As the dark sky deepened, a swirling mass of clouds formed above the city of Thirtos. Lightning split the darkness, revealing a terrifying creature slowly emerging from the raging black sea. This figure was far larger and more fearsome than the smaller monsters that had previously battered the city's defenses. Its body resembled that of a sea dragon, with glossy black scales and a back adorned with sharp, bluish spines that emitted a dim glow, enhancing its horrifying appearance.
Around the creature, the wind howled fiercely, causing the trees on the outskirts of Thirtos to tremble as if in agony. A cold breeze brushed against Fitran's face, yet he did not flinch, maintaining his composure despite his racing heartbeat. The ancient stone walls of the city, which were meant to provide safety, appeared fragile under the looming shadows of darkness. The thunderous roar of the turbulent sea added to the tension, muffling the sound of Fitran's heavy footsteps as he advanced. Occasionally, when the lightning illuminated the surroundings, the shadows of the creature's face cast a terrifying silhouette that sent chills down his spine, but he fought to shake off the feeling with a slight gesture of wiping his forehead. "Do you want to start again?" he whispered to himself, his voice low and calm, as if responding to the uncertainty within his heart.
Fitran stood tall at the front line, his face impassive, and his gaze coldly piercing towards the massive creature. However, upon closer inspection, one could notice the fine lines etched on his forehead, a sign of the suppressed tension he tried to conceal. There was no doubt, no fear; only a frozen indifference reflected in his eyes. Each line on his brow seemed like a chiseled stone, marking his concentration—not out of fear, but rather from a merciless calculation. "We cannot retreat," he whispered softly, his tone flat yet firm, as if to fortify himself and those who relied on him. This was one of the Avatars of Tiamat—a primordial being, a true manifestation of primordial darkness. Fitran's body remained calm, almost like a soulless shadow, and his sharp eyes showed not a hint of sympathy, neither for friend nor foe, even though his heart carried many burdens he rarely revealed.
The Voidlight sword in his hand shimmered with a piercing cold, the pale blue glow of the blade seemed to vibrate with an unexpected energy. Runes on Fitran's body radiated powerfully, marking him as a walking disaster among humans, with every scar upon his skin telling a tale etched by war and loss. There was no passion, no anger; only a chilling determination to obliterate anything that stood in his way. Behind him, the stone golems stood firm, their aura of strength nearly diminished in the presence of Fitran's intimidating presence. Despite being surrounded by sturdy protectors, his posture was slightly hunched, suggesting the burden on his shoulders felt heavier than merely this battle. Quietly, some among them appeared to tremble, not only at the monster ahead, but also at their own leader; doubt flickered in their eyes as Fitran stared resolutely ahead, a promise and a threat all at once. "Do not let fear take control of you," he said in a low voice, pulling his troops back to focus without stirring the deep emotions within.
The Avatar of Tiamat moved forward slowly, its jaw opening to reveal a row of teeth sharp as swords that glimmered with a pale blue light. With a thunderous growl that shook the entire land, the creature charged with astonishing speed, a massive wave of water following each of its movements. The water surged like a missile, spraying shimmering droplets under the dim sunlight, creating a dramatic moment suspended in the air. The crashing waves struck the gray hillside, a sharp reminder of the brutal war about to unfold. How tense and terrifying this moment was; thoughts jostled in Fitran's mind as he braced himself to face the horror that had arrived.
“Hold your position!” Fitran's voice rang out, harsh and flat like the instructions of a war machine. There was no comforting tone, only a command that was absolute—cold, demanding, almost indifferent to the fate of his followers. He gripped Voidlight tightly, not as a symbol of hope, but as a relentless weapon of destruction. His sharp eyes assessed the situation, glancing between the faces twisted in fear and tension of the golems loyal at his side. In an instant, he felt a strange sensation; as if a sigh rose within him, a flicker of doubt that whispered, “Is this right?” Yet, all of it was quickly silenced. His inner self would not allow this moment of weakness to seize his mind. Amidst the chaos, he could only tally the grim choices: whom to sacrifice, who could serve as bait, and who deserved to live.
In a matter of seconds, Avatar Tiamat charged to the front lines, her massive body crashing into the golem ranks with extraordinary force. A loud thud echoed, followed by a terrifying cracking sound of stone. Several golems were instantly shattered, their bodies splintering into tiny fragments, and Fitran showed no reaction whatsoever. He merely glanced at the destruction, as if watching dust swept by the wind, indifferent to the sacrifices unfolding before him. However, a furrow appeared on his brow, and a subtle tremor in his fingers revealed his inner turmoil. In his mind, he heard a soft whisper, "This is my path. All of this is for power. There is no other choice." A profound unease washed over him as he turned his gaze back to the horrific battlefield, a stark reminder of his ruined home and the ambition that continuously burned in his soul.
