The silence after the roar of the heavens was unbearable— not because it was empty, but because it was forced. It was not the silence of peace. It was the silence of dominion.
A silence in which even the wind had been stripped of its voice.
The air itself seemed to suffocate, pressing in, pressing down, like molten gold poured over the world, solidifying, trapping all within it.
And still, the angels did not move.
They did not speak. They did not act. They waited.
The warhorse beneath the leading angel exhaled again, its golden mist cascading downward. It touched the land like a veil, smothering all beneath it, leeching the very essence from the world. What had once been vibrant became muted. Colors drained, the sky paled, and even the blood staining the battlefield dulled into something lifeless.
And in that moment—beneath that weight, beneath that certainty—humanity understood.
This was not a war. It was not a battle.
This was the execution, a punishment for their sins.
Or so they thought.
Because as the heavens remained still, as the angels waited with their unreadable, unshaken patience, a darker realization took root. One far more terrifying than mere judgment.
Punishment implied crime.
Damnation implied guilt.
But this?
This was something else.
A hand striking down not out of anger, but out of obligation. A sentence carried out not with wrath but with indifference. The way one erases a flawed equation. The way one purges a disease.
Humanity had not simply been found wanting.
They had been deemed… unnecessary.
A flaw in the grand design. A mistake to be corrected.
And there, standing at the heart of it all, in the vast silence of a world already unraveling, Shingen tilted his head back and laughed.
Yet, amid the suffocating weight of it all, Shingen stood.
His skeletal armor, fractured and weary, shimmered under the molten hush of an unbreathing sky. Around him, the fallen— broken, gutted, unmade— lay still. But not in peace. Never in peace.
Their eyes, those who still had them, gaped skyward. Staring. Seeing nothing. Seeing too much.
And Shingen smiled. Not with arrogance. Not with defiance.
This was the grin of something caught between awe and ruin, of a creature realizing, far too late, that the world had never belonged to them to begin with.
A bead of sweat cut a path down his temple. His breath— shallow, jagged— quivered like a thread stretched too thin. His red eyes flickered, light shifting against the suffocating gold above.
And still, he grinned. Thrilled.
Yet the angels did not move.
No decree. No strike. No wrath yet unleashed.
Their wings rustled— dry, brittle, like things long dead in a wind that did not exist. Their hollow eyes drank in everything.
Not gazing. Stripping.
They did not see flesh. They saw through it.
To the marrow. To the mind. To the thing beneath, the thing that twitched and writhed and had never been seen before.
And they were waiting. For a word, a signal. For someone.
Shingen exhaled— sharp, breathless, a laugh that had no place here.
"So this... this is what you were hiding," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flicked from one divine specter to another, looking for a crack in their eternity. "Heh. You brought the entire heavens… for me?"
No answer.
Even the priestess, usually so poised, only stared— her eyes wide, lips trembling, yet nothing came out. The Twelve Virtues, those who claimed to understand divine will, stood just as frozen.
The horror in their expressions was unmistakable. They hadn't known. They hadn't known this could happen.
And then, it pressed down. The weight.
Like an ocean turned solid, crushing. One by one, the people around him collapsed.
Not from wounds. Not from an attack. But from the unbearable strain of simply existing in the presence of it.
Blood leaked from noses, ears, eyes. Some slumped forward, bodies giving out like puppets with severed strings. Others clawed at the ground, their nails splitting, their hands trembling, desperate to hold onto something, anything that was real.
Still, the angels did nothing.
The leader's blade was poised but unmoving. The legions, frozen in their silent judgment.
The world itself seemed to wait. The air twisted. The color bled. The sound that followed wasn't a sound at all.
It slithered through the marrow of the world, filling everything, pressing into the hollows of the mind where fear had no name. The clouds did not scatter.
They shrieked. Curling. Writhing. Reversing.
What spilled forth was not light. Pure. Unforgiving. Absolute.
The golden gash in the sky widened. Not fast. Slow.
As if savoring the ruin it seeded below. And from its depths, something moved.
Not a shape. Something worse. A presence.
A thing that had been waiting longer than time.
Then came the wind. But this was no wind.
