The lead guard looked over the crumpled form of the Lower citizen he had impaled with his own severed arm, his expression as cold and unmoving as the mountain they stood beneath.

He had activated the black crystal moments ago, its power choking the life out of the cockroach who had dared defy him. Now, Zayn's lifeless body lay still, the faint glow of the runes on his neck fading into nothingness.

He felt no satisfaction, no triumph—only disappointment.

Lower citizens were the dirt of the earth, he thought bitterly. Leeches who clung to the Kingdom, contributing nothing, only surviving because the system allowed it. They were neither skilled nor strong, neither innovators nor warriors. They existed in the shadows of the Kingdom's glory, consuming resources earned by the blood and sweat of true citizens.

He had never cared for them, never spared them a second thought. They were beneath him, insignificant specks on the grand tapestry of the Kingdom.

Yet tonight, one of those specks had managed to irritate him beyond reason.

The lead guard clenched his fists, glaring at the Lower citizen's motionless body. He wasn't angry because this Lower citizen had posed any real threat. No, it had been nothing more than a minor nuisance.

What truly fueled his rage was how disastrously this mission had spiraled out of control.

He had leaped into this task with confidence, believing that no mishap could occur under his watch. After all, he was an Empowered warrior of the Kingdom, handpicked for this secretive mission.

Yet here he was, overseeing a disaster that had cost him more than half of the guards under his command.

Guards who had trusted him. Guards to whom he had assured safety.

Humiliating.

And for what? A spy? The mere thought of it grated on his nerves. The idea that someone had infiltrated their ranks and blended in with the dregs of society—a Lower citizen, no less—was a slap to the face.

If this mission was truly as important as the royal council claimed, why had the spy not impersonated someone of actual consequence, like one of his men?

It didn't matter now. He had found the spy, unmasked them for what they were. And he had dealt with the cockroach who had dared defy the will of the Kingdom. The only question that remained was whether this spy held information that could salvage some part of this catastrophe.

The lead guard turned his gaze toward the spy—or whatever creature it had become. The grotesque figure was still pinned to the ground by his sword, its form writhing against the steel. Blood seeped from its wounds, pooling beneath its unnaturally twisted body.

As the guard stepped closer, the creature let out another piercing screech, the low-frequency sound cutting through the air like a blade. The guard winced as a sharp pain lanced through his skull, blood dripping from his nostrils. The dizziness hit him like a wave, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stabilize.

"You're persistent," he muttered, his voice low and cold. "But persistence won't save you."

Gripping the sword hilt, he drove the blade deeper, eliciting a guttural noise from the creature that sent shivers down his spine. Its strength was... unnatural.

He had fought countless enemies—Empowered warriors, beasts, even otherworldly horrors—but this spy was unlike anything he had faced before.

The guard narrowed his eyes, his free hand brushing against the black crystal at his side. The runes etched into their surfaces glowed faintly as he activated its power. Runes around its neck glowed in dark radiance, creating crushing force on its throat whilst making it in a way it could talk.

"Tell me," he commanded, his voice rising above the cacophony of screeches. "Who sent you? What does your kind want with this place?"

The creature writhed, its glowing blue eyes glaring up at him with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. It let out another screech, the sound reverberating through the air and rattling his very bones.

The guard cursed under his breath, steadying himself as the crystals pulsed with dark energy. "You'll answer me, one way or another."

But the creature didn't speak. It screamed, over and over, the sound tearing through the night like a relentless storm.

Frustration boiled within him. He had tried. He had given it a chance to talk, to provide something—anything—that could justify this debacle. But it refused.

"Fine," he spat, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Then you're no use to me."

With a final, decisive motion, he drove the blade through the creature's head, the sound of steel meeting bone ringing out across the battlefield. The screeching stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence.

The guard straightened, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He wiped the blood from his nose, his gaze lingering on the creature's lifeless body.

The lead guard exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. With the spy dead, he muttered under his breath, "Good riddance." The creature had been nothing short of a blight—a stubborn, irritating obstacle in what should have been a simple operation.

