In this chaotic battle, there is but one constant: both sides are far too ill-prepared for any sort of engagement at this level. There is little to no room for maneuvering, rendering the mobile vehicles useless, being only hunks of metal to be bombed from above if not used as walls to temporarily block enemy fire. Smoke completely shrouds the battlefield, the dust coating the armor from both sides into a drab khaki. There are frequent flashes of light from the soldiers’ guns, but only as panicked shots, not knowing between friend and foe. The artillery fire their shells mechanically and rhythmically, ignoring the ruined state of the battleground.

All the while, Nasition stands worriedly on the bridge of the Izatur, tapping his foot irregularly as he stares at the many displays overlooking the battlefield. His generals, safely sheltered just behind the fortifications, too cannot hide their nervousness as they fidget around, not daring to utter a word. A strange pocket of silence in the otherwise deafening roar of the Pass, the most powerful military leaders of the Confederation can only watch the battle unfold before their eyes.

The enemy continuously pour in like hordes, charging as if madness has overtaken them before being silenced by the unrelenting fire of the Confederation troops, only for another wave to immediately take the place of the dead. There are no tactics, no strategy, no clever maneuvers to force the upper hand in this chokehold, only flesh and metal clashing against each other in tides until one overwhelms the other in an avalanche of massacre.

And at the end of it all, he only wishes for some sort of resolution to be reached.

The Confederation is no longer the hegemon of the East from four, five years ago. Perhaps they might’ve easily repelled this attack, the fortifications coming out barely unscathed, but they could not now. The lesser factions in the south are watching, hungrily eyeing the Confederation’s borders, whereas years before, those armies wouldn’t even dare approach the horizon. Nasition is no longer the young, passionate leader that had overthrew the thousand-year-old Achien Empire twenty one years before. His body is declining, battered over many years. His dream of a united world, free from the clutches of the corrupt Empire is collapsing before his eyes, led by none other than the heir of royalty he so wishes to kill, but cannot. The people that once celebrated the fall of the Empire with him are nearly all dead, whisked away by the ashes of war. The hatred for the Empire is still alive, but it is far more weakened, the memory of that tyrannical system nonexistent for so many of the soldiers that now serve him. So weakened that even the revelation of Avalel’s villainy cannot change the New Rule’s mindless following and pursuit of the Confederation’s destruction.

The people no longer care about the good of all. In a world of war and strife, they now only wish for peace. And whoever can bring that peace, they will follow… regardless of whether they represent freedom itself or the remnants of that old monarchy.

Perhaps this is the battle where I breathe my last— No, I can’t allow myself to think that. He quickly shakes his head, removing the pessimistic fog in his mind. When a commander loses hope in the battle, then the result is all but decided. Even if defeat is to come anyway, he will not allow it to pass so quickly.

The battle has just begun.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself as he focuses on the displays, watching as his generals send his troops to their deaths in this bloodbath.

“General Hrenul, how is our vanguard holding up?”

“Suffering heavy casualties, but the line is firm,” Hrenul responds. “I believe we are inflicting around the same amount of damage to the enemy as well.”

“As for morale?”

“... They are used to the slaughter now.”

The Izatur’s frontal cannons roar, blasting out craters in the distance, killing an innumerable amount of enemy soldiers with every shot. The artillery shells ruthlessly pummel the ruined ground, vaporizing those unfortunate to be in its immediate radius and burning those just outside. The machine guns fire without pause, shredding the fragile enemy bodies without a care for ammunition and overheating.

The Confederation soldiers, particularly the rookies, may have been shocked to see one enemy soldier disintegrate into ash from the intense fire, but these are tens, dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands mindlessly rushing to their deaths. Each kill is but one more to the tally.

The enemy is no longer human for them, so they fire as they please.

And yet more still pour in to take the place of the dead, driven by madness, all their individual minds tossed away, becoming one large mindless horde, throwing themselves over only to join the ranks of the slaughtered.

The enemy is no longer human for them.

Yet despite all the simple-minded slaughter, one figure remains untouched, his white armor dyed red from the Confederation dead, his sword dancing elegantly to the rhythm of death among all the chaos. An energy dome that surrounds him swats away the blasts like insects, sometimes deflecting them back to the sender. Even as his troops fall around him, he is still invincible, impenetrable, undefeatable. For whatever reason, the aide beside him is also unscathed, protected also by those blades. It should be impossible, but he creates miracle after miracle, the battlefield practically a playground for him.

The savior of the New Rule, neglecting all but one of his followers and brethren, a shepherd guiding his sheep to the slaughter.

Avalel stands before the Izatur, unfazed by the mountains of corpses around him, nor by the imposing structure that has failed to kill him.

“How is he still alive…” Paeil mutters shakily. “I’ve fired all these bombs, shells, blasts… and he’s still there.”

“Is he even killable at this point?” Lexial nervously questions.

“At this rate, we have no choice but to—” Soroen attempts to speak, but is interrupted by the unexpected entry of another figure into Nasition’s display, his face all too familiar for the war council.

“Material weapons are quite useless,” Avalel says, ignoring the gaping mouths of the Confederation generals. “After all, how can you expect to win when you are the villain of the story?”