This was the world exhaling its last breath.
The trees bent. The mountains shrank. The stones begged.
Then— He came.
He did not fall. He did not descend.
The world moved for him. Like it had always belonged to him. Like it had been shaped in the cradle of his grasp.
His hair, unbound and untamed, moved with the pull of something unseen, something that did not belong to the mechanics of the world.
But it was his eyes that stole the breath from every throat. Burning gold. Not light. Not fire. Something older.
Something that recognized you. Not watching. Consuming.
They did not witness it. They stripped away.
Flesh. Bone. Thought.
Until all that remained was the core. That trembling, naked thing beneath all things, the part that screamed in voices long forgotten.
He passed through the tear in the sky, and the rest of him followed.
Armor of gold and silver, but streaked. Not with dirt. Not with rust. With something that stared back.
His wings unfurled. Not feathered. Not solid.
Something that moved like a living concept, twisting in shapes the eye refused to hold.
Then his feet touched the ground. The world cracked. Not in explosion. Not in tremor.
In submission.
The air stopped. Breath was no longer breath. It was a struggle.
The body fought to inhale, but there was nothing left to take.
Even Shingen staggered. Not in fear. But because the body knew what the mind refused to accept.
This was not a battle. This was not something to be fought. This was an ending.
From the wound in the heavens, he descended.
Not an army. Not a legion. Not a god.
Something worse.
He did not fall. He did not fly. He did not move. The world moved for him.
The sky shrank. The stars dimmed. The very air forgot to exist. He was not light, nor shadow—he was absence. A shape burned into the sky where nothing should be.
Then, sound.
Not a scream. Not thunder. The tearing of existence itself.
A single step fractured the atmosphere. A second killed the wind. A third sent cracks crawling through the earth, as though even the planet knew— It could not bear him.
His wings were neither feather nor flame. They were concept— folding, unfolding, devouring light as they twisted through dimensions that did not yet exist. His armor did not gleam; it absorbed. It pulsed. It remembered.
But it was his eyes— his eyes— that broke reality.
They did not flame. They did not shine. They saw. And everything seen ceased to be.
Cities forgot their names. Mountains lowered their peaks in shame. Seas froze mid-wave, unsure if they should continue.
The mortals below did not scream. They did not pray. They did not breathe. Not by fear.
By law.
Their bodies forgot how to function. Their souls forgot they had been given free will.
And among them, standing alone on the blood-soaked ruins of what was once a world,
Shingen grinned. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek. Not from terror. Never from terror.
From understanding.
Because now, for the first time— He knew.
This might be his best performance he's ever lived for.
In the middle of the world's execution, Shingen stood.
His smirk flickered— just a twitch, just a fracture in the bravado—but it was there. A crack in a dam holding back something even he could not name.
Awe.
Not the awe of reverence. Not admiration. The awe of staring into something beyond consequence.
Sweat traced a slow path down his temple, the only thing daring to move in the stillness. His breath came sharp, shallow, like his lungs had been filled with broken glass. His bones felt too tight. His teeth too small. His skin, his armor, his very self— inadequate.
And then, it spoke.
No. It decreed.
A voice did not come from the angel's throat. It came from the world. From the air, the ground, the sky. From inside the skull, behind the eyes, between the ribs.
"I…"
The syllable fractured the land. The sound had weight. And the earth could not bear it. Cracks webbed beneath him, spreading like a curse through the corpses, through the blood-soaked stone. The nearest body twitched as if life had been violently stuffed back inside it for the sole purpose of feeling agony one last time.
"…have given you a task."
The sky reacted before the people did. It shrank. The colors bled out, draining into the edges of the universe as if reality itself had been startled into paling. The sun dimmed— not by clouds, not by an eclipse— but as if something had taken hold of its throat and whispered, 'Not now.'
The host behind him— no longer warriors, no longer angels, no longer individuals— stood locked in place.
Not out of reverence. Not out of patience. Because they, too, were held captive.
"And yet you allow a mortal to stain my decree?"
Not an accusation. Not anger.
Boredom.
A thunderous crack rang out across the battlefield— not from a blade, not from a fist— but from the realization sinking into the bones of every being present.
