The battlefield stretched endlessly, a grim sea of bodies strewn across the scarred ground, twisted remnants of once-proud warriors. In the midst of this devastation, a lone soldier trudged forward, his armor shattered, fragments of metal clinging to his bloodied and bruised body. His grip tightened around a flagpole adorned with the emblem of the sun, a symbol of the empire he fought to protect. He used it as a crutch, each step sending shudders of pain through him as he hobbled through the wasteland of the fallen.
He halted, chest heaving, his gaze lifting to the sky. There, amid the roiling clouds of smoke and ash, a massive shape began to emerge—a great eagle, wings spread wide, looming like a spectral guardian over the carnage below.
“Garuda…” he whispered, awe softening the word as it escaped his cracked lips. His strength faltered, and he sank to his knees, still clutching the flag. The heavens darkened, and rain began to fall, a cold, unrelenting shower that mingled with the blood of the battlefield, washing over the soldier as if nature itself mourned the fallen.
“The great kingdom of the sun has fallen,” he murmured, his voice lost amid the drum of rain as the heavens wept with him. Droplets splattered on his shattered armor, trickling through the grime and dried blood coating his face.
“If only the Ancient Clan had never divided,” he continued bitterly, clutching the flag even tighter. “After a thousand years, the empire of Tenjiku lies shattered, broken into rival clans. Now… now it’s just the fractured sub-continent of Tenjiku.” He paused, shuddering, before a violent cough wracked his chest, sending blood splattering against his chin and armor.
As he struggled to steady himself, the ground beneath him shivered. A low, deep rumble echoed through the earth, growing into a mighty quake that made the very air tremble. The soldier’s eyes widened as cracks began to spiderweb through the soil, splitting the ground like glass. He tried to run, staggering on injured legs, but the earth gave way beneath him, swallowing him whole.
Down he plunged, helpless as the ravine yawned wider, his body battered by the fall. His hand slipped from the flag, his last grip on the kingdom he had sworn to defend. He tumbled into the darkness until, with a thunderous splash, he crashed into a vast underground pool. Water closed over him, cold and suffocating, swallowing his gasps and sending ripples through the shadowed depths.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The soldier's limbs flailed, desperate against the weight of the water that threatened to claim him. Each movement sent pain rippling through his broken body, his vision blurring as blood mingled with the icy depths, trailing in faint red tendrils behind him. He kicked upward, lungs burning, his mind hazy with the instinct to survive. The darkness pressed around him, and he wondered if he would emerge from this water—or if he would drown with the memories of a broken empire.
At last, his head broke the surface. He gasped, greedily pulling in ragged breaths, his vision a murky blur as he wiped water from his eyes. He treaded water weakly, forcing his gaze to adjust. Above him, through a faint crack in the stone ceiling, he could see the sky far above—just a thin sliver of light peeking through. He realized with a hollow feeling that he was deep underground, entombed within the earth.
He turned, surveying the vast pool that stretched out before him. The cavern walls loomed high, casting jagged shadows across the water's surface. Amid this emptiness, his eyes caught sight of a small island, a patch of stone barely visible in the gloom. Gritting his teeth, he forced his exhausted body to move, each stroke slow, dragging him closer to the sanctuary of land, leaving faint trails of blood swirling in his wake.
He reached the edge, collapsing onto the rocky surface, coughing up water and blood. His eyes swam, the cavern blurring in and out as darkness edged his vision. He felt the warmth of life slipping away, his strength nearly gone. His fingers clawed at the stone, willing himself to hold on a little longer.
A faint shape loomed ahead, something dark and ancient—a rough, carved stone partially embedded in the earth.
He staggered forward, struggling to make sense of the figure before him. As he drew closer, he made out the form of a woman, carved in ominous detail. Her expression was fierce, otherworldly, her eyes wide and red, as if aflame with some eternal, insatiable fury. Around her neck was a garland of skulls, hanging like trophies. She wore a skirt made from severed hands. In her left hand, she held a severed head, the face twisted in anguish, while her right hand raised a large, jagged machete that gleamed even in the dimness.
He stared at her, the goddess towering over him, his weakened mind failing to grasp her identity. His lips parted, a question forming on his tongue, but his strength left him before the word escaped.
As his body gave out, he slumped forward, collapsing face-first at her feet. His head struck the stone base with a dull thud, and he felt a trickle of blood spill from his forehead, seeping across the cold stone to stain the feet of the dark goddess.
In his final moments, his sight dimmed, his heartbeat faded to a faint murmur, until, at last, his life ebbed away.