Waves of blue flames washed the Royal Palace’s walls, blackening them in seconds. Marbles, metals and stones melted. Clothes and silk adorning the wall burned.

One man scrambled to get away, pathetically weeping and tripping from a lazy column of flame turning another stone wall into a pool of molten rocks. He stumbled, rolling across the ground with no dignity. Fires crawled slowly toward him, slowly consuming any fragment of survival.

“Please!” Sol begged through snots and tears. “We can talk about this Wayward?”

“Not interested,” Wayward dismissed.

Sol backed himself into the corner.

“How long do we know each other? Seven years? Ten? Remember all those times we spent together?”

“I remember how much of a pain it is to endure your fake grin and that condescending attitude.”

Sol ducked as Wayward’s lazy splashes of flames reduced the wall behind her into slags and crawled away frightfully.

“I will give you anything you want! Power! Status! Bitches! You can have everything!”

“Huh,” Wayward’s eyelids barely moved. “Yeah, how believable? You just kill a noble you don’t like, rape his daughter to the point of insanity, and beheaded his mutilated wife to sate your impulse. You are the last person anyone can trust.”

“You are different from those trash!”

“I disagree.”

Sol barely felt the pain of azure fire incinerating his leg.

“Arrghh!!!”

Sol flopped in pain like a dying insect.

“Any last words?”

“Please…. Please let me go,” Sol crawled toward Wayward and begged.

Wayward narrowed his eyes and turned back, leaving Sol begging.

Seeing the opportunity, what everyone expected from Sol Grandy occurred.

“GOT YOU WAYWARD!” Sol leaped at Wayward's blind spot. Instead of a successful surprise attack, a wall of fire engulfed him, leaving not a speck of ashes behind.

“Sneak attack the moment someone back is turned,” Wayward muttered. “You never change, Sol. Even a child can predict your moves by choosing the scummiest option available.”

Wayward left the pile of ash to fade into the trash-heap of history.

…

“Lord Mehest, please…”

“No, Velnia,” Orwell Mehest was stern. “I already come too far.”

Velnia bit her lip. She tried to ask Mehest to stop, but she failed. No words seemed to register. In her mind, vengeance had utterly consumed Orwell and nothing could stop him, but she must stop anymore tragedy.

“Lord Mehest, I know the Grand Empire hurt your people, but this is not the proper way to settle your difference.”

Orwell chuckled.

“So, what is a proper way? Lodging a complaint letter against the Empire that rule a third of Aurora Continent? I think your neighbour in Centuria already provided a real-life example of what happens.”

“You can always go to the gods!”

Orwell blinked, then he lost it.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Orwell nearly fell head-first to the floor in a gut-busting fit of laughter. He even turned toward the surviving nobles, silently pleading for their confirmation that this was happening. Everyone shook their head in dismay.

“The mother-fucking gods?” Orwell guffawed. “Velnia, I am far from the saintliest person in this room, but I have something to preach. The gods fucking suck.”

Orwell addressed the assembling nobles.

“Open question!” Orwell yelled at the cowering crowd. “I hate you for being responsible for my people’s downfall and you hate me for tearing down your precious city, but let call truce to agree on one thing. When in the history of Phantasia had the gods act maturely?”

Silence.

“Name one! Just one occasion where the gods are the inspiring force of fairness and justice! Does any of them ever charitably act worthy of their station!?”

“Err,” a noble raised his hands up. “Lady Artio and Cytortia. Lady Hestia is also decent. Lord Frey is okay.”

Orwell shrugged. The man had a point.

“Fine,” Orwell admitted. “But don’t you find it depressing that the only decent members of the god-race on top of your head is loser ranked lower than me, a hermit goddess, a virgin grandma who vanished after abandoning her seat on Olympus, and the poor sod so sicken by the elves he left.”

Silence. Orwell nailed it.

“No one else?” Orwell spun toward the Princess. “There you have it, Velnia. Not even the nobles believe in the internal decency of the gods. The kindest among them already give up or too weak to fight back. This is the reason no one in the Willow Heart Street or Liberator give a shit of trust to the god; it is them who oversee this global breakdown.”

Velnia shook her head.

“That is…”

“Oh, have a hard time wrapping your head around this idea. Not surprising. Royal families throughout Phantasia teach their young the same things; everything is nice, flowery garden and it will be nicer if the little stubborn people just get over their stupid selfishness and see how good it is — just ignore the unclean in great-grandpa’s management. That is a lie, Princess. Ten unwanted weeds is sacrifice for one flower to bloom. That where your prosperity and wealth originated, Velnia — the back of the people on the wrong side of the god’s favor.”

“That…”

“Why do you think Hal Jordan criticized your fantasy?” Orwell noticed Velnia’s face distorted. “Oh, you think he is an evil, disagreeable man, do you? Let me correct that misunderstanding, Princess. Hal Jordan loves people more than you and I combine. Every toxic word he threw to ridicule you and Chuang Tianshang stemmed from the anger at your hypocrisy and ignorance. The more you love the common man, the more intense is your disgust at the ignorant Princess spouting a propaganda harming them.”

“You are taking his side?”

The nobles perked up at the conversation — at the aspect of Orwell they never saw.

“Yes,” Orwell answered. “Do you know Hal Jordan realized what I am up too and tried to stop me? I would say he partially succeeds. His monumental accomplishment is the reason I have to invade this city instead of finishing these worthless nobles in an instant. He is the unsung hero of Venistalis.”

“That can’t be,” Velnia couldn’t comprehend the sadistic and cruel figure saving anyone.

“It can be,” Orwell corrected. “One-man demon is another man guardian angel. He is an interesting man, Jordan. Like you, he tries to talk me out of this act. I suspect he realized it pointless, but he still tried to save me.”

Orwell glanced at the moon of horror in melancholy.

“Our battle is inevitable. This clash will transform the world. How it will change depends on the might of our vision. But I am glad he is my opponent.”

A voice of Wayward commented.

“Because in the unlikely scenario you lost, you can die knowing that the victor will create the world where no more men walk our path,” Wayward spoke melancholically.

Orwell barely reacted to Wayward silent entrance.

“Oh, you are back. What about Sol?”

“Dead.”

“Good,” Orwell felt a tad more cheerful. “Nothing of value is lost.”

“I have a request for you.”

“We will talk about this later. Compensating Sol’s screw-up take priority.”

It was then that Velnia’s concept of good and evil broke. The two mass murderers were a decent human. Meanwhile, they treated the person she hated and feared as an avatar of heroism. Velnia’s black and white vision of the world ceased to function.

“I don’t understand!” Velnia raised her voice. Her gazed shifted between Wayward and Orwell. “Why are you both doing this? Why do you admire such an insufferable man? Why is his desire for universal happiness more admirable than mine!?”

Wayward sighed, some Princess was too thick.

“Perhaps I need to give you a perspective,” Orwell beckoned the Princess. “Follow me.”

…

That day Princess Velnia learned a lesson — a lesson about power.

Orwell's army lined the place's floor, caked with bodies and blood of the garrison forces. Velnia had seen the common skeleton making up most of Orwell’s forces, but skeletons were merely the grunt of Orwell’s army.

Amalgam behemoth — Golem made of blood, ice and stones — acted as a heavy unit. Army of wraths — ghost-like creature with hungry looked blanket the skies. Then there was the special unit. A Death-knight — massive cloaked figures floating in the air with the sword of green fires. A tankish Amalgam War-machine of bone and stone. Humongous shadows of crow and tigers towering over houses, surrounded by an army of their smaller version. Critter of Insects composed of black-obsidian body filled the gap. Then there was an army of skeleton in Spiritium coating.

All of them were assembling a plaza, a rapidly growing army of thousands — expanding and strengthening. For the first time in her life, Velnia understood fear. To realize the weighted of undeniable uncertainty crushing her lungs.

“This is my army,” Orwell said. “Even now, my device is manufacturing more advance unit. With the royal-mages and royal-knights extinct. No one has a chance of stopping me.”

Orwell started reminiscing.

“Do you remember my word about wiping the slate clean? This is the only method for cleaning the slate. It is a lesson my people learned. It is the reality the weak grasps after years after getting trample by the strong. Power is the sole dictator of the slate. To make the world peaceful, we need power to destroy all unforgivable oppositions. We need might to annihilate the chain of hate by cleanly and completely wiping out all resistance — power that even the gods have to acknowledge. It is not the rule I want, but it a rule impose to us by this cruel reality. Hal Jordan understands this, so he treats your frivolous fantasy with such gravity. You are a child fantasizing about world peace. Jordan is the hero who counts every threat on that impossible path, fight past his fear, and endure inhuman pain of walking to his dream. That is the difference between you two.”

The next series of words froze Velnia’s vein.

“Forgiveness for everyone is sweet, but it is impossible to reconcile with an ant. Your vision is only possible in the world where everyone is equally powerful, not in the one where gods and false prophet haunted mankind.”

…

Rem peered through time. He saw the army. He saw Sol’s mess. He watched the garrison fell to the last man.

It concluded everything — an inevitable checkmate was coming. They lost too many materials, too many squares, and the opponent was way ahead in the board state. Their castle was in carnage. Pressure mounted on all sides. It was so bad even a chess grandmaster couldn’t stop the inevitable.

Their hands were too terrible, and the NPC sabotaged their effort at every turn. It was a matter of time until all resistance inside the city got tossed into the oven and served to Orwell.

Rem’s clock ran out. He only got one option.

He hated himself for even considering this choice. He hesitated to the last second, but no simulation in his CCC provided a better answer; a dice must be cast. A sacrifice is necessary to give them salvations. 

Down the line, what separated from the monster like Wayward and Orwell from him was barely a visible sentimentality.

Rem flipped his communicator open. He wanted to pray for forgiveness, but he knew better. Curse was what he deserved.

Rem cursed himself and tossed the dice.

…

Cytortia came to the same conclusion — they lost.

Casualties crowded her improvised ward. Several injuries were light. Many were grievous. Luxinna and Melody were barely stabilizing before the medical ward hit with an exponential number of recipients. The volunteer nurses already tapped out their Mana half an hour ago. They were now down to first-aid kit.

But her current patient was the biggest headache.

“I already recover, Cy,” a feverish Hikma tried to rise out of his bed. “I need to do this.”

“No, mister,” Cytortia shoved him back down and showed him the thermometer. “See this! 40°C! You are having a high-fever right now! If you exert yourself anymore, you will be in a fast-track to Valhalla! You already fainted in the battlefield once! You are in no position to march back to the battlefield.”

Hikma fought back his pained breath and dizziness.

“I have to,” the boy replied. “They need someone to help them hold the line. They need me, Cy.”

“They can manage!”

“Cy,” Hikma starred into her eyes. “I need to do this.”

Cytortia realized Hikma was right. Their defense was crumbling. The report rang panic throughout the entire operation. Their territory dropped from 10% to 7% then to 3%. The resistance was on the verge of defeat and the condition was irreversible without a miracle.

Her communicator rang. Cytortia sensed it. Acceptance crept up her spine like a warmth of the sun. Rem was foretelling the future. It was the scenario she suspected both him and Satholia expected to come to pass.

Cytortia recalled the Lost Divine. It was fable, written in a book Rem brought from Millian. A story about the prince of the god — sickened by his father inaction toward the decrepit state of the world. The godly prince tossed aside his right as god and led the people as a mortal king. He unified the land, discovered legends, and became the idol withstanding all ages. The former god died a mortal with an unmatchable legacy. He threw away his divine might and heaven favors to become an immortal example of nobility in the heart of mankind.

The Lost Divine recorded the prince’s immortal accomplishment for two-hundred glorious pages with only two paragraphs dedicate to his father. If a man died when he was forgotten, then the former god surely beaten his godly father as an immortal.

Cytortia opened the communicator.

“Cy, I have…”

“The Lost Divine,” Cy answered. “I know what that story entailed, Rem.”

Silence.

“I do some research, dumbass,” Cytortia smiled. “I can imagine how you look right now—hunch back, blaming yourself for screwing up bad enough it forces me into this position. You are in no position to blame yourself about anything, Rem, because this is not your fault. Even if you predicted everything, you can’t stop Orwell’s activation of that tower.”

Silence. Cytortia knew Rem didn’t believe that.

“You won’t be hearing from me for some time,” Cytortia cheerfully said. “So do you need any favor before  I retire?”

Rem told her.

“Stupid,” Cytortia muttered when he finished. “Something that inconsequential is not even important. Yes. I approve. Now, watch me save the day. Don’t you dare blink, understand?”

Cytortia closed the communicator.

Hikma instantly realized his friend was going to do something monumentally drastic.

“Cy, what the hell are you planning to do?”

Cytortia gave him a mournful, but beautiful, smile.

“I am going to perform one Arcane you can never use,” Cytortia puffed herself up. “Don’t you dare look away, Hikma! This is my greatest moment. I am going to give hope back to everyone!”