Fires burn on the ground, blazing brightly and producing such a revolting smell. The sky that was once a beautiful blue is tainted crimson as clouds of dust drifted heavily towards it. The ground that was once grown with bright green grass has turned a mucky brown soaked with thick red blood. The flowers that once bloomed and gives off that nostalgic scent has been replaced with nothing but the smell of the dead. The atmosphere is thick and heavy and dead silent. It was full of cries of war and the clash of metal against metal.
In the middle of the field were two figures, one atop of the other surrounded by lifeless figures or fellow comrades. Both men were tired, blood dripped on both their faces as the one on top wearing the scarlett golden chestplate pointed his sword at his enemy that lay below his feet. His sword, stained and dripping with fresh thick blood, was angled just above his enemy's heart. One plunge was all it would take to end this madness. One plunge and the world would be at an everlasting reigning peace.
He raised his sword that reflects the angry blazing fires and lunged it straight into a small wall of muscle and into his enemy's heart and hit the soil he lay on. The man screamed and writhed beneath him till his last breath left his lips and his eyes were soulless.
A second passed till he struggles to pull his sword out from the man's chest. He raised his sword again and sliced through where the head meets the shoulder. The unsatisfying sound of ripping skin and muscle has brought bile to his mouth. He just decapitated the corpse, the claiming sign of a victorious win.
The side of his face had blood trailing down from an earlier offence from the enemy who attempted to land a killing blow on him. His skin was coated with splashes of layers of thick blood.
The warrior looked around, his head analysing everything before him. The dead bodies of his fellow hundreds of comrades stayed where they were. Another hundreds of bodies of the enemies troops were slayed, their insides exposed or weapons that remained impaled on their lifeless bodies.
The atmosphere has thickened as he stood there alone, as though death itself slithered along as a creature and claim the souls of those who passed. The fires flickered and blazed with intense heat. The silence was deafening, screams of the dying still echoed in his head. The smell and the sight of the dead starting to reek could have anyone starting to throw out what was in their stomachs.
His bloodied face looked towards the South, where the kingdom of Mytthesia stood shining. Facing his kingdom, he dropeed to his knees as he screams in mourning of the loss of his comrades. "Why?"
He stayed in that position till he felt his muscles scream at him to move. Grabbing the head of the decapitated enemy, he has orders to return.
His steps were heavy as the blood-soaked ground beneath him squished at the impact. Walking over the corpses of the dead, he surveys the faces that were frozen with twisted fear and agony. He couldn't have a proper burial for his comrades, not even laying a flower on their lifeless chests. There were just too many of them. His orders were to return immedietaly of they claim victory.
He kept trudging onwards, gripping onto the head so tight his knuckles turned white. Shaking his head and sighing, he didn't know how to say explain being the only survivor yet continued trudging on to Mytthesia.
He took many moons to travel back to Mytthesia; alone without his comrades.
His many days of travel has left him hobbled. He can't move without limping. His voice was raw and sore. His limbs felt numb and appear to dangle by his big-sized frame of a body. His face was pale and hagged yet the dust and blood on his face stood out.
He approached the golden gates of Mytthesia that has radiated its pure light throught lands. Recognising his presence, the gates opened like bells. The moment he passed the gates which closed like chimes, Mytthesia stood before him.
Right in front him was a make-shift dais made from mother pearl that shimmered like the morning star under the radiance of the Sun. On the dais stood four thrones made from Coralite. On each of the thrones awaited a member of the wise royal family of Mytthesia.
Unable to utter a sound nor show any gesture, he presented the decapitated head with all the strength he have left as the last remaining survivor. The claiming sign of victory.
