The night was cold for early autumn. A large, foreboding man—King Basque—stood at the edge of the alchemist encampment, his breath fogging the air as his piercing cognac eyes scouted the battlefield. The once serene valley, now bore the scars of war—charred earth, smoldering fires, and the acrid stench of death. His heart, once steadfast and resolute, trembled under the magnitude of his actions. The war he had brought to these peaceful lands, the atrocities he had sanctioned in the name of his people—they gnawed at him like a festering wound.

A venomous voice whispered in his ear, its virulent words contorting and distorting the king’s mind, like a snake coiling around his heart. Loppe Auclair, royal advisor and the king’s most trusted confidant, began to approach him. Loppe’s truths were sharp, unclouded by doubt, but above all, they were convenient.

The king’s army would have been quickly dispatched by the alchemists, but Loppe had devised an ingenious solution—dark, clear crystals, synthesized by the capital’s foremost alchemists, with the ability to drain the mana of even the most powerful alchemist. Equipped with such tools, the knights stood a fighting chance, and after hours of brutal resistance, they finally subjugated the nomads. By midnight, all that remained was a blaze of hellfire and a river of blood.

Basque rode through the ruins, his sword still gleaming with the blood of the fallen. His chest heaved, his veins burning from the sweltering heat. Yet, as he surveyed the carnage, a shadow of chilling doubt crept into his mind. He gripped his chest, attempting to recompose himself, when Loppe’s face finally entered the light—bloodied but unharmed.

“Your Majesty! Our mission was a great success! Only one threat remains. It seems only right that you should be the one to take care of it.”

Basque nodded, tightening his grip around his sword hilt, ready to dispatch whatever threat had been foolish enough to linger.

He followed Loppe through the remains of the camp, past the bodies of the men, women, and children they had slaughtered that night. The king’s stomach turned, and the guilt violently clawed at his throat. He could feel his sword growing heavier and heavier as the night went on.

At last, they arrived at a large tent hidden among trees and shrubbery, untouched by the flames. Basque stepped inside, his heart slowing in relief. One more life, and this nightmare would be over. He could finally return to his family—to his wife, to his son. He unsheathed his sword, ready to strike down the last foe. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, his heart froze.

There, swaddled in white sheets, lay an infant—no more than a few weeks old. The child gazed up at him with wide, innocent eyes, untainted and faultless. Basque’s stomach churned, and he gagged. This—this helpless child—was the final threat, the final life he would have to take.

For a moment, his resolve faltered. The sword in his hand felt unbearably heavy. The child’s gaze pierced his hardened heart, carving a single word into his soul: Mercy. Could he spare this one life? Could he defy the duty that demanded such a monstrous act?

Loppe’s voice cut through the fog in his mind.

“If you let this boy live, he will surely grow up with vengeance in his heart. He will bring death and destruction to your doorstep, and in your old age, you will be powerless to stop him.”

Basque’s voice came out in a whisper, trembling with disgust and anger.

“Your words go too far, Loppe… how could you possibly ask me to do such a thing?”

“He is the offspring of the very devils we came here to purge. How can you come this far, then turn away? Do you wish to see everything you fought for be undone?”

Loppe spoke firmly, with impatience.

“This child is not one of them,”

The king snapped, his voice rising.

“I will not take the life of an innocent child!”

Loppe’s eyes narrowed.

“He will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. Spare him, and you risk everything—your kingdom, your family.”

The infant began to cry, startled by the shouting. Basque’s heart ached. He wanted to save the child, to defy his duty. But Loppe’s words coiled around his neck, tightening like a noose.

Images flooded his mind—his son’s fragile smile, his wife’s gentle touch. Could he risk their lives for the sake of mercy? Could he afford to be kind when kindness was so costly?

Torn between duty and conscience, he hesitated. But the weight of his crown pressed down on his blade, and he did not stop himself. He was a king—a protector. If becoming a monster was the price of his people’s safety, so be it.

With a shuddering breath, he steeled himself. The blade fell. The crying ceased.

He stood over the lifeless form, the horror of his actions settling over him like a shroud. His knees buckled, and he retched, the bile burning his throat.

“You have ensured your kingdom’s safety,”

Loppe said, his grin wide and triumphant.

“Well done, Your Majesty.”

Basque rose unsteadily, his back to the tent, unable to face what he had done.

“I have done the right thing,”

He whispered, more to himself than to Loppe.

“I have made the right decision.”

He mounted his steed and rode into the morning light. The chapter had turned, and his nightmare was over.