It was over.
The sentence had been passed before anyone could even beg.
"You shall all perish by his will."
The world reacted. Not just here. Not just this ruined stretch of battlefield. Everywhere.
Thousands of miles away, a woman hurled herself from her apartment balcony— not out of despair, not out of choice— but because her body moved before she could think.
A boy drove a kitchen knife into his own stomach, laughing, screaming, "I see it! I see it! I see it!" as his family backed away in mute horror.
A priest clawed at his face, sobbing, tearing his own eyes from his skull with bare hands because he refused to let them witness this.
Not a single angel had touched the earth. Not a single blade had been raised. Not a single act of war had been waged.
And yet, the world was already rotting.
Then his gaze fell upon Shingen. Directly. A mistake. Because for a single breath—for the smallest sliver of time— Shingen saw him.
Not his armor. Not his wings. Him.
And it was like staring into something that had never needed to blink. Something that had existed since before sound, before breath, before movement itself had been conceived. Something that had never been given a reason to change.
The angel tilted his head. Not in curiosity. Not in amusement. In disappointment.
"You…"
The word settled. It did not ring out, did not echo. It simply existed.
Shingen forgot to breathe.
"…must be him."
A ripple. Something unseen, something awful, coiled through the air like fingers trailing across the fabric of the world.
"The Ace…"
His wings unfurled. And they weren't wings anymore. They were limbs.
Too many. Too vast. They stretched across the sky, joints bending in ways light itself rejected, flesh and metal and thought stitched together into something that did not belong here. That had never belonged anywhere.
"Of Clowns…"
Feathers peeled. Like something shedding skin, like something unfurling itself from a lie it had been wearing for too long. The wings reached out— not forward, not to attack— but to take.
"On this world."
Shingen laughed. It was not strong. It was not defiant. It leaked from his lips, breathy and unsteady, because his body was already starting to shake. But he laughed.
The angel stepped forward. The ground surrendered. Not shattered. Not split. It gave up. As if it had simply chosen that it no longer deserved to exist beneath him.
Shingen clenched his jaw, his fists, every muscle in his body trying not to kneel. Because he knew. He had seen many angels. Many warriors. Many pretenders in golden robes. But this one.
This one had never needed an army. This one had never needed war. This one was the reason war existed in the first place.
And for the first time, in a long, long time— The heavens held their breath.
It was not mere arrival. It was infestation.
Reality itself curled inward, suffocating under his presence. The air thickened, sludgelike, filling lungs like molten tar. The ground cracked, not from impact but as if rejecting what had just stepped upon it. This was not an entry. This was something greater forcing itself into existence.
Shingen had faced many things— monsters draped in the flesh of men, gods who mistook worship for worth, and horrors whose names were better left unspoken. Yet, as he stood before the angel, something primal clawed at his insides. Something whispered, "Kneel."
He did not kneel. He grinned.
A thin trickle of blood leaked from his left nostril. A pressure built in his skull, like hands squeezing his brain from within. His eyes pulsed, veins bulging at the edges. But the smirk remained.
The angel, standing motionless amid the fractured earth, observed. Studied. Judged.
Then— He moved. No flash of light. No thunderous boom. Just absence.
In one breath, Shingen was standing free. The next— his throat was in the grip of something far worse than steel. A hand, smooth and cold, yet alive, curled around his neck, lifting him as if he were no heavier than an afterthought.
Shingen's pulse thundered against the angel's palm. His boots scraped against empty air. The world swam in and out of focus. Not from asphyxiation, but something far worse. Recognition.
The angel leaned in, golden eyes narrowing— not in anger, but something more sinister. Disappointment. Disgust. Familiarity.
"I wonder…" His voice was not sound but law. It wove itself into the bones of the world, etching its presence into the marrow of existence. "Did you enjoy it?"
Shingen's breath hitched.
"A century," the angel continued, his grip tightening slightly. "A century in Purgatory. No walls. Chained. No escape. Just you and the silence."
The memories crashed down like broken glass. The void. The stillness. The weight of nothingness.
"How does it feel to breathe again?" The angel's voice was almost gentle now, a whisper laced with something sickeningly close to amusement.
