I was ten when I learned that the gods are nothing but cowards.
I was still a boy—soft hands, dirt-covered face, eyes that believed in kindness. A boy who thought the stories of justice were real. That the gods watched over us. That prayers meant something.
That day, they took everything.
Not slowly. Not mercifully. They ripped it from me like thieves tearing flesh from bone.
The empire's flags came first—black with gold fangs, fluttering above columns of armored monsters. I thought they would pass us by. I thought we were too small to matter.
I was wrong.
They didn't just kill my parents. They butchered them. Father ran out first, yelling for them to stop, hands raised. They shot an arrow through his mouth before he could finish the sentence. It pinned him to the wall like some hunting trophy. He gurgled blood, trying to say my name.
Mother ran to him, screaming. They cut her legs first—so she could crawl before dying. They laughed. They laughed.
I tried to run to her. Someone grabbed me. Slammed my face into the mud. They made me watch.
Then they brought out my siblings. My baby brother. My sister.
My brother was only five. He had his favorite carved rabbit in his hands. He kept asking, "Where's Mama? Where's Papa?"
They told him to kneel.
He didn't understand.
So they forced him down.
And cut off his head.
Right in front of me.
I didn't breathe. I couldn't. Something broke in my chest. Something important. Something I've never felt again.
Then my sister.
She was thirteen. She had always been the strongest. She tried to protect me. She shielded me when the fire started, told me to close my eyes. She whispered that it would be okay.
It wasn't.
They stripped her. In front of me. Tore the clothes from her as if peeling fruit.
And then they used her.
One by one.
I screamed until my throat tore. I howled for the gods to strike them down, to send lightning, fire—anything.
But nothing came.
Just silence. Just more laughter.
She looked at me the entire time. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just… watched me.
Like she wanted me to live. Like she knew I'd be the one left behind.
When they were done, they slit her throat. Slowly. Like it was an art form.
Her body hit the ground beside me.
I couldn't even reach her.
They left me tied, broken, soaked in blood that wasn't mine.
I laid there for hours.
Waiting.
For justice.
For divine wrath.
For anything.
But the gods stayed silent.
They didn't send angels.
They didn't send flames.
They didn't even send a breeze.
Just silence.
The birds kept singing. The clouds drifted by. The sun shone, as if my pain was invisible.
That was the day I learned the truth.
The gods don't protect us. They watch. They let monsters walk freely. They let children die screaming and sisters get defiled while brothers beg for death.
I prayed once.
I begged.
Now?
I curse them.
I curse the sky for shining. I curse the ground for holding their blood. I curse the gods for doing nothing.
I don't want justice anymore.
I want to erase them. All of them.
If gods exist, I will kill them.
If fate exists, I will burn it.
I am not the boy who lived.
I am the boy who was left to rot.
I was a child.
Now, I am the wrath they left behind.
And I will not die quietly.