A lone soldier stood in a mountain of rubble and corpses, with cinnabar flames dancing around him. As the foundations crumbled beneath his almighty feet, he could not fathom why these fools stood their ground in defiance, even though they lacked a sliver of hope.

  All he could mouth out was–

  "Why?"

  These historical structures had existed for thousands of years, only to fall under his insatiable appetite for destruction. Unlike the lukewarm officers who avoided combative roles in this campaign, he had chosen this path against everyone’s best wishes.

  Even as years passed, that bitter memory of suffering and self-loathing remained in his mind. That unerasable memory that haunted him since he lost her helped shape his current grotesque form of…

  …A soldier adorning a masked crown.

  Its design mirrored that of the rogue Ascended, who outright humiliated him. He who had lost his birthright did not need an identity, which coincidentally fitted his modus operandi.

  With each mission handed down by above to handle the threat of insurgents within the Central regions, the maddened, artificial bloodlust had slowly corrupted his once-righteous soul to the point of amnesia.

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  Despite all that, he could remember them. Their existence would only remind him of his biggest blunder, so he would avoid them whenever they attempted to establish contact.

  “...It does not matter anymore.”

  As long as the crown remained in his possession, he could close his eyes and let the algorithm’s technological nightmare envelop his consciousness and engulf his five senses in a violent whirlwind of insanity. He could drown his inner turmoil and relentlessly charge into the battlefield, brandishing the Artifact bestowed upon him to inflict as much chaos as he desired. Like a cursed blade forged to perform unfettered acts of calamity before fading into nothingness, it felt like a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy. From the rear, he could make out the outline of his army, the incomplete creation stemming from his comrade’s undertaking the final work.

  Flanked by his eternally subservient soldiers, he could let loose and transform any battlefield into a chaotic portrait that one would simply describe as…hell.

  Until that day arrives when he claims his lost treasure, he would pillage and unite the lands of Atlantea under the Federation’s rule, filling his ranks with more soldiers until they would finally bend the knee and acknowledge him.

  Unbeknownst to him, something important remained uncorrupted.

  His heart. The pure, righteous heart he has.

  …And it still beats for that person.

  His eyes, muddied by his crown, would uncontrollably shed tears stemming from his beating heart while he pursued this never-ending nightmare.

  His lips would part and mouth out the name of the woman he loves on instinct, even with the memories of their unconditional love being drowned in the maelstrom of melancholy machine-like static.

  “Ana…”