And for a moment— a fleeting, wretched moment— Shingen almost answered.
Then, he laughed. It was strained. Choked. But real and with a snap of unnatural energy, his body disintegrated.
Not into light. Not into dust. But into something writhing— shadows with weight, with hunger. The angel's grip clenched around nothing.
Behind him, the shadows reformed.
Not as flesh. Not as a man. But as something else.
Shingen stood, his form no longer wholly his own. His body was draped in something shifting, something that slithered and clicked. His armor had not returned. It had evolved. Half of it dripped with abyssal black, the other streaked with something far worse— golden light that did not belong to him. The bones of past wars. The remnants of stolen divinity. A horrible, awful grin stretched across his face, eyes wide with something between madness and glee.
"You missed me, didn't you?"
The angel's expression did not change. His fingers, still stained with the remnants of where Shingen once was, flexed.
"I should have left you there," he mused, as if speaking to a long-dead mistake. Then, his eyes darkened. "But I know why you're still breathing."
The smirk faltered. Just for a second.
The angel's smile was slow, creeping. Not a thing of warmth. Not a thing of kindness. It was the smile of a thing that knew how this ended.
His fingers flicked.
Flick.
The battlefield sealed itself. The heavens dimmed. The angels above vanished. The air collapsed.
Not a blast. Not a flare. Just a sudden, merciless absence. The battlefield did not shrink— it constricted. Like unseen walls of reality snapping shut, crushing the space between them.
The sky withered. Its brilliance, once divine, strangled into dim nothingness. The angels above did not retreat. They did not flee.
They ceased.
Their forms, their radiance, their very being— snuffed out. Like candle flames swallowed by an abyss that had waited beneath creation, patient, insatiable.
Beyond the dome, the world convulsed, choked by an unseen weight, as if struggling to breathe beneath something vast and merciless.
But within… There was only silence. Not peace. Not stillness. Something worse.
A silence so dense, so suffocatingly absolute, it did not simply exist— it commanded. Like sound itself had been judged, found unworthy, and erased.
The angel lowered his hand, golden eyes never leaving Shingen.
"They cannot hear you now." His voice was quiet, yet it coiled into the marrow of Shingen's bones. "No audience. No intervention."
His lips curled, slow and deliberate.
"Only us."
The angel's voice slithered into Shingen's ear like a promise wrapped in rusted barbed wire.
"I could end this."
Not a plea. Not a bargain. A certainty.
"I could halt this divine purge. Save this dying world."
Another step closer. Too close. The scent of something not quite flesh, not quite fire, filled Shingen's lungs. It was neither comforting nor threatening. It was absolute.
"But only if you agree to one... simple... task."
From the edge of the dome, a fragile shape stumbled forward. Shingen's breath caught. His crimson eyes widened.
The boy.
His student. His shadow. The last ember of a life he once fought to protect.
The child's steps were uneven, his body barely standing. Blood trickled from a wound on his forehead, seeping into his wide, terrified eyes. Tears carved desperate paths through the dirt on his face. In trembling hands, he clutched a sword far too heavy, its tip dragging against the ground, leaving a thin, jagged line in the dust.
He blinked up at Shingen. Pleading. Without words. Without hope.
The angel leaned closer, voice softer now, sinking into Shingen's mind like a dagger slipping through old scars.
"Let him kill you... by his own hand. Only then shall the heavens withdraw. No apocalypse, no war. Just... peace."
The word coiled in Shingen's chest. Peace.
His knees weakened. His pulse roared in his ears, hammering against his skull like a war drum. Time cracked apart. He saw it all at once—
— A century of silence in Purgatory. A prison where even time had abandoned him. Where no screams, no prayers, no gods ever reached.
— The punishment for knowing what he should not have known. The truth behind the gates. The threads of life. The secret that had damned him to a fate worse than death.
And now… this child. This innocent. This trembling, broken thing.
Meant to be his executioner.
Shingen's fingers twitched. He clenched his fists so tightly to the point his own nails carved deep into his palms, drawing blood. It dripped— slow, warm— onto the shattered ground.
