@brightblessed
Sparks flew as steel met steel. An ear-splitting screech rang out as the blade tore into the magitek plate. The Prince allowed the weight of his weapon to pass through his foe. He took a few steps, and thatâs all it took. He allowed the momentum heâd built up to turn his body, bringing his scythe down into the exposed machinery. The towering machine fell and the soldiers who had been standing behind it seemed to freeze in place.
The Prince hated the look in their eyes. All these men who had felt like gods when they were trampling the weak were reduced to cornered beasts. Absolute terror mixed with despair. Their hearts knew they were dead before their bodies did. Cowards. Their pathetic gaze ignited an old hatred in him, and with a single stroke he took all their lives. No fight left. It was always so easy. He felt a pining in his heart. The thrill of the hunt. The joy of combat. The feeling of connection when his blade clashed with a worthy opponentâs. A simple flick of his wrist was all it took to lay his enemies low now. He would never feel that again because of Garlemald. They had taken his one and only. He would never die because of Garlemald. They had made him that way. All he had now was hate. Hate for the ivory standard. Hate for the ones who burned his dreamed-of future to the ground. Hatred of the life heâd been cursed with.
He heard approaching footsteps. He quickly turned to face his potential opponent. They didnât brandish steel. In fact, it was a child. One of the people the Garlean soldiers had been messing with? The child looked up at the prince, fear in his eyes. He dropped to his knees, sobbing.
âTh-Thank you! Thank you!â
The Prince turned his back. He had no idea how to respond to such a proclamation. Heâd only done what he did because he hated the people he killed. It wasnât particularly hard to do. He didnât do it to save people. He did it because he wanted to kill them. The ones who had taken everything from him.
Of course, he couldnât remember exactly what they had taken. Or what nation he was the Prince of. Only that pining remained. The feeling of a cold absence in his heart. With a wave of his hand, he opened a voidgate and the world faded into silence.
He drifted for some time. Allowing his Avatar to pull his body along wherever it wished. He had no idea how long this lasted, but before long he felt the air around him again. A familiar chill to it. Garlemald. Home. He heard a nearby battle. Gunfire and the clash of blades. He headed toward the chaos. He spotted a crowd of people in black armor. Magitek armor. So many. He leapt into the air, wrapping his body in his avatarâs aether. He tore open a voidgate and passed through. He emerged on the other side immediately, now above the crowd.
He brought his scythe down on on them, crashing like a meteor and causing an explosion of aether. No challenge. Even this many.
He ripped his blade from the earth, his burning eyes beholding the carnage heâd just wrought. Good riddance.
His gaze settled on one man. He wasnât dressed like a Garlean, but he was still holding a sword. The Prince rose, his aether blazing around him. Another man approached the swordsman. He wore a familiar uniform. He couldnât comprehend the words shared between the men. He rushed forward to cut down the Garlean. Just one more for the pile. Another victim in his one-man war.