Fitran leapt forward, swinging Voidlight with incredible strength. The blade's light streaked like a flash of lightning in the night, impacting the creature's body and creating an explosion of cold light that reflected a blue shimmer from the monster's scales, as if the night sky was trembling under the moonlight. However, his strike only left a small scratch on the creature's tough skin. Fitran narrowed his eyes, focusing intently on the target ahead, igniting a cold, unaffected fire of assessment within him. He displayed no frustration—his mind operated like a machine, processing information coolly and immediately searching for the next weak point. A slight upward movement of his eyebrows suggested deep contemplation, evaluating and calculating without a trace of human emotion.
Avatar Tiamat growled with rage, her tail swinging toward Fitran with a force powerful enough to shatter stone. Without hesitation, Fitran jumped back, his movements efficient and precise, exuding no hint of doubt. His chest and shoulders moved with calmness; there was nothing frantic about him. He stared at the monster unflinchingly, as if challenging the ancient power to dare more than just instilling fear, even as his heart raced within his rib cage—a reminder of his physical existence. There was no trace of fear on Fitran's face; his cold blue eyes glimmered in the dark shadows, reflecting only a sharp and icy resolve to dominate, destroy, and conquer, deeply rooted in the darkness of the mission he bore.
“Fitran!" Rinoa's voice cried out from a distance, filled with a weak anxiety that barely registered in his ears. He could feel the tremor in her voice, like a seed of worry trying to take root in his mind. He only glanced briefly at Rinoa, noting her hopeful movements, her bright eyes shining despite the absence of emotional fluctuations within him. He offered no warm response, just a vacant nod—more like a confirmation to himself that he needed no assistance from anyone, not even from Rinoa. Yet there was a flicker of doubt that crossed his mind, which he quickly suppressed, dismissing it with absolute resolve, as though he had already chosen his path, and that path was not alongside hers.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Receiving attention from Rinoa did not move her heart in the slightest; instead, it only added a new variable to calculate on the battlefield. A piece of paper fluttering in the wind seemed to convey all the pain she had chosen to ignore. Fitran quickly returned to action, observing the opponent's movements without wasting time on empathy or concern for his comrades. His gaze was cold, focused on the ruins of the city, the shattered marble statues, and the cracked walls; all of these became mere backdrop for the battle, creating a dark atmosphere vibrating with the echoes of conflict. There were no memories, no emotional burdens, only fragments of a world that could either be used or left to crumble. A small voice within him whispered that all of this was not just about victory, but about how far he could fall into darkness.
Spotting a small gap between the monster's scales, Fitran concentrated his strength, not with hope, but with the certainty that every opponent had a weakness. In a moment that seemed to stretch, his breath quickened. He moved swiftly, swinging Voidlight at the weak point, as if carving a thread of fate in the air— not for hope, but for destruction. For a fleeting instant, doubt crossed his face before he was once again engulfed in fiery determination.
Her scream was devoid of anger or despair; instead, it was a cold command directed at her own body and magic. "Take your positions!" she shouted, her words echoing like thunder above the dark clouds. Her sword pierced the monster's skin, eliciting a roar of pain from it. A hollow feeling filled her chest, mingling with an odd satisfaction as she watched the creature writhe. Fitran stepped back, thick black blood soaking his body—he regarded the liquid without disgust or remorse, merely ensuring that his next strike would be more lethal. There was a strange peace in witnessing the downfall of her enemy, as if the order of darkness filled the empty space in her heart.
“Attack its weak point!” Fitran commanded loudly, his voice shattering like ice in the quiet night, offering not a hint of warmth. The golems, giants made of earth and stone, moved their bodies, each joint creaking as if reluctant, forced by the will of the sole ruler in that place. He cared not how much would be destroyed, as long as the target fell. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several comrades struggling to hold their ground, trembling, but all of it seemed distant, like shadows shrouded in mist.
Avatar Tiamat, despite her wounds, grew increasingly frenzied. Her eyes blazed in red, filled with rage, casting a fiery glow that made the air around her feel oppressive. From behind her body emerged dozens of small monsters—ferocious ancient beings, seemingly sent to amplify the suffering of those trapped in darkness. Fitran watched their approach, his gaze unyielding, as if extracting the sole truth from the chaos surrounding him. He did not deploy his troops to hold their ground; instead, he held his breath, waiting for the perfect moment to execute his plan with precision, focused on completing his own mission. Within his icy heart, he felt a flicker of impatience as he awaited the tense moments ahead.