His teeth ground together. His lips trembled between rage and despair. The boy whimpered. Took a step forward.
"S-Shingen..."
His voice— so small. A child should not sound like that.
Shingen's vision blurred. Was it anger? Or grief?
The angel tilted his head, something almost like tenderness in his gaze—except it was not.
It was cruelty.
"Choose, old friend."
Then— Something inside Shingen snapped.
Not like a branch. Like a bone. Like a soul.
The ground caved beneath his feet. His killing intent detonated outward in a colossal wave of suffocating darkness. The very air screamed as the dome groaned under the weight of his rage. Shingen's eyes burned— a hellish crimson, merciless, endless.
Even the angel staggered. For the first time, he looked afraid.
Then, Shingen was upon him.
A fist, wreathed in the raw, unfiltered hatred of a century lost, slammed into the angel's face. The impact fractured the very fabric of the dome. The angel's body wrenched backward, the sound of shattering bone and tearing reality ringing through the silence.
But then—
A weak sting. A breath. A hesitation.
Shingen's eyes dropped.
The boy. The child. His tiny hands still clutching the blade.
The steel embedded in Shingen's leg.
Not deep. Not fatal.
But enough. Enough to end everything.
Tears streamed down the boy's face. His small body trembled so violently it looked like he might shatter apart.
Suddenly, A sharp throb shot through Shingen's left thigh.
He barely registered the pain at first, only the warmth spreading beneath his torn robes. Then his gaze dropped.
A small knife. Thrust deep. Not with strength— but with certainty. His breath hitched.
The boy.
Tears streamed down his face, his small body trembling, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His tiny fingers still gripped the hilt, though his knuckles were white, as if he wished— prayed— that he could undo what had already been done.
Shingen's heart clenched.
Regret. Agony. Desperation.
It was all there, written across the child's face in raw, unfiltered grief.
He whimpered, his voice barely a whisper through the shuddering gasps.
"I—I didn't want to..."
But the knife remained.
"I... I'm sorry..."
Shingen froze.
The rage vanished. The fury collapsed. And in its place, a cold, crushing silence.
A truth he could no longer escape. This was always meant to be.
A sudden coldness seeped into Shingen's veins. It was subtle at first— a numb tingle creeping through his leg, crawling up his spine like frostbite from within.
His breath hitched. Too late.
His gaze dropped to the small knife still lodged in his thigh, its blade coated in something dark, something wrong. A slow, viscous sheen glimmered against the blood. Not just steel. Not just a wound.
Poison.
Shingen exhaled sharply, realization hitting like a dying star. His fingers twitched as he tried to move, but already, the venom slithered deeper, dulling his strength, coiling around his muscles like unseen chains.
He chuckled, a weak, bitter sound.
"How cruel," he murmured, his vision swimming.
The boy, still holding onto him, looked up, eyes red and swollen from crying. He didn't understand— not yet.
Shingen lifted a trembling hand, pressing his palm against the child's cheek. His touch was colder now. Unsteady.
"You… mustn't cry," he whispered again, slower this time. "Not now. Not for me."
But his fingers were shaking.
Shingen's breath shuddered as he dropped to one knee, lowering himself before the boy.
He lifted a bloodstained hand— not to strike. Not to stop him. To wipe the child's tears with a thumb coated in his own blood.
Shingen exhaled softly, his bloodied fingers brushing the boy's trembling hands. His smile, faint yet unwavering, held no anger— only understanding.
"To the end," he repeated, voice gentle, as if cradling the boy's sorrow.
The child's sobs came in ragged gasps, his tiny fists clenching tighter around Shingen's armor. But Shingen didn't let go.
"You mustn't cry," he continued, his tone steady despite the weakness creeping into his limbs. "Not for me. Not for this." His crimson eyes softened. "You were never meant to carry this weight. That was always mine. It is my fault."
The boy shook his head, silent tears carving rivers through the dirt on his cheeks.
Shingen's grip on him firmed, not in force but in warmth.
"Lift your head," he urged, voice almost a whisper now. "If you must grieve, then do so standing. Let no one see you broken. Not the angels. Not the world." A tired chuckle escaped his lips, laced with blood. "Not even me."
