'Chaos'—utter chaos.
In the middle of it all lay a boy around fifteen or sixteen years old. His body was bruised, his clothes—once clearly luxurious—torn to shreds and soaked in blood.
Most of his torso was exposed through the tatters, revealing a lattice of shallow cuts across his skin.
Though one wound stood out—a gash running diagonally from his right shoulder to his left thigh, deep enough to have made a bloody mess of his body.
The boy lay unconscious beside a pile of corpses—not men, not beasts, but something in between.
Or perhaps… something entirely different. Around him, the earth burned beneath a curtain of wild, ravenous flames, devouring everything they touched.
His features, despite being marred by dried blood and grime, were striking.
He had a sculpted jawline and high cheekbones that hinted at nobility, a straight nose with a subtle ridge, and lips that would've once carried a smirk too self-assured for his age.
His long black hair clung to his face in damp strands, messy but elegant in a way that seemed natural, not styled.
Even unconscious, he was too handsome to ignore—an image of youthful perfection battered by violence.
If not for his current state, he might have appeared like a young prince out of a legend. But here, amid the scorched earth and unspeakable carnage, he looked more like the lone survivor of a nightmare.
Other humans were present too—clad in shattered armor, swords still gripped in dead hands. Though, truthfully, few of them had heads. Many were decapitated; others had their hearts torn out, the gory cavities left gaping and vacant.
Why? You might ask.
Because something unnatural had passed through here—something cruel and exacting.
The boy stirred. His eyelids fluttered open to reveal mesmerizing lilac-blue irises, filled only with confusion. He hadn't even begun to grasp what was happening when he heard a voice:
"Kaelen Virelius… You won't believe how many times I've imagined this exact moment. Ahahahah…"
A man emerged from the shadows—thin of frame, with blood-red hair that fell like threads of flame over a sharp, foxlike face.
His eyes were amber, narrow, and glinting with unstable glee. His cheekbones jutted sharply, his mouth curled in a perpetual, twitching grin.
He wore a long, crimson robe, streaked with gore and ash, and boots too pristine for this battlefield—as if he'd never fought a day in his life.
He didn't look pleased—he looked ecstatic, like someone who had finally uncovered the last piece of a decades-old revenge plan.
"Not only will I get the bounty from them and become their part," the man sneered, "but I'll finally repay the humiliation I suffered at the hands of your father all those years ago."
Behind him, a gruesome sight—a pile of severed heads arranged neatly into a triangle. Nearby, several still-beating hearts floated mid-air, dancing as if on invisible strings. The man had clearly been playing with them—flicking hearts at heads like some deranged sport.
"I, Zoran Malchev, will finally get the recognition I deserve. No one can stop my rise now… No one."
Zoran was still mumbling, lost in his own twisted monologue.
But the boy—presumably Kaelen Virelius—thought, "Kaelen Virelius…? Who the hell is that? And what the hell is going on? Where even am I…? The last thing I remember—I was still running and hiding from them."
His vision finally sharpened. When he took in the floating hearts, the monstrous corpses, the red-haired lunatic basking in gore—
He moved.
Slowly, deliberately, the boy pushed himself to his feet, muscles tight, eyes locked on Zoran. Blood caked his skin, but his stance was steady.
Though the brutality of the scene didn't shake him—he'd seen almost similar scenes —well the sheer absurdity of it did. Floating hearts? Monstrous bodies? A psycho in the middle of a killing field?
No. This wasn't Earth. At least not the one he remembers.
He narrowed his gaze, then said with a forced calm:
"Mister, I think you've got the wrong guy. I'm not Kaelen Virelius."
"My name is Sareth. I don't know what's going on here, and I don't care to find out. You can go back to… whatever it is you were doing. I swear I won't tell a soul."
Then, unbelievably, Sareth began to walk forward—towards Zoran.
He knew better than to talk a lunatic down. That never worked. But if he could act harmless, disoriented, cowardly, maybe—just maybe—the lunatic would drop his guard.
That was the goal.
Each step was a calculated move, slow and deliberate, as though he might bolt at any moment. Zoran, clearly intrigued, tilted his head. The floating hearts drifted lazily behind him.
Then, just as Sareth came within arm's reach—
He struck.
Sareth launched forward with all the strength he could muster, aiming his fist like a spear toward Zoran's jugular.
But before he could even make contact—
Zoran's eyes snapped to his.
A thin smile formed at the corner of his mouth. It was barely a smile. Just enough to be unsettling.
"Well done," Zoran whispered. "Like father, like son."
Then he lifted a finger and pointed.
That's all it took.
An invisible force slammed into Sareth, yanking him off his feet and hurling him backward to where he had previously stood.
Pain exploded in his back as a knife embedded itself between his shoulder blades. He staggered forward, his steps shaky. Pulling the blade out would only worsen the damage. He grit his teeth, feeling the wound burn like fire under his skin.
Still, he turned to face Zoran.
If this was where he died, he'd die facing his killer.
"Who am I kidding…?" he muttered under his breath. "In my current condition, even breathing hurts. I'm stitched up like a ragdoll, and now I've got a knife in my back. That bastard didn't even let me monologue properly."
He exhaled sharply—half a laugh, half a whimper.
"What kind of screwed-up mess have I landed in…?"
A pause. Then, dryly:
"Might as well go out with a bang."
But right after that forced bravado, a single tear slid down Sareth's cheek.
Not from pain.
But from realization.
"Bang… hah… I never even got to bang."
He laughed. Hollow. Bitter.
The kind of laugh that made the dead battlefield feel a little colder.