The worst night of his life, he thought bitterly. And the only consolation was that it was finally over.

Or so he thought.

Now, with the spy dealt with and the other nuisance of a Lower citizen no longer alive to irritate him, he prepared to turn his attention back to the task at hand: clearing the remaining beetles and salvaging what he could of the guards under his command.

But something stopped him mid-step.

The cracks on the face of the Half-Mountain, glowing with their eerie red light, began to dim. The guard paused, his brow furrowing as unease prickled at the back of his mind. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, seeking any indication of what might have caused the change.

Then he noticed it.

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The population of the monstrous beetles had decreased dramatically. Their numbers, which had once seemed endless, had dwindled until the ground was littered with their motionless, bloodied forms. At first, he was surprised—had his remaining guards somehow managed to rally?

But no. That wasn't it.

The beetles weren't being killed by weapons. They were exploding.

One after another, the creatures erupted into geysers of dark, steaming blood, their bodies disintegrating in violent bursts. The sound of each explosion echoed across the mountain, the wet, gory blasts painting the landscape in crimson.

The lead guard's gaze snapped to the five massive holes dug into the ground at the mountain's base. Each one, he realized, was now filled to the brim with the crimson blood of the slain creatures.

At first, he felt a flicker of relief. This resembled what the royal council had described in their vague, cryptic instructions. Perhaps this was the intended outcome—perhaps the worst of it was finally over.

But that flicker of hope died as quickly as it had come.

The blood began to boil.

Thick plumes of red vapor rose from the pools, carrying with them a stench so acrid it burned his nostrils even at a distance. The bubbling intensified, the surface of the pools roiling like a cauldron brought to a violent boil. The sound of it—wet and guttural—was unnatural, like the mountain itself was alive and writhing in agony.

His instincts screamed at him that something was wrong.

This wasn't in the plan. This wasn't something the council had mentioned.

He cursed under his breath, his gaze darting to the black monolith still embedded in the side of the mountain. Whatever was happening, the council needed to know. He had to report this before things spiraled even further out of control.

Without wasting another second, the lead guard moved. His superhuman speed carried him up the mountain's slope with effortless precision, his boots barely touching the ground as he ascended. The black monolith loomed closer with each passing moment, its dark, ominous surface glinting faintly in the dim light.

He was nearly there. Just a few more strides—

BOOM.

An explosion of red light erupted from the mountain's cracks, the blood-filled holes, and the very peak of the mountain itself. The hellish glow surged with blinding intensity before detonating outward in a fiery crimson inferno.

The force of the explosion struck him like a hammer, launching him into the air. His body was hurled back down the slope with the speed of a cannonball, the world around him a chaotic blur of red and black.

Below him, the surviving guards were obliterated instantly, their bodies incinerated by the heat and force of the blast. The surrounding forest fared no better, the trees being erased under flame and leaving no ashes under the power of the explosion's shockwave.

Crimson fire swept across the landscape, consuming everything in its path. It wasn't ordinary fire—it carried with it the stench of blood, and it clung to surfaces like molten tar, burning with an intensity that defied nature.

The Half-Mountain itself shuddered, its jagged, cracked surface crumbling under the sheer force of the blast. Chunks of rock and debris rained down like meteors, pulverizing anything unfortunate enough to be beneath them.

The lead guard crashed to the ground in a broken heap, his armor dented and charred, blood trickling from his mouth. He struggled to move, to rise, but the explosion had sapped even his considerable strength.

Everything was fire. Everything was destruction.

There was only Ruin.

And among all this, the guard's ruined body and weak eyes could only behold failure.

************************************************************************

Zayn felt... nothing.

No pain. No sound. No light.

There was nothing.

It was as if he had been plunged into a void—a vast, endless darkness that swallowed all sensation. He couldn't feel his body. He couldn't smell the acrid stench of blood or taste the copper tang that had lingered in his mouth moments before.

It was like drowning all over again, but this time, there was no desperation. No struggle.

Because this time, he was dead.

And he knew it.