The child hiccupped, his sobs quieting, his fingers loosening from desperation into something else— something like resolve.
Shingen nodded, his smile lingering even as his strength waned.
"That's right… just like that."
But the blade was still there. And the angel— watching. Waiting.
Then—
Divine steel cleaved through flesh. A perfect cut. A cold judgment.
Blood splattered like ink on a forgotten page. But Shingen did not scream.
He smiled.
The angel's face twisted. It was not victory he felt. It was horror.
"No!"
The word tore from him, raw and mindless. Rage. Panic. Denial.
His blade rose— and fell. Again.
Again. And again.
"You think you're better than us?! Than me?!"
Slash.
"You think you're free?! Able to do anything you desire?!"
Stab.
The body did not resist. Did not fight back. And that made it worse.
The angel's voice collapsed into a screeching wail. A sound of something not human, not divine— just broken.
He was not killing an enemy. He was erasing something that should not be erased. Something that had already won.
The boy sobbed, crawling towards Shingen's body. His small hands— soaked in blood— are grasping desperately at the shattered remains of his mentor's armor.
Beyond the dome—
The world watched.
Silent. Not a sound. Not even from the heavens. For even God did not bear witness to what had just transpired.
Because this was not an execution.
Not a triumph. Not a war.
It was a man choosing his own end.
And the angels had no power over that.
As the blood pooled, the archangel exhaled a shaky breath, voice hollow, frayed at the edges.
"Take note." His eyes did not leave the body. "Every choice has its consequences. That is the nature of things. It depends... on how the world will see you in the near future."
He paused, voice barely above a whisper.
"Or if there is a future for you at all."
The angel stood above the battlefield, watching. And he hated what he saw.
Shingen, standing. Still standing. Still breathing. Still alive.
Why?
Why do you keep standing?
Why do you keep resisting?
For that boy?
The angel scoffed, his lips curling into something ugly. A slow, sharp chuckle slithered from his throat.
Then— He vanished.
And in an instant— He reappeared.
His hands rested on the child's frail shoulders. A whisper— low, honeyed with malice.
"If you want him to have a peaceful end…"
The boy froze. The angel's grip tightened. He felt the boy's pulse quicken beneath his fingers.
"Then be the one to do it."
A pause. Then— a grin.
His breath brushed against the child's ear, voice slithering like a serpent.
"Or I'll end you."
His fingers dug in a little deeper. The boy shuddered. The angel's eyes flickered— dark, cruel, soulless.
"No—"
His grin widened. "I'll end the whole world."
The child's body convulsed. Terror wrapped around his throat like chains, choking, suffocating.
But then— A shift. A ripple through the air.
The angel felt it. It was heavy— crushing.
Like gravity had tripled in an instant. The battlefield hushed. Something malevolent, monstrous, and unnatural stirred awake.
The angel's fingers twitched. Slowly— he turned.
And there he was.
Shingen. Standing.
He shouldn't be standing. He shouldn't be alive.
And yet—
There he stood, his body unnatural in its stillness.
Then— a light.
A slow, pulsing glow of crimson, bleeding into the air like veins of fire.
No one had seen this before. Not in this battle. Not ever.
And then— They felt it.
Horror. A fear so vast, so incomprehensible, it slithered into their very souls.
This wasn't just a battle anymore. This was a reckoning.
Even the angel's army— beings who had never known fear— lowered their heads.
Their eyes— filled with sorrow. Because they knew. Something terrible had awakened. And it wasn't stopping.
Shingen's wounds sealed. His body healed instantly. No scars. No signs that he had ever been wounded.
Then— A sound. A wet, tearing sound.
Something ripped.
And then— Blood. A torrent, a flood.
The angel's arms. Torn. Gone.
His body convulsed. His mouth opened in a scream—
But what came out was something else. Something inhuman.
A sound not meant for this world. A shriek— angelic and monstrous, the sound of something breaking.
Thereafter— Panic. Desperation.
The angel's lips trembled. Then, he bellowed:
"All units, charge! Death awaits us, but we defend out pride!"
The trumpet blared. The army screamed. And the angel— Ran.
