That evening, the sky looked as if it were burning. The sunset bled crimson, spilling its fury over the wide open plain before the city of Westford.

From the top of the fortress walls, Riven stood with narrowed eyes, his gaze fixed on the distant scene. He was about twenty years old, with messy black hair, sun-darkened olive skin, and brown eyes that carried a bitter weight. His frame was lean to the point of looking underfed, yet every line of his body hinted at hard, wiry strength.

The wind rising from the battlefield carried with it the heavy stench of iron, ash, and blood, stabbing at his lungs with every breath.

The open land before the fortress had become a stage of slaughter. Thousands of Mordune soldiers in black armor surged forward like a swarm of locusts devouring a field.

They ran, they rode, swords and spears glinting beneath the dying sun. Magic burst from their hands like an endless rain of meteors. And in the middle of that storm, there was only one figure standing against them.

Riven could not make out her form clearly. All he saw were explosions ripping across the earth, blinding light tearing open the sky, and shockwaves that made the fortress stones beneath him tremble. Heat lashed against his face even at this distance, as if the earth itself screamed under the weight of a power no human should wield.

“Insane…” Riven muttered hoarsely. He turned his head slightly toward the soldiers standing beside him on the wall.

Their faces were pale, eyes wide, some trembling like children dragged into a nightmare. The guards, the civilians, even the battle-hardened soldiers had lost their voices. No one dared to cheer, no one dared to pray. All they could do was watch, as though witnessing a god’s wrath descend upon the world.

This fortress had held for two long days. Two days of blood and despair. Mordune’s assault had come without warning, forcing the people of Westford to hide behind walls already cracked and on the verge of collapse.

They fought with what little they had, clinging to the hope that reinforcements from the capital would arrive in time. When word finally came that help was on the way, their hope rekindled, only to fade when the reinforcements turned out to be a single person.

Queen Iskandrite.

That was the whisper on every lip around Riven. A woman known only through rumors. Some called her mad, others bloodthirsty. There were even tales that her very face was so dreadful that anyone who looked upon it lost their sanity.

Riven had no idea which stories were true. To him, it seemed absurd that a kingdom would send only one person against an army capable of swallowing a city whole. But after what he was seeing now, perhaps the rumors were not mere tales.

Another explosion ripped through the horizon. The earth split, trees were uprooted, Mordune soldiers were hurled aside and shredded like insects beneath a boot. Blood sprayed, rushing into streams of red. Human screams erupted, only to be cut short, swallowed by dust and smoke. What unfolded before him could no longer be called a battle. It was a one-sided massacre.

Riven swallowed hard, his body trembling. If an army that vast could be erased so easily, what chance did someone like him have? He was not a soldier, not a mage, only a scavenger who relied on grit and a recklessness that was often indistinguishable from stupidity.

Two days ago he had heard of Mordune’s attack, and without much thought he came here. For him, where there was war, there was opportunity—money, spoils, or simply another chance to stay alive. But now, staring at the scene before him, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

Inwardly, he cursed his fate. ‘Damn it. How could I be reincarnated into a world like this? I still had novels, comics, and series left unfinished. And the worst of all… how could I die here before One Piece ends?’

The absurd thought set his chest ablaze, caught between anger and fear. He let out a bitter laugh, which quickly died, swallowed by the next explosion.

“What in the world…?” one of the soldiers beside Riven whispered, clutching his spyglass with trembling hands. “Is she even… human?”

Explosion after explosion tore the ground apart. Bodies scattered like dry leaves. Trees were uprooted, rivers of blood carved their way through the soil. The screams of thousands of Mordune soldiers rang out briefly, then vanished into the haze of smoke and dust.

Riven, who had been watching the slaughter unfold all day, knew the battle was only minutes from its end. And he also knew he had to prepare, because soon, his work would begin.

.

.

.

About fifteen minutes after the last blast, silence fell over the battlefield. No more screams, no more clash of steel, only the sound of wind dragging the stench of iron and burnt flesh. At last, the fortress gates groaned open. Through the gap, a tall figure stepped inside.

The sky had already changed. Dark clouds smothered the sunset, casting heavy shadows over Westford. Lightning flashed now and then behind the clouds, illuminating the figure as she entered the fortress.

Her footsteps rang clearly, echoing across the rubble-strewn courtyard. Each step carried a chill that spread like mist, freezing those around her in place.

Had she arrived even a little later, the fortress would have been nothing but ash.

The surviving soldiers lined the path, their bodies battered, their faces and armor caked in blood. Some stood tall despite their trembling hands. Others sat slumped against the walls, eyes hollow as though their souls had been left behind on the battlefield. But all were the same. They stared at the figure walking past them with naked fear. There were no cheers of victory, no cries of relief. Only silence, taut and suffocating.

The woman was tall and elegant, her stride calm as if she had just walked through a field of flowers instead of a sea of blood. A sleek black armor encased her body, etched with faded gold patterns curling around her shoulders and neck. The metal made no sound at all, as if it were not armor but her own skin. A dark crimson cloak trailed behind her, torn and ragged, its color like dried winter blood.

From beneath a strange golden helm, pale lips could be seen. The mask was lined with sharp thorns jutting upward, covering nearly her entire face. From the gaps beneath it, long red hair spilled wildly, whipping in the wind that still carried the ashes of war. She looked like a war goddess stepping out of humanity’s darkest nightmare.

Victory was in her hands. Alone, she had crushed Mordune’s tide. Alone, she had saved Westford. Yet not a single soul dared to call her a savior.

What they saw was not a hero.

What they saw was horror.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep