The Grim Loop Of Destiny-Chapter 16: Ashes of past and today.

The sky was aflame.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh, charred wood, and something far worse—the rotting stench of a dream reduced to nothing.

The screams had long since died, suffocated by the relentless advance of fire and steel. What remained was silence, broken only by the whisper of flames consuming what little was left. This was no longer a battlefield. It was a graveyard.

And in the heart of it all, Veythor stood.

His crimson eyes gleamed with an eerie, unfathomable light as he knelt and pulled a sword from the scorched earth. It was black—pure black. Not the shade of mere steel, but something deeper, something that seemed to devour the very light around it.

Not far from him, Erika stood frozen.

The heat of the flames licked at her skin, but she could not move. Could not think. Could not breathe.

She had heard of war before. Tales spun by warriors, legends woven by poets. But they had lied. All of them.

No song, no story had ever captured this.

This horror. This emptiness.

Her lips parted, but her voice barely left her throat. "You... you..."

The words caught in her lungs, strangled by the weight of everything she had just witnessed.

Then, at last, she found the strength to spit it out.

"You're a monster."

Veythor did not react.

The accusation did not faze him. The disgust in her voice did not move him.

Instead, he smiled.

"A monster?" His voice carried no outrage, no denial—only amusement. He stepped forward, boots crunching against the scattered bones of the fallen. "Tell me, Erika—what did you expect me to do? Surrender? Beg for mercy? Should I have knelt before them and prayed they would spare me?"

His tone was light, almost playful. As if this were nothing more than a meaningless conversation.

Erika's hands trembled.

"You're justifying this?" she snapped, voice cracking. "Then explain—why did you kill the children of tribe? They weren't soldiers! They weren't a threat! Why?!"

Veythor exhaled, shaking his head as if disappointed in her.

"I expected a better question."

He turned to face her fully, the firelight casting jagged shadows across his face.

"Very well. I will answer you—through a question of my own."

He took another step forward.

"Tell me, Erika... if an ant bites you, and you turn to find an entire colony before you—do you kill only the one that bit you?"

Erika's breath caught.

"Or do you burn the entire colony, ensuring you are never bitten again?"

The world seemed to tilt.

Erika clenched her teeth, her mind screaming, refusing to accept it. This isn't right. This isn't how the world should be.

And yet—deep down—she already knew the answer.

The realization made her sick.

Still, she refused to let it end there. She forced herself to speak, clinging desperately to whatever hope remained.

"Then tell me," she growled, eyes burning. "Why did you betray my father?"

For the first time, Veythor's smirk vanished.

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The air turned heavy, thick with something unseen—the weight of old wounds.

He exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. Colder.

"Because he was a fool."

Erika's heart twisted.

"He believed the world could be changed." Veythor's tone was unreadable. "That it could be conquered, ruled, shaped into something better. But he was wrong." His crimson gaze bore into her, piercing through the illusions she had clung to all her life. "The world is not something you conquer, Erika. The world is something you crush beneath your feet—or it crushes you."

The fire behind him raged, its glow licking at the dark sky like a dying god's final breath.

"Miral and I were different." Veythor's voice was calm again, Surely He and I have seen hell from the beginning of our life and we walked at a same path but also he and I had different values "He wanted to rule this world and I want to destroy it."

The words rang through the silence.

Erika stood paralyzed. Her mind was breaking apart, unraveling like burnt parchment in the wind.

Still—she refused to yield.

Desperation clawed at her throat as she tried one last time. "Then why—why did you kill my siblings two years ago?"

Veythor's gaze did not waver. There was no regret. No hesitation.

Only a simple, absolute truth.

"I could have spared them."

A pause.

"But I didn't."

The final blow.

Erika staggered. The ground beneath her feet may as well have crumbled. Her throat constricted, nausea rising in her stomach. It felt as if her very soul had cracked.

And the flames burned on.

Then, suddenly—Veythor started laughing.

Hahahaha. Hahahaha. Hahahaha. Hahahaha.

The sound cut through the silence like a blade, jagged and raw.

Veythor placed his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking with laughter. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a sick amusement.

"You're truly pitiful and naive Erika."

Both Erika and Ralf looked at Veythor with sheer confusion.

Erika clenched her fists, though not as tightly as before. A shiver ran down her spine. "What do you mean?"

Veythor tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes gleaming.

"You're believing my words without any hesitation.

I think you shouldn't use past terms for your siblings."

Erika's eyes widened with shock, her breath freezing in her throat. For a moment, her mind simply stopped.

"What?"

Ralf, too, stood motionless, his body trembling slightly.

Veythor smirked, stepping forward, his shadow stretching toward them like the maw of a beast.

"The younger brother and sister of yours are still alive. When I killed Miral and you escaped, they were captured by me."

Erika felt the weight of the world pressing down on her chest.

"I could have killed them," Veythor continued, his voice now a whisper, "but do you know why I didn't?"

A pause.

"Because I knew you would eventually come for vengeance."

The flames crackled, their glow flickering against the dead earth. The night stretched endlessly, swallowing all warmth, all hope.

Erika did not speak.

She could not.

The fire around them would one day fade.But the fire Veythor had ignited within her—the one that burned now with rage, despair, and something far more dangerous—would never die.