The battle devolved into total chaos. Fitran observed his comrades fight valiantly, stumbling to the ground amidst screams filled with agony; some perished in vain. He frowned, assessing each loss he witnessed, yet in his mind, they were merely numbers, statistics in a battle scenario long orchestrated. A fleeting expression of sadness crossed his face but quickly vanished, replaced by a total chill.
At the altar, Rinoa stepped to the forefront, her magical light obliterating dozens of small monsters in an explosion of vibrant colors. Fitran glanced over briefly; his hand moved gracefully with the sword, simply ensuring the defensive line held a little longer—there was no sense of gratitude, just the cold mathematics of battle. Rinoa, her face flushed from exhaustion, responded to his gaze with a weak shake of her head, as if trying to say, “Please, hold on just a little longer.”
Rinoa's body weakened, her breath coming in gasps, sweat-soaked hair stuck to her forehead. Yet, Fitran showed no signs of concern; his face was flat, expressionless, but he could not hide the pain of seeing his comrades fall. He knew that anyone could fall at any moment—time was their greatest enemy. He only needed time, and if it meant sacrificing everything, including the heart that was beginning to warm, he would do so without hesitation, with a resolve as steel-like as that forged in fire.
Joanna stepped forward, offering her assistance to Rinoa. Fitran, however, paid no mind to their solidarity; for him, the only thing that mattered was the downfall of the main monster. He observed intently, his expression revealing no trace of concern. "This is not the time to relax," he whispered, his voice drowned out by the chaos of the battlefield. His fingers gradually clenched around the hilt of his sword, the tip bending under the pressure. Deep down, a flicker of doubt lingered—would all of this end with the loss of even more lives?
On the battlefield, Fitran fought relentlessly, his movements reminiscent of a killing machine. He fearlessly dodged every attack from the Avatar Tiamat, never looking back or retreating. As the monster began to tire, Fitran seized the initiative. Occasionally, his gaze paused briefly on the ruins of what was once a magnificent city, now reduced to a shadowy reminder of its former glory. The acrid scent of smoke and blood filled the air, creating an unforgettable aroma. He leaped high into the air, Voidlight raised with perfect precision—devoid of drama, just pure efficiency. The sword's light cut through the darkness, momentarily reflecting hope for the other warriors struggling to survive. With unrelenting force, Fitran dove down, Voidlight crashing into the monster's head. A wave of energy annihilated the smaller beasts around them, dust and debris swirling everywhere, yet Fitran stood firm amid the chaos, unwavering. Only the cold dew touched his face, strength and fury surging in his heart.
Avatar Tiamat let out a final roar that shook the ground beneath them. Her body collapsed to the earth with a thunderous thud, sending dust swirling in waves of destruction. Fitran stood resolute beside her, his sword buried deep, staring at the devastation before him with no sense of satisfaction. Beneath his cold exterior, a flicker of emotion stirred—a subtle twitch of his lips, perhaps a smile or merely a vacant expression, as if attempting to quell the turmoil within him. “I won’t let this all be in vain,” he spoke softly, almost inaudible amidst the silence that enveloped them. He merely took a deep, cold breath and awaited his next move.
The battle began to wane. The sounds of weeping and screaming were replaced by an eerie stillness, but amidst that silence, the echo of heavy, erratic footsteps reverberated through the ruins, a grim reminder that a dark presence still lingered. The citizens of Thirtos offered weak cheers, looking at Fitran with eyes filled with hope and gratitude, but their gazes received no response. His expression remained cold, his eyes fixed on the horizon—where Tiamat’s true form yet awaited. Yet, at that moment, as the moonlight illuminated his misty gaze, a single drop of sweat trickled down Fitran’s brow, revealing the soft, buried emotional journey within his soul.
“Will we survive?” A weak voice emerged from the crowd, carried by the night wind rustling through the leaves. Fitran briefly shifted his gaze, locking eyes with the young man. “Courage does not guarantee safety,” he replied in a deep, chilling voice, reminiscent of a rumbling echo within a cave, before looking back out at the sea. He understood that the battle was not over. Yet that night, Fitran remained an unyielding figure, cold and merciless. Amidst the ruins, the black umbrella in front of him cast a daunting shadow—not as a hero, but as the last threat to the darkness that still lurked in the world. As he felt his heart pounding fiercely, he struggled to control it, attempting to mask the fragility overwhelming his heart.
Deep down, there was no hope—only calculations, only the will to see everything through with his own hands. Like the merciless night sky offering no reprieve to the world beneath it, Fitran had ceased to be part of anyone's hope. He was a walking disaster, and the world knew: this was just the beginning. Then, as shadows of clouds crossed the stars, he felt the whispering breeze, as if it were a reminder of all that was lost and would never return. In that moment, a flicker of longing enveloped his chest, tightly sealed behind an untouched expression, waiting for the right moment to break free.