“How did you…” Hrenul gasps in terror. “Y-You shouldn’t be able to just bypass our security and barge into the council—”

“But I can,” Avalel answers. “And it’s quite entertaining to see the expressions of mortals when they find the Elydeia among their midst, isn’t it? Ah, and I must say, Nasition looks much younger than I expected. Not really fitting of a villain basing his entire goal on wiping out the Empire, is it?”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds,” Nasition says. “What kind of self-proclaimed leader commands their subordinates to be mowed down by gunfire?”

“Look who’s talking, Nasition,” Avalel scoffs. “Besides, I am a kind person, so why wouldn’t I donate a few souls to the enemy before their inevitable defeat? It’s only fair for the loser to taste a bit of victory before their inevitable downfall, no?”

“You’ve become insane,” Nasition comments.

“Ungrateful even when Fate offers a silver lining to your downfall?” Avalel says, feigning disappointment. “Do you not realize, Nasition… I can claim my victory anytime I want.”

Suddenly, Paeil’s face grows pale, her complexion visibly unnatural… and she collapses upon her table, blood gushing out from her eyes, nose, and mouth.

“A shame a dignified general has to die this way,” Avalel says casually. “Alas, Fate has decided that today is the end of her life.”

“What did you just—”

“Nothing. Just that I know Fate, and Fate knows me.” Even in the chaos of the battle around him, the interior of his armor is eerily silent, his right arm moving almost robotically as the sword deflects the gunfire directed at him. “And Fate has revealed to me… You will also die today, Nasition. That is the path the narrative has chosen to take.”

The words of a madman. Nasition has no other way of describing the sight before him. But hearing this proclamation of his imminent death brings little more to the nervousness already inside him. After all, he is already numbed by the many forces that may or may not bring down twenty one years of so-called progress.

“It seems that you doubt the grand force of the world itself,” Avalel says. “Do you think you can survive beyond today?”

The sirens from the Izatur suddenly blare ferociously as the sensors facing the front are overwhelmed by a surge of energy. Dozens of them in total, yet every single one is pushed to their limits, the wires short-circuiting, the supposedly tough hardware crackling from the intense heat. The smoke has now completely obscured the view from the bridge, the clouds of dry dust ever more concentrated, suffocating the battlefield below.

“The soldiers are rapidly losing air!” Hrenul reports in horror. “The temperature is rising to dangerous levels… Common Leader, give the order to retreat!”

“Panicking already?” Avalel laughs. “This is but a bit of preparation for what is to come. I might’ve just overestimated the Confederation leadership, giving the villains in the story a little too much credit.”

The sensitive sensors explode, shutting off the Izatur from the sounds and visuals of the battlefield, replaced with an eerie silence like the interior of Avalel’s armor. Nasition can no longer hear his soldiers’ screams nor the wails of artillery shells and aerial bombs streaking through the sky… but somehow, that is even more terrifying.

“Common Leader, please, pull back the Izatur now!” Lexial warns. “At this rate, you’re just letting yourself be killed!”

“General, the Izatur is not some flimsy armored vehicle,” Nasition says calmly, hiding his worry within. “It is a symbol of Confederation might. What will the soldiers think when they see the greatest mobile fortress cower in fear, fleeing from a boy with a sword? Besides, the Izatur will not fall. Do you really think I’ll just die because my enemy said so?”

“Confident in your own abilities, aren’t you, Nasition?” Avalel smiles before abruptly removing himself from the display. A flash of light pierces through the thick smoke, filling up Nasition’s entire field of vision. The displays crackle and buzz before they shut down. The guns go limp, disabled and disconnected from the now-broken system.

For a brief moment, all is silent.

And then an explosion, shaking the enormous fortress. Lights flicker a few times, rocked by the impact. Alarms blare as the system is rebooted, but the displays have been completely cut off. There is only a single word for the status of the Izatur’s frontal cannons: disabled. Those mighty guns, slaughtering the enemy indiscriminately, have been silenced. A strange gust of dusty air ruffles Nasition’s hair, followed later by a smell of burnt steel and other metals.

A scream from one member of the Izatur’s crew. Then a second. A third. Each getting louder and closer. The staff on the bridge look at Nasition with fear and worry, their bodies frozen in place. None of them utter so much as a word, but that is only because they are dead, their heads pierced by a single black blade now floating before Nasition. The lights blink rapidly, but are soon snuffed. The alarms go silent. Even the status displays shut off, becoming blank, useless screens.

The Izatur, the pride of the Confederation, is dead.

Nasition hears footsteps clanking against the metal stairs of the fortress’ corpse, the steps slow and deliberate. Occasionally the metal screeches, likely scratched by another stronger surface. He takes a deep breath. There will be no help. He hasn’t directly involved himself in fighting for years, his body already a far cry from his youth. The odds are stacked against him, and he has little time to even prepare his mental state for the inevitable clash.

And soon enough, he sees Avalel marching up to the bridge, leaving a trail of blood behind him. The young man Nasition has wanted to kill for so long, but the tables have turned, with the Common Leader of the Confederation now in a position of weakness against the unstoppable savior of the New Rule.

