Hollow Victory

The once-vibrant fields in front of Marshall Kairos lay in ruin. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of Aetheria, bearing the unmistakable odor of blood and death. 

The war has ended. 

The Tuseans won. 

He won. 

The remnants of the once-proud armies of both Hokar and Tusea now lay scattered, their armor dull and lifeless under the gray sky. For a moment, Kairos stood motionless, his piercing gray eyes as frigid as the fallen bodies surrounding him. 

His blade, which was still humming with unsated hunger, felt hot against his palm. It wanted more, more blood, more destruction, more death. 

He lifted his head and stared at the sunless skies. The sun had stopped shining since the war started. Then his gaze landed on the wounded woman not too far away from him. 

Saintess Arianna's eyes were half-opened. She too had been staring at the ruins before them. 

Kairos said nothing. Mud and grime caked Arianna's once-proud white armor which was now dented and punctured in a dozen places. Blood, both hers and her enemies', stained the metal in a grotesque crimson. Her white hair, which was usually meticulously braided, hung in matted strands around her face, framed by streaks of dried blood. 

Her breaths came in shallow rasps, each one a struggle against the wounds that marred her pale skin. Despite the ravaged state of her body, Arianna's silver-gray eyes still held a spark of defiance, a flicker of the unwavering faith that had made her a legend among the Tuseans and Hokarians. 

Kairos sneered inwardly. Righteousness is useless in front of a war. 

"You won," the Saintess said in a voice that was akin to a whisper. 

Did he? 

Once again, Kairos stared at the bodies scattered across the field. Some lay crumpled and broken, beyond recognition. Others, their faces etched with a grim determination, were clearly Tuseans. Men and women he'd led, who'd believed in his cause enough to die for it. 

The metallic tang of blood filled Kairos' mouth, a phantom taste that lingered even after he licked his lips clean. 

He did win. The Tusean flag which had been muddied and tattered, now dominated the desolate landscape. Yet, the victory felt like ash in his mouth. 

His gaze swept over the field once more. Tusean faces which were once etched with the same grim determination he felt mirrored in his own reflection, stared back at him. These were the believers, the ones who had followed him, their trust a heavy weight in his gut right now. 

Turning back to Arianna, he found her unwavering gaze aimed at him. It was full of defiance and anger and determination—determination to hurt him before her death. He sneered. 

"Satisfied?" she rasped, her voice barely audible. "Do you think this... carnage... solves anything?" He saw the plea flicker in her eyes, a silent request for the final mercy. But for him, the answer wasn't clear. 

He remained silent, his jaw clenched, his blue eyes reflecting the desolate gray sky above. Since he lost his sister hundreds of years ago, Kairos always thought of defeating the ones who 'accidentally' killed her. He thought of ruining their country and for the longest time, he had worked so hard to achieve what he thought was right. 

But why does it feel different? 

Where was the satisfaction that he thought he would have after all the carnage? Was it all for naught? The death, the blood, the lives lost—why was it not enough to give him that satisfaction? 

"Marshall… we cannot find Theodora," Al Haim's voice broke through his stupor. "Her body was not among the dead." 

Kairos nodded. "Gather the others," he responded, his voice sounding a little coarse. After two days of silent endurance, his throat felt dry as a desert; he craved water as much as he craved blood. Since the war started, the cravings have increased, but he never expected the weapon to start using his own blood as its fuel. 

Al Haim lingered for a few seconds, perhaps to stare at the Saintess's state before he nodded and finally left. 

"Kill me," she rasped, her voice a mere tremor in the desolation. Kill her? End her pathetic flicker of defiance? It was such a simple request, one he'd fantasized about for centuries. Yet, as he looked down at her, broken and bloodied, a strange emptiness gnawed at him. 

Centuries of vengeance boiled down to this single, whimpering figure. Was this truly the culmination of his life's work? The Tusean flag, a tattered symbol of victory, mocked him from the horizon. "Victory," he spat, the word a bitter ash on his tongue. 

Where was the elation, the catharsis he'd craved for so long? The youthful and innocent face of his sister flashed in his mind. Had all this death and destruction brought her back? No. It had only birthed a monstrous emptiness within him. 

He knelt beside Arianna, his gaze lingering on the glint of defiance that still flickered in her silver eyes. "Hope," he said, the word a foreign taste in his mouth. "The most irritating feeling a human could have." A cruel smile twisted his lips. "But fear… fear is a much more productive emotion, wouldn't you agree, Saintess?" 

He ignored her choked gasp, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield once more. The sight of fallen Tusean warriors, their faces mirroring his own hollow victory, sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through him. This wasn't over. The Hokarians may have lost the battle, but their hope, that irritating ember, still flickered. 

Arianna would die, of course. But not as a mercy, not an end to her suffering. She would die a slow, agonizing death, a message etched in blood and bone for the remaining Hokarians. A message that whispered, "Hope dies. Only vengeance remains." 

He rose to his feet, the weight of his actions a crushing burden. Yet, he wouldn't break. He wouldn't succumb to this… emptiness. He would turn it into a weapon, a cold, steely resolve that would fuel him until the very last Hokarian was eradicated. The war may be over, but his vengeance had just begun.

Yes. He won.

The Villain Won.

...

A/N: This is undergoing a huge rewrite. Thank you Editor JJ for the help.