There was no questioning it, no denying it. He was gone. There was no miraculous comeback, no sudden surge of strength to defy fate. The fight was over, and he had lost.

His thoughts came slowly, like echoes in the void.

He had failed.

He wasn't failing. He wasn't on the brink of failure. He had failed.

The result was already in. The story was over.

And this was the end.

He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't cry or scream or rage against the injustice of it all. All he could do was drift, his thoughts growing quieter and quieter, until even they began to fade.

Zayn's existence in the void was like sinking into tar—thick, heavy, and inescapable. He couldn't fight it, couldn't struggle against the inevitable. All he could do was feel—and even that was fleeting.

The weight of his failure pressed down on him like a mountain, suffocating and unrelenting. The realization wasn't sudden; it crept over him, seeping into every corner of his fading awareness.

He had failed. Not in the way someone stumbled and could rise again, not in a way that allowed for redemption or a second chance. This was it.

He was dead.

And he had brought it on himself.

"How could I be so fucking stupid?"

The thought rang out, bitter and sharp. It wasn't a question, not really. It was an accusation, a sentence passed on himself by himself. He had been so foolish, so arrogant, to think he could change anything.

When he had been drowning in blood not long ago, he had thought he had found clarity. He remembered the crushing fear of death, the realization that the world had never cared for him, and never would. That truth had hit him like a hammer then, but instead of breaking him, it had ignited something.

He had decided that if the world didn't care, then neither would he—not for anyone or anything except what he wanted.

It wasn't about proving anything to anyone. It wasn't about destiny or purpose or justice. He had grasped, in that moment of suffocation and terror, a singular truth: he wanted to live.

And he would.

That will had pushed him to claw his way out of the blood. It had driven him to fight, even when his body was more broken than whole. It had carried him forward, step by agonizing step, even when everything told him he should just lie down and die.

And yet, here he was.

Dead.

Barely half an hour later.

Truly pathetic.

The void around him seemed to grow colder, heavier, as his thoughts spiraled inward.

"I didn't even get a chance."

That was the cruelest part, wasn't it? He hadn't been beaten after a long and valiant effort. He hadn't been crushed by the weight of an impossible challenge he had bravely faced. He had been robbed.

Just when he had decided to change his life, to fight back, to seize what he wanted—the story had ripped it all away.

It was miserable.

No, it was beyond miserable. It was unfair.

Zayn couldn't even muster anger at the injustice. There was no fire left in him. Just an empty, aching sense of futility. His will, his determination, his resolve—they had meant nothing.

As his thoughts churned in an endless loop of despair, Zayn became aware of a change. It wasn't sudden, but gradual, like a whisper at the edge of hearing.

He was being dragged.

It wasn't a physical sensation—there was no body to feel—but the essence of his existence, whatever remained of it, was being pulled. He could feel his form in this void begin to dissipate, unraveling into streams of light that resembled runes, glowing in an array of shifting colors.

The chains came next.

They were strange, abstract constructs of energy that seemed to snake through the darkness, wrapping around what was left of him. They weren't chains of iron or steel, but something far more primal and intangible.

Zayn couldn't describe them, but he knew what they meant. They were dragging him down.

Not to a place, but to an end.

His end.

The chains pulled him toward oblivion—toward a state of death.

A death where he was nothing.

A death where he had no dreams.

A death where he had no story.

Whatever made him him was being stripped away, dissolving into nothingness.

There was no peace in it, no finality or closure. It was the most wretched end imaginable.

His thoughts, his feelings, even the miserable weight of his failure—it all began to vanish into the glowing runes, breaking apart piece by piece. The final words he had seen before the darkness took him—[You Have Failed To Complete This Story.] [You Are Dead]—echoed in his mind, mocking him.

It was as if the story itself wanted him to know just how utterly he had failed.

The chains tightened. His essence unraveled further. He was disappearing.

And then, as the last vestiges of his being faded into the void, he saw a single word.

It wasn't golden or radiant. It didn't shine with hope or offer any semblance of redemption.

It was simple. Stark.

Written in blood-red letters, the word stood alone.

A word that truly held a lot of itself.

Power.