The Ultimate Bloodshed User achieved the impossible, realizing a vision that spanned generations, a vision stained with blood and sacrifice. He brought together all the races under one banner, creating a fragile peace between beings who were previously bitter enemies. The unification was no small feat; it was an act of unyielding determination and sacrifice, uniting races like demons, elves, giants, werewolves, undead, and countless others, all of whom harboured millennia of resentment and blood feuds.

  But as history has shown, unity often comes at a cost. From within his inner circle, betrayal brewed. Balisarda Sumernor, the Ultimate Bloodshed User's most trusted right-hand man, who had fought beside him for years, wielded the weapon of betrayal when no one expected it. On the fateful day, in the heart of the military citadel, Balisarda appeared behind the Ultimate Bloodshed User's during what was meant to be a negotiation with the factions and military. With a flaming sword crackling with ethereal energy, Balisarda struck down the man who had trusted him the most. His blade pierced through the Ultimate Bloodshed User's heart, sending shockwaves through the air and far beyond.

  Unbeknownst to all present, someone witnessed this act from afar. Hidden in the shadows, a young boy, no older than eight, stared in horror. It was Mephistopheles, the Ultimate Bloodshed User's son, his body trembling as he watched his father fall. Grief and fury mixed in his veins as he locked eyes with his dying father.

  Though weakened and on the brink of death, the Ultimate Bloodshed User knew that his legacy could not end there. With trembling hands, he summoned the last of his strength, his blood-soaked fingers grasping the hilt of his legendary blade—Bloodshed, a sword that bore the essence of his will and power. In that fleeting moment, he tossed the sword toward his son.

  As the blade landed at Mephistopheles' feet, the Bloodshed sword chose its new master, binding itself to the boy. The will of the Ultimate Bloodshed User flowed into Mephistopheles, sealing within him the legacy of the Bloodshed Users and the hope of uniting the fractured world once more.

  Balisarda, seeing the boy escape with the sword, stood unmoving for a moment, the flames of his blade flickering as he considered the gravity of his actions. The fragile peace unraveled with his former leader gone and Bloodshed beyond his reach. The unity of the races splintered, falling back into chaos and war.

  For Mephistopheles, the memory of his father's death became a driving force. The sight of Balisarda standing triumphant over his father's broken body haunted his every step. With Bloodshed in hand, the boy swore vengeance—not just against Balisarda but against the forces that had shattered his father's dream. From that day forward, he began a journey that would see him grow into a force feared by all, a harbinger of change who could either restore the world or burn it to ash.

  Thus began the tale of Mephistopheles, the next Bloodshed User, destined to walk the path of blood and fire in a world teetering on the edge of ruin.

  ~ ??????????????-???????? ~

  The stench of the camp was one of sour sweat and rot, some noxious concoction that gagged the back of the throat with each breath. Above the faint light of fire, faces glistened in grime, their eyes darting uneasily to where the commander stood like stone, his face impassive, unreadable. Firelight trembled, casting grotesque shadows that seemed to leap and taunt the tents, jabing at the soldiers' nerves.

  "Wake up," said Jabari, the commander of the military. "We have a war to fight against Balisarda Sumernor"

  A soldier shuffled past, his gait unbalanced by a leg twisted out of shape at an eerie angle. The wound had festered; the stench of rotting flesh wafted through the air and churned even the hardiest of stomachs. His eyes, glassy and sunken, avoided the firelight, though his mere presence was a harbinger of the horrors awaiting those less fortunate.

  Low and modulated, Jabari's voice rolled across the camp like a faraway storm. "One of you is going to be picked to storm Balisarda Sumernor castle," he told them in a formal manner. "Which means someone from this platoon shall sacrifice themself."

  The crackling of burning wood punctuated his words, a sound far too reminiscent of the remembrance of shattering bones upon the battlefield. Someone shifted uneasily, the movement causing a faint squeak of leather boots and the clinking of chainmail. No one spoke.

