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible. His eyelids fluttered slowly, as though waking from a nightmare he couldn't escape.

Riven didn't move. He simply observed in silence.

Minutes passed before he was certain the man posed no immediate threat. Then, inch by inch, Riven crept closer, brushing against the earth so quietly that even the wind couldn't hear. Eventually, their eyes met.

The soldier's gaze was hazy, but there was still awareness behind it. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Riven's, and in them, there was no fear—only quiet resignation. A silent plea passed between them, wordless but clear.

"Finish it."

His lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged. His throat was too dry. Even breathing seemed like a struggle he could no longer afford.

Riven inhaled, letting the cold air fill his lungs. Then he edged closer until only an arm's length separated them.

"All right," he whispered, voice low and steady, like a priest delivering last rites. "I'll kill you. Pray to whatever god you still believe in."

The man closed his eyes. Not out of fear, but acceptance. As if death was the only mercy this world had left.

Riven drew a rune-marked dagger from within his cloak, a blade he had taken off another corpse earlier that night. Gripping the hilt, he leaned in.

"I'll do it on the count of three," he said quietly.

"One…"

His hand remained still.

"Two…"

But he didn't reach three.

The dagger plunged straight into the man's chest, piercing his heart in one clean motion.

Warm blood spilled over Riven's hand. The man's body went slack. His final breath slipped out in a quiet exhale—no scream, no struggle, just a soft release, as if his soul had finally escaped the prison of flesh.

Riven pulled the blade free, his face unreadable. He didn't bother to wipe the blood. He simply slid the dagger back into his cloak as if storing a coin.

It wasn't the first time.

He had seen soldiers like this before—broken, dying, and far from home. Survivors with nothing left but agony, clinging to life only because death hadn't found them yet. For many of them, mercy came not as healing, but as a blade to the heart.

Once, the thought had made him sick. He still remembered the first time. A soldier with a punctured lung had grabbed his wrist and whispered, "Please… finish it." Riven had cried afterward.

But not anymore.

Now, he felt only a cold clarity.

"Am I cruel?" he wondered. "No. I'm just being honest. I'm helping them leave this hell."

This world had long ceased to make room for naive compassion. If he didn't do it, they'd suffer longer. Or worse, be eaten alive before dying. What he did wasn't evil. It was mercy. Mercy with blood on its hands.

He didn't feel guilty.

The nightmares had stopped long ago.

Now, he slept soundly. Because he knew he only did what had to be done.

That was enough.

He rose to his feet, cloak brushing against the dirt. For a moment, he looked down at the fallen Arkham soldier. Then he turned away.

There was still work to do.

He returned to scavenging. One corpse at a time. Weapons, coins, scraps of armor—anything of use. His eyes moved fast, precise, like a predator. He wasted no time.

"Reinforcements will probably arrive by morning," he thought. The sky was dark now, the air colder than before. "Looks like I'm pulling another all-nighter. Figures… even in another world, I'm still working overtime."

A tired smirk crossed his lips.

He continued. The fortress had been almost empty by the time the Arkham forces attacked. No one would come to clean up this battlefield anytime soon.

Riven moved through blood-slick mud and piles of twisted limbs. Despite the cold, his mind remained sharp. Every body he turned over offered a chance. Perhaps a dagger, or a satchel of coins, or even a usable pair of boots.

One corpse wore light armor, chest caved in and arms half-rotted. Nothing worth taking.

He moved on to the next. This one wore what used to be ornate armor—black and silver, dented and scorched. The metal was lined with strange markings, almost like veins. Even damaged, it looked different from the others.

Curious, Riven flipped the body over and stopped.

A sword.

Its hilt jutted out from beneath the corpse, half-buried in the mud. The blade itself was mostly hidden, but even so, it shimmered faintly in the dark. Something in Riven's chest tightened.

That sword wasn't normal.

Long and slender, its surface gleamed with silver light. Faint engravings glowed along its edge, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat in sleep. The craftsmanship was immaculate—too perfect, too precise. And embedded in the center of the blade was a pale blue crystal, surrounded by tiny, rotating runes.

Riven forgot to breathe.

"No way…" he whispered.

His eyes scanned the surrounding corpses, heart racing like a thief afraid of being caught.

But nothing moved. No one stirred. Just the dead, and the night wind.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the sword's hilt.