Echoes of Destiny | Twice x Reader

ED 1

Y/N's POV:

In the midst of this sprawling valley, I find myself engulfed in the chaos of battle. The air is thick with tension.

I couldn't remember when this all started, but...

I gripped the blade that had just pierced my stomach from behind and slowly pushed it back out, feeling the cold, slick metal scrape against my skin. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the damp earthiness of the valley. I turned around to meet my attacker's widened eyes, the fear emanating from him palpable.

Blood trickled from the stab wound on my stomach, sending a sharp pang of pain through my immortal body. Despite the centuries of existence, the sensation never ceased to remind me of my mortality, however distant it might have been.

I watched with bored eyes as he fell down, looking up at me with shaken pupils, his breaths ragged and uneven. His trembling hands betrayed his determination, the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a drumbeat of panic.

"W-what are you?!" He yelled, his voice trembling with disbelief and terror.

I allowed myself a small, wry smile at his question, amused by the irony of his inquiry. "I'm immortal," I replied calmly, the weight of 1500 years of life evident in my voice. "And with all those years of living, I had noticed that humans really do love having wars."

Using the sword that had the stain of my own blood, I brought it down to his stomach, digging it deep into his flesh. His screams of pain were drowned by the sound of chaos behind me, the clash of steel and the raging war cries filling the air; a testament to the savagery of war that I shouldn't have been accustomed to.

I withdrew the sword, and immediately, the metallic tang of blood invaded my senses. I watched as the shine slowly left the man's eyes and fell limp to the ground, lifeless. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. I had taken another soul, yet it wasn't just the fact that I had willingly ended his life that caused turmoil with my morals, but the fact that I could have this look on my face despite knowing that this man would never come home to his family, alive. I stared at the sword, the cold steel - coated with our blood - reflecting my weary and unbothered gaze.

I may have gotten used to war, but the disgusting stench of blood never failed to make my stomach churn. It served as a grim record of the terrors of bloodshed, the lives I've taken, and the ones I've failed to save. Blood, in itself, was a stark reminder of a path I couldn't avoid. It stained my hands, my soul, and my very own morality -- it marked me as an unwilling participant in a never-ending cycle of violence.