This is the first time they have met face-to-face, Nasition donning his military uniform, while Avalel is dressed in his white (now red) armor. One is unarmed except for a sword by his side, the other fully kitted and protected. One is a grim veteran of war, finally becoming weary of the conflict that he started, the other brimming with confidence and arrogance, likening himself to a deity.

It is decided that only one will exit the fortress alive.

“The metal corpse still screams, huh,” Avalel says, dragging his arm on the floor. Or what should’ve been his arm. Instead of a limb made of flesh and blood, it is a long crimson blade, red veins connecting it to the rest of his body and armor. Yet as Avalel approaches closer, his arm returns to normal except for a few glowing red veins… and a single red gem at the back of his palm.

Avalel has somehow merged with the Anapadeia.

“I must thank you for offering this fortress as an arena for our first proper meeting,” he says, his tone emotionless despite a polite smile.

“And our last,” Nasition replies, shaking off the frightening revelation.

“A shame Fate has decided this to be the result,” Avalel sighs. “An unarmed, middle-aged man long past his prime against the avatar of Fate itself. It’s not even fair.”

“Is ‘Fate’ your god?” Nasition asks. “This obsession, this worship… You really are like the delusional theists of old.”

“And yet I have been brought into this position by Fate, even if my old foolish self had been rejecting this destiny,” Avalel responds. “Fate has a path, an ending for us all, but unfortunately even now at your final day you reject its existence.”

“I do not intend to die as ‘Fate’ dictates. It’d be a shame if I just let you kill me without at least a dignified struggle.” The dust particles begin to surround Nasition, coalescing into many tiny crystals. His body is already aching in pain from the energy release, but he can care less. If his fate is predestined as Avalel claims, then he will die today regardless. If fate is not predestined, then at least he can attempt to wipe out the royal bloodline one last time.

“I am the hero of this narrative. You are the villain. The hero always wins.” As Avalel ends his statement, both of his arms turn into blades, confidently displaying a reddish glow.

“Not in a tragedy.” The crystals form a cloud around Nasition, dynamically shielding him from any imminent attack.

And attack Avalel did.

The crystals move almost autonomously, blocking Avalel’s first strikes with ease. Nasition no longer attacks in a mindless rage as he did before, instead gracefully conducting his weapons in orchestrated, organized efforts to parry and counterattack. Even if he is extremely troubled and nervous inside, he will not lose composure in the duel. Even if he cannot match Avalel in raw power and energy, he can redirect the force and evade. Just as tactics are superior to strength, the same can be said for duels. He is a seasoned warrior of over two decades. Avalel? He has not even a fifth of the experience.

But alas, age is the deciding factor. With every blow, Nasition finds himself straining further, the crystals fluttering and slowing, struggling to even hold their shape, while Avalel continues to dart around, not even using the eight blades to attack. There is a huge concentration of dust in the area, the primary ingredient for his magic crystals… then why can’t he simply produce more? The answer, again, is age. His lungs are not absorbing enough oxygen, his heart not pumping blood fast enough. His energy circulation is no longer as violent and explosive as he used to be, nor does he have the endurance to last long in a duel.

Avalel is simply wearing him down before delivering the fatal blow.

A shallow slice to his shoulder, the crystals too slow to react. Nasition hisses in pain, but a simple wound will not be enough to divert his concentration. With that attack, Avalel’s back is also exposed, ripe for a storm of crystals to puncture his spine…

The crystals dissipate before they even hit their target. Nasition gasps and chokes, falling to the ground. A blade has pierced his calf, his balance completely thrown off. He’s losing blood. He can’t concentrate anymore. He stretches his hands helplessly, begging for the crystals to converge once more, but his energy is running out. His strength is rapidly depleting.

Essentially, he has already lost.

Avalel points a blade at Nasition, the tip hovering just above his throat. “To think a mortal believes he can defeat a deity… How arrogant.”

Nasition sighs. “Twenty one years… Everything I fought for is now ruined, destroyed by a child.” He clutches the locket inside his uniform, closing his eyes to accept his fate. All his efforts to kill Avalel, only to be killed in return. His obsession with destroying the Empire has ultimately brought upon his downfall, the freedom he promised at the founding of the Confederation reduced to nothing but ashes.

Everything just happened so fast.

So this is the end. The end of the villain in the narrative.

The blade is raised, ready to execute the leader of the most powerful faction for the last two decades. The end of an era. Everything has gone full circle. Twenty one years ago, the Achien Empire was destroyed after a thousand years in power. Now, the Empire will soon return under its only heir.

I guess I’ll have to apologize to Norai for my failures. Assuming she’ll even recognize me.

Clang! The unexpected sound shocks Nasition, his eyes opening to find a tall woman dressed completely in black between him and Avalel, her Confederation-manufactured prosthetic arm and blade blocking Avalel’s blades.

The Black Maiden, the assassin that has killed so many of his and Avalel’s officers, is now protecting him from imminent death.

“Found you,” she hisses, a remarkable surge of energy emanating from her body as she faces Avalel.

To Nasition’s surprise, Avalel is stunned, seemingly at a loss for the sudden development of events.

“This wasn’t part of the path.”