The pulsating wound invades the world beneath the firmament, shattering the air like glass and spewing its purple madness upon the creatures. The randomness of the fairy world mixes with the terrors of our minds and raises our fears of the natural world. Relentless, lightning takes shape and thunder rumbles through the skies, trees rise in revolt against steel, and stones stretch out to trample those who did the same to them. And in the midst of the fury, it deforms itself beyond its original purpose and function, creating tentacles, mouths, and hair, taking on the attributes I have always associated with the strangest and most disturbing fairies. Mutated incarnations advance, breaking and being broken by the fury of beasts and deceived by the tenacity of gnomes. I advance against a golem, slide under its arm, and split it with my sword, then jump onto a rock and drive the blade into its top before it can rise.

  The valley has already been taken. A mountain range separates the army in two, and rituals stabilize them so they are not manipulated like the surroundings. The earth sinks, rises, slides, explodes, and returns to normal. Miles and miles of landscape are affected by magic that a year ago I would have thought were miracles. The golden light of the Order pierces the purple wounds and appeases them, burning them as if cauterizing reality with its heat. Still, more of them appear, and more monsters rise to fight. As long as they remain on land, they will continue to multiply, even if they stop being ejected. A war between sorcerers cares about the surrounding environment only to the extent that it cannot change it, and the hills already tremble as their interiors are dug out so that the creatures on top fall. When most of the soldiers in an army serve only basic functions to allow stronger heroes to win through individual conflicts, less killing is done—which does not mean there is none.

  In the same valley between the mountains where we would be defeated, Suguru is surrounded. A distraction. By concentrating enemies at one end, we can create a divided charge to win our individual battle on this side and worry about the rest of the enemies later. But that strategy would cost him his life. Perhaps the beast wanted to prove to his tribe how powerful he still was, or perhaps to free them from the debt they owe me. Regardless of the reason, saving a dead man is foolish, incompetent, and also impossible. Nevertheless, I hand over the chain of command to Bombardelli and advance toward the beast. Faced with the magical battle, the first of the five mountains shakes and collapses to the ground. I leap over the rubble and uneven terrain at high speed, the gnome gives orders, and battalions clash while I ignore the dust that is used as a curtain. I overcome the acceleration of the arrows and am untouched by the sound of screams around me; the earth heats up beneath my feet, and an aura flows evenly through my body until it explodes beneath my feet.

  I land next to Suguru, Clarent shines in my hand, and a wooden arm protects my side. The human lion spits out a laugh as he turns his back to point his blade at the enemies behind me.

  “Elron?! What are you doing?!” He says.

  I don't know.

  If I said I did what I thought was right, he would judge me for being a terrible leader who puts his chest above his head; if I said I came here to bet on a victory, he would call me irresponsible. Of the monsters, one stands out, combining the forces of nature with its biomass as a single, great weapon. Tentacles of a mollusk, the head of a goat, and the wings of a dragon form the blurred chimera that haunts our minds. Golden light destroys the purple void; humanoid animals fight against the elements. Among them, I stand ready once again.

  Perhaps all your thoughts about me are true. I don't care.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Fight,” I say, then I charge.

  I strike down the monsters before they can react and throw myself at the black and purple chimera. A warrior's focus is more important than their magic. With focus, your brain concentrates the body's available resources on a specific task. With my senses heightened, I can feel the microscopic texture of the wood on the hilt of my sword, every clink of the steel that covers my body, and every noise and tremor that occurs below the ground. I ignore them, every one of them, so that the only image before my eyes is the result I seek behind each cut. I dodge a tentacle by a hair's breadth, spin on my axis, tear off a claw, leap between the limbs, jump, and plunge the blade into one of the creature's eyes. I throw myself upward, spin in the air, and feel the change in temperature and also the difference in pressure.

  The burden of an empire, the corruption of a politician, or the duty of a king no longer suffocates me. I thought this was true freedom and that duty was a chain of responsibility from which those who had nothing were free.

  But if you have nothing, then you can fight for nothing except the concept that forged your heart. Learning this was necessary. I wonder if that was the reason for my suffering—but I can't say for sure. I don't care. Destiny was never a leash. I am free. I have always been free.

  Clarent.

  The glow pulses through the blade and multiplies the intensity, the cut increases its range, and the attack sweeps the monsters in front of me up the mountain. Only the most powerful monsters resist the cut, but they are still lacerated like the rock that trembles behind them. Multicolored blood surrounds me with the hundreds of dead enemies I eliminated while lost in thought. The monster remains in front of me, now with two chicken feet and a tiger's torso attached to serpentine arms.

  “Did you decide to stay ugly?”

  He roars and advances.

  The answer to my little crisis doesn't matter. I can't predict it even if I tried. All that exists is the clang of steel against claws and the barrage of spells I roll through, all that matters to me is the laughter I spit out when I miss a stab and compensate with a punch to the face. I predict the attack through the vibration in the air, plant my feet on the ground, hold the creature, sneak under its body and kick its legs, then throw it to the ground and cut the base of its arm. It roars and hits me with its remaining claw, throwing me against the mountain and making it shake. A spell is being prepared, the air ionizes, I propel myself forward before the lightning is released, and then I ignore the blue glow to focus on the red blood. Again and again, again and again, again and again, until my blood is on the ground, until the monster wins another exchange of attacks, until I pretend my arm is broken and make it advance, only to parry the attack and sever its head.

  “Warriors!” I raise my voice to reach the soldiers still in shock from their survival. “FORMATION! ADVANCE!” I shout.

  Defenders raise their shields, and magical barriers are raised around us. Having conquered the valley, the more mobile warriors destroy the mages who guard the top of the mountain and its protection, while others strike it with their strongest spells. The structure, weakened by Clarent and the other effects, can no longer withstand the punishment and collapses to the ground, allowing us to use its uneven terrain as a shortcut to the other side. We march, now united with Suguru's men, whom I prevented from perishing, collapsing our army against the enemy's flank and overwhelming them. The sky cries lightning, the sun laughs. Around me, smoke and dust. The notion of time is always lost. The heat no longer bothers me. Nothing else does, not even the killing. Looking at a deconstructed corpse brings me no pleasure or comfort. Another dead body for the pile, another duty fulfilled. If there is nothing, then there is no reason to fight. I won. That is enough for me.

  Isn't it?

  Something is wrong.

  I frown and look up.

  The monsters have been eliminated, but they haven't stopped appearing. Hoffstein had already closed several of the rifts while eliminating heralds too powerful to escape them, but still, more open up. The Hero watches—a golden dot amid the purple—with concern. We won. Yet our armies fail to contain the damage. Why? How?

  Oh, no.

  Hoffstein lands beside me, one of his wounds regenerating as a gigantic creature tears itself from the depths of the mind into matter. The Hero coughs, then says:

  “Sieghart is using Chaos.”