Paragon

Remnants of the Great War [38]

PARAGON

Remnants of the Great War Arc [38]

Chapter 47 : Remnants of the Great War

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How much time had passed, Azett could not say. The unceasing ringing in his ears and skull-splitting agony in his head prevented him from even using the Plate to find out. All he could do was inhale and exhale, each breath confirming that he was still alive. The fact that he couldn't even tell what orientation his body was currently in was probably cause for concern, but anytime he thought of anything besides breathing, a wave of nausea would well up within him.

What eventually broke him from his hellish reverie was a new scent. Along with his sense of sight, hearing, and touch, Azett had thought he'd lost his sense of smell too. But a metallic, smoky smell began to waft into his nostrils, filling him with something other than ruin. It tickled the insides of his nose, and he crinkled it involuntarily.

With his sense of smell, his other senses swiftly returned as well. He felt sharp gravel pressing into his face, and he realized he was lying on the ground, of course. His limbs were sprawled out, and he began to feel a faint heat against the backs of his hands like a fire was nearby.

That was enough for him to act. Testing himself by moving his leg a bit, he eventually rolled over. Another wave of nausea assaulted him, but while he waited for it to pass, he kept his eyes open. Everything was still blurry, but he could make out general splotches of gray and brown around him. After several more minutes, he sat up in one swift motion, then stood up, before his body could protest.

His hair fell in a tangled mess around him, and his clothes were in tatters. He stood shakily, like a newborn, as he took in his surroundings.

The sky rumbled as if threatening to fall. As far as Azett could see, over hills and within valleys, all he saw was desolation. Lonely flames burned between a seemingly endless expanse of fallen human bodies and spiky tree stumps. Dust coated everything and wafted down in flurries like snow.

Yes, he remembered now. He was in Rota. For right ahead, at the center of a lake, which now reflected an utterly gray sky, stood Cameran Palace. Dust covered the entire castle, yet it appeared undamaged among the silent battlefield.

Azett turned his head. North of the palace, the Tree of Beginning still stood, and unlike everything else across the monochrome vista, it was still limned in emerald and aqua, the only entity of color in sight.

What did this?

He asked immediately. And a moment later, he knew.

A twister of anguish spiraled to life within him, but somehow, he forced out another question. "What did they do?" he croaked aloud, fear and despair alight in his bloodshot eyes.

...

He sank to his knees, quivering. "No," he moaned. "No...no, no, no...

He looked back up at the glimmering Tree. Tears fell from his eyes, and he remained paralyzed. Unable to move. Unable to accept.

Rota was not the only land swallowed in desolation. A similar view graced the face of continents across the world.

No, those views were far, far worse.

Kalos was gone. His entire kingdom. Everyone in it, dead. Everything, returned to zero.

The Paragons had already come and gone.

He had failed.

Hours later, even when he was hauled up by some others, a hood thrown over his head, Azett made no move to resist. There was not a single aspect of his being that was not irreparably shattered.