Time passed. Minutes. Seconds.
Silence.
The angel, hiding, pressed himself against the ruins. His body is shaking. His breath was uneven.
Then, he looked. And his mind snapped.
Shingen stood alone. Surrounded by corpses.
His army— gone. The angel's lips parted.
Impossible.
Shingen had used no spells. No divine power. He had fought with flesh. And won. And now—
He turned. Their eyes met. The angel's heart stopped. Then—
Shingen disappeared.
No. He's behind me.
The angel moved— too slowly.
A fist collided. The earth shattered beneath the impact. The angel's body was hurled, crashing through the battlefield. Then—
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Certain.
Shingen stopped before him. But—
The angel was smiling. A sick, twisting grin. His eyes twitched. His feathers— disintegrated.
Subsequently— A voice.
"What are you looking at?"
Shingen barely had time to register. A hand pierced his chest. His body convulsed. Blood spilled.
The angel's grip tightened. Shingen gasped— dragged forward. Dragged— to the boy.
Shingen coughed violently, a thick stream of blood spilling past his lips as the angel yanked his head back, dragging him like a broken doll. His vision swam, his body refusing to obey, but he could still see the twisted smile on the angel's face. That horrible, gleeful grin.
The angel hummed a soft, mocking tune before leaning down, his breath ghosting over the child's ear.
"Hey, little boy," he whispered, his voice slithering like a serpent in the dark. "It's time. Your turn."
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled Shingen forward.
The warrior's body crashed against the dirt, rolling weakly before coming to a stop at the boy's feet. Shingen barely had the strength to lift his hand, but he did— his trembling, bloodstained fingers brushing against the child's cheek.
His touch was warm. A warmth that had always been there. A warmth that had protected, guided, fought for him.
"It's… alright, kiddo," Shingen murmured, his voice fraying at the edges. Every word was a struggle. Every syllable was carved from agony. "I will… always be there for you."
His smile— soft, tired, yet unwavering— was something the boy had seen countless times before. But now, it felt different. Fragile. Final.
"Kill me… and survive," Shingen whispered. His breathing grew shallow, but still, he smiled. "We… will meet again… someday. Okay?"
The boy's breath hitched. His small hands clenched into fists. His body trembled violently, grief twisting inside him like a living thing. Tears welled up, hot and endless, but this time…
This time, he did not look away. He reached for Shingen's hand. Held it.
From there— The knife.
It plunged deep into Shingen's stomach. Shingen jerked slightly— but there was no resistance, no struggle. Just a quiet acceptance. A quiet end.
At last… the long-awaited moment.
Shingen's body fell still, his head resting against the boy's trembling thigh— like a weary warrior finally surrendering to sleep. His crimson eyes, once ablaze with unrelenting defiance, flickered... then dulled, the last embers of his will extinguished.
The angel watched, his expression twisting into something both ecstatic and deranged. A laughter, raw and ravenous, tore from his throat— unhinged, euphoric, victorious.
Yet the battlefield was silent. No cheers. No echoes of war.
Only the wind carried the scent of blood over the ruins of his obliterated army.
Then, with a snap of his fingers—
The world folded. Reality twisted upon itself like a dying star collapsing inward. The scent of blood, the weight of death, the shattered remnants of war— all of it vanished.
The boy gasped, his body jolting upright. Silence.
No battlefield. No blood-drenched ground. No corpse resting against his trembling legs.
Just— his room. His bed. The dull hum of the world outside, as if nothing had ever happened.
His breath came fast and uneven. His chest ached as though something had been ripped from it. He clutched at his hands, turning them over, searching for something—anything.
But they were clean. No blood. No warmth was fading beneath his touch. No Shingen.
Was it a dream?
His stomach twisted. His mind screams. It felt too real. Too much. He swallowed hard, staring blankly ahead.
"Maybe I should stop this kind of work…"
The thought slithered through him, cold and unwelcome.
Because what if—
What if that wasn't just a nightmare?
What if it was a warning?
What if… it was only a glimpse of the fate waiting for him?
And worst of all—
What if Shingen had truly died somewhere out there… and he had just been forced to watch?