  From the corner of his eye, a young soldier saw scarred veterans seated around the fire. One man sat hunched forward, his left hand gone to a withered brown stub, blackened and wrapped in soiled bandages around his arm. Another wheezed softly, the rise and fall of his chest labored as though lungs seared by fire did little to take in air; the smell of his exhalation was pungent and sharp.

  They had fought and survived. And yet, their survival was no victory. Their faces were masks of pain and resignation, their bodies monuments to what war had taken.

  The boy looked down at his hands, whole and unscarred, and then back at the men around him. He thought of their screams-how they hadn't stopped even after their weapons had clattered to the ground, their hands clutching wounds that oozed dark and glistening blood. He swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat, and he forced his gaze to the fire.

  The flames danced, bright and alive, mocking the quiet doom that hung over the camp. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied, its high-pitched cry cutting through the silence. Jabari’s gaze swept over them again, as though he could see the fears they didn’t dare voice.

  The boy's stomach churned. He wasn't afraid to die-not in the way they told stories about. But the thought of his body reduced to shreds, of being one more broken thing for others to step over, made his skin crawl. He pressed his lips together, his chest tight, his pulse hammering so hard it felt like the camp itself trembled in rhythm.

  Jabari raised a hand, the command ready on his tongue. No one dared breathe.

  Jabari’s gaze locked on the man in black armour, his broad shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world—or perhaps simply tired of bearing it. The firelight danced on the jagged edges of his obsidian sword, leaning against the splintering log like a monument to destruction. The blade's shape was brutal, with a thick, jagged edge that seemed to thirst for violence.

  “You’re not like the rest,” Jabari said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the camp like a blade.

  Mephistopheles didn’t respond at first, his dark eyes fixed on the fire. A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his lips, though it wasn’t a gesture of amusement. “You’ve got a real gift for stating the obvious, Commander,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

  Jabari’s jaw tightened, his stance rigid, though his hands remained at his sides. He carried no weapon—not that he needed one to command authority. “Watch your tone, soldier,” he said, stepping closer. The gravel crunched beneath his boots, but Mephistopheles didn’t so much as glance up.

  "Soldier?" Mephistopheles rasped a coarse laugh, finally turning his attention to Jabari. "I'm no soldier. I'm the thing you send when soldiers aren't enough. When you're too scared to get your hands dirty, you call for me."

  The tension crackled like a dying fire, every soldier in the camp frozen in place, eyes darting between the two men.

  "You think this is about fear?" Jabari's voice cut through the air, sharper and stronger now. "This is about duty. Sacrifice. Something you wouldn't understand, would you? All you've ever done is take.”

  Mephistopheles rose to his feet in a slow, creaking protest of the log that had been his seat until it splintered from the sudden release of weight. He stood up to Jabari, his armor flashing darkly in the firelight like freshly polished onyx. He grasped the hilt of his sword and swung it easily upward so that the flat of the blade lay upon his shoulder. Its edge shone bright and cruel with a light that reflected sharp in jaggedness, evidence of the violence it had perpetrated.

  “And what would you know of sacrifice?" Mephistopheles growled, taking a deliberate step forward. "You stand there, clean and unscarred, barking orders from the safety of your camp. Do you want a sacrifice? Pick someone else. Or better yet, pick yourself."

  The soldiers drew in sharp breaths; the air was thick with tension from some unspoken challenge.

  Jabari didn't back down, though his fists clenched at his sides. "You think I don't know about sacrifice?" His voice was low but venomous. "I've sent more men to die than you've killed with that oversized butcher's knife of yours."

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  “That so?” Mephistopheles sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He took another step closer, the tip of his blade dipping toward the ground as if eager to carve through the earth. “You keep counting the bodies you’ve sent to their deaths, Commander. I’ll keep counting the ones I’ve cut down myself. The difference is, that mine were enemies. Yours? Just pawns on a board you’re too scared to stand on.”

  Jabari’s face darkened, his composure teetering on the edge. “You want to test me, Mephistopheles? Fine. But this isn’t about you or me. This is about breaching those walls. Someone has to do it.”

  Mephistopheles rolled his neck, the plates of his armour shifting with a metallic groan. “Yeah, and you think I’m the one to do it. Why? Because I scare you? Because I’m the only one here who doesn’t fall in line when you snap your fingers?”

  “Because it's Balisarda Sumernor who we are fighting,” Jabari snapped, his voice rising. “And deep down, you know this is what you want.”

  The two were standing inches from each other then. The air was thick between them and smelled of repressed anger. Mephistopheles peered down at Jabari; the corners of his lips hooked to a humourless grin. "Fine," he grated with a low, rumbling voice. "You want sacrifice? I will show you what sacrificing really is!"

  He turned abruptly, the obsidian blade slamming into the earth as he hefted it onto his shoulder. The ground seemed to groan beneath his steps as he walked toward the edge of the camp, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the firelight.

  “You’re all cowards anyway,” he called over his shoulder, his voice dripping with contempt. “Might as well let someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing handle it.”

  The camp was dead silent but for his faded footsteps disappearing into the dark of night, the gentle hiss of the wind, and crackling fire. A great while afterwards, no one stirred. Jabari didn't look away from that particular spot that Mephistopheles had disappeared into; the muscles of his jaw tensed.

  "Dismissed," he barked out, his voice sharp enough that even the nearest soldiers flinched. They scattered, tumbled over each other like leaves in a hurricane, and were gone, but it was as if the full weight of what had occurred hung heavy in the silence afterwards.

  Jabari remained with the fire, his fists clenched, while somewhere out in that dark Mephistopheles marched toward what all knew to be certain death.

  ~ ????????????-??????????????????-????????????????-???????????? ~

  Bismark entered the throne room and bowed low before Balisarda Sumernor. “My lord,” he began, “I have returned from infiltrating the military camps with information I believe you’ll find valuable.”

  While seated on his throne, Balisarda Sumernor asked, "what valuable information have you gained Bismark?"

  "The army sent a large man in pitch-black armor who seems to be experienced in whacking a sword. There is no doubt that their sole goal is to infiltrate your base and kill the ranks from within to undermine your stability," Bismark said.

  "So the dogs think that releasing a poor soul will help them win the war, but they are dullards because I have an army without rivalry consisting of One Hundred Thousand men, ten principal with their own special powers, and me Balisarda Sumernor, the pinnacle of the army who defeated the ultimate bloodshed user who duped the whole military. How much more will they sacrifice until they realize there is nothing they can do to stop my wrath?"

  While hunched over on his knees, Bismark asked Balisarda Sumernor, "My lord, what precautions would you recommend to prevent the castle from being infiltrated by the man in pitch-black armor?"

  While Balisarda Sumernor was seated on his throne with his right leg crossed over the other, he said," Bismark, contact Aham and ask him to place my soldiers in a line around the courtyard and place a couple on the fortified wall. The number of soldiers is irrelevant, as long as they have a clear view of the area."

  ~ ??????????????-????-??????????????????-????????????????-???????????? ~

  A gentle breeze in the darkness intensified into a rattling noise. The faint sound of heels striking the ground grew urgent, and heavy, ferocious exhalations seemed to chase after Mephistopheles.

  After failing to catch up to Mephistopheles, Chris desperately tried to catch his breath, but Mephistopheles ignored him and continued walking. Chris shouted, though exhausted, "Wait for me!" I want to talk with you!" "I want to talk with you."

  Hearing Chris's howled pleas for him to stop, just so they could talk, Mephistopheles was baffled by the absurdity. He decided to halt, if only to satisfy the man's demands. "Whatever you wish to say, spew it out now," said Mephistopheles.

  "How damn long must you sulk at me for?" Chris exclaimed madly. "I've had enough of your cold shoulder. I'd want to talk already, or are you just going to ignore me forever!?"

  "I'm all ears," Mephistopheles replied.

  Chris looked at the man, the handle of a large sword poking out from over his shoulder, and couldn't help but wonder why he was walking so confidently to his death. "I have training in martial arts and can generate tremendous force with even the simplest of hand movements," Chris said. "But from what I can see, you're just a guy with a sword. So tell me, why are you walking to your death? Are you trying to be killed by Balisarda Sumernor? Surