Legacy of the Broken Sword

The Price of Arrogance

The battlefield was smaller this time, but the stench of death was just as suffocating. Smoke from burning carcasses rose in thick plumes, casting an oppressive haze over the scene. Scattered among the remains of monstrous beasts lay the bodies of imperial soldiers, their lifeless forms slumped over broken weapons and shattered shields.

At the center of it all stood the MC.

His sword dripped with blood, its once-brilliant blade dulled by the viscera of countless foes. His armor bore fresh gouges, exposing torn fabric and bloodied flesh beneath. Yet his face was impassive, devoid of triumph or grief.

He surveyed the carnage with a hollow gaze, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Around him, there was no movement. No groans of the dying, no cries for help—only silence.

The battle was over.

And just like before, he was the last one standing.

The Soldiers' Fall

Among the dead lay the soldiers who had survived the previous war. Their expressions were frozen in a mixture of terror and disbelief, as though they had never imagined their strength and numbers would fail them.

He stepped over one of the bodies—a man who had, just weeks ago, laughed with his comrades about how unnecessary the MC's training was.

"Why should we listen to him?" the man had scoffed during one of their sessions. "He's not even one of us. He's just a tool the emperor uses."

The others had agreed, mocking the MC's methods and questioning his authority. They saw him as a threat to their pride, their fragile egos unable to accept that one person—someone so young—could outshine them so completely.

And now, here they lay, their arrogance buried with them in the blood-soaked dirt.

Apathy and Reflection

The MC knelt beside one of the fallen soldiers, not out of grief but curiosity. The man's face was contorted in fear, his hand still clutching the hilt of a shattered sword.

"You thought you didn't need me," he murmured, his voice soft but devoid of emotion. "You thought you could survive without my help."

He rose to his feet, letting out a quiet sigh. There was no anger in his tone, no bitterness—only a cold acceptance of the reality before him. They had chosen their path, and now they had paid the price.

He felt no guilt, no sorrow. Why should he? They had scorned his efforts, refused his guidance, and spat on his attempts to make them stronger. Their deaths were not his burden to bear.

The Weight of Loneliness

But as he turned away, a faint, unwelcome thought crept into his mind.

Is this how it will always be?

No matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many enemies he vanquished, the result was always the same. He would stand victorious, surrounded by the dead—alone.

The soldiers' disdain for him hadn't lessened the weight of that solitude. In fact, it had only made it heavier.

"You're nothing more than a weapon," they used to say, their laughter ringing in his ears.

Perhaps they were right.

The Emperor's Voice

A faint rustling of cloth broke the silence. He turned to see another envoy approaching, their imperial robes untouched by the filth of the battlefield.

"The emperor wishes to commend you," the envoy said, bowing slightly. "Your victory has secured the empire's borders once again."

The MC stared at the envoy, his expression unreadable. "And the soldiers?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

The envoy hesitated, glancing at the bodies littering the ground. "Their sacrifice will be honored," he replied carefully.

The MC laughed—a bitter, humorless sound. "Sacrifice?" he repeated. "Is that what we're calling incompetence now?"

The envoy flinched but said nothing.

"Tell the emperor I'll be ready for the next battle," the MC said, his voice cold. Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking toward the horizon, leaving the envoy and the battlefield behind.

The Eternal Cycle

As he walked, the memories of his childhood friends resurfaced. Their faces were a stark contrast to the scornful expressions of the soldiers who had died today. His friends had believed in him, trusted him, and valued him for who he was—not for what he could do.

But they were gone, taken by monsters, just as these soldiers had been taken by their own hubris.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The hatred that had been his constant companion surged within him, not directed at the soldiers, the imperial family, or even himself, but at the endless cycle of violence that defined his existence.

No matter how many battles he fought, the outcome was always the same. Death, destruction, and isolation.

And yet, he continued.

Because what else was there for a weapon to do?