The Grim Loop Of Destiny

The night deepened, thick as ink, swallowing the battlefield in its cold embrace. And then—**he** stepped forward.

Ralf Zanglof.

His presence alone was enough to shift the air, turning the already tense atmosphere into something suffocating. Majestic green hair framed his stern features, his black eyes carrying the weight of untold battles. A gleaming knight's armor encased his form, the metal glinting under the faint moonlight. A long sword rested on his back, and an armband with the letter **G** adorned his left arm.

Veythor's smirk widened at the sight. **So, he's here.**

Ralf walked forward, his heavy armor clanking with each deliberate step. The metallic echoes filled the silent field, each sound a declaration of his resolve. When he finally came to a halt, he stood close—**too close.** The surrounding warriors, Erika, and Karban watched in silence, the air charged with something unspoken.

And then… their eyes met.

Ralf's gaze was unreadable—not disgust, not pity. **Something else.** A strange, nostalgic sadness lingered within those black irises. Veythor's expression did not change, but deep inside, he recognized it for what it was.

A silent question.

A memory neither man would acknowledge.

For a long moment, neither spoke. No words were needed. This was a battle of **aura**, a clash of presence. But if Ralf was light, then Veythor was darkness. **The sun and the abyss. The day and the night.**

Karban broke the silence, his voice a low whisper.

"Princess Erika, let us handle this mundane matter. Withdraw your men for now. That man—**Veythor**—is already gravely injured. We have enough strength to capture him. There is nothing to worry about. After we seize him, we will hand him over to you."

Erika's eyes narrowed as she processed his words. She hesitated, considering the logic behind it. If Karban could truly capture Veythor, then deploying her own soldiers would be unnecessary.

"Uh… but are you su—"

Before she could finish, Ralf spoke.

**"No."**

The single word cut through the air like a blade.

Erika turned her gaze to him, irritation flaring in her chest. She glared, her voice sharp with anger.

**"Huh? Since when did you start giving me orders? Know your place, you impudent man!"**

But Ralf remained unmoved. His tone was cold, his stance unwavering.

**"Do not misunderstand me, Princess. But with all due respect, I will reject and defy any order if I find it naïve and foolish."**

Erika's expression twisted into a furious scowl. Her teeth clenched, her fists tightened.

**"How dare yo—"**

**"Did you forget your enemy is me?"**

Veythor's voice sliced through the rising tension like a dagger. He chuckled, the sound low and mocking.

**"If not, then why are you squabbling among yourselves?"**

The absurdity of the situation was amusing. His laughter, sharp and venomous, only added to the discomfort in the air.

Ralf, unfazed, turned back to Erika, his voice firm.

**"We have the numbers. And he is injured. If he were an ordinary soldier, I wouldn't be concerned. But he is not.**

**Did you forget? Your father, the 'almighty,' undefeated genius—**he was killed by this man. **This is the same Veythor. We do not have the luxury to hesitate. If we want to survive, we must attack now. Instantly. Even a second of delay could cost us our lives."**

Erika seethed, but she could not argue. **Because it was the truth.**

Then—Veythor laughed.

**"Pfht… Hahaha… Hahaha… Hahahahahaha!"**

His laughter was wild, unhinged—**as if he had just heard the greatest joke in the world.**

He finally exhaled, his smirk returning as he looked at Ralf.

**"I see. You haven't changed much, Ralf."**

His voice was calm, but his words carried an unmistakable weight.

**"Brilliant strategy. Attack me with full power, overwhelm me, kill me on the spot. Impressive. Truly.**

**But…"** He let the word hang in the air, savoring the moment before his smirk deepened.

**"Sorry to disappoint you. That's not going to happen."**

For the first time, Ralf's expression hardened. **Too late.**

**"Hmph."** Ralf exhaled sharply, gripping the hilt of his sword. His black eyes were steeled with determination.

**"You won't escape this time, Veythor."**

His voice carried the weight of an oath.

**"As long as I, Ralf Zanglof—the loyal blade of the great Miral Krules—draw breath, you will not leave this place alive. Not anymore."**

His declaration was like an ironclad promise.

But Veythor—**he only laughed in his heart.**

**Loyal blade? How ironic.**

The smirk on his lips turned colder, his voice dipped in mockery.

**"Look who's talking."** His words slithered into the night like venom. **"Weren't you the one who ran from me like a pathetic coward? How ironic."**

Ralf's jaw tightened. His grip on his sword was rigid, his knuckles white. With a sharp motion, he unsheathed his blade, its cold steel reflecting the moonlight.

**"The blades of justice will bring you down today, Veythor."** His voice was unwavering. **"You cannot escape your fate. And that fate is death."**

Veythor's eyes glinted with something unreadable.

**"Fate? Justice?"**

A chuckle escaped him—low, biting, almost dangerous.

**"Hahaha… don't make me laugh."**

His expression darkened, his smirk fading into something more sinister.

**"If fate truly willed me to die, then why does it keep mocking me?**

**My fate is what made me who I am today."**

A flicker of something foreign passed through Ralf's eyes—confusion, perhaps. He did not understand. **None of them did.**

**Because they did not know the truth.**

**Veythor was not of this world.**

And then, his voice rose, sharp and commanding. A voice not just of anger—**but of something deeper. Something twisted.**

**"And as for justice…**

**Justice is merely an illusion that people create to satisfy themselves.**

**If justice truly existed in this damned, accursed world…**

**Then men like me wouldn't exist at all."**

His voice turned to a whisper—a whisper that carried through the wind, wrapping around the battlefield like a curse.

---

**In this realm where shadows feast on light,**

**Justice appears but a phantom in the night.**

**A fickle guise that crumbles in despair,**

**A whispered myth, unfelt by hearts laid bare.**

**Thus, they speak of justice, but only in whispers,**

**A tale for fools, a promise for beggars.**

**The guilty walk with crowns on their heads,**

**While the righteous rot in unmarked beds.**

**The strong carve laws with bloodied hands,**

**The weak are buried beneath the sands.**

**No scale, no sword, no hand divine—**

**Only power decides what's yours and mine.**

**Call it fate, call it right—**

**It's just a game where might makes right."**

---

The battlefield fell silent.

Veythor's words hung in the air like the weight of inevitability.

**This was not a man who feared death.**

This was a man who **understood the world for what it truly was.**

And that… **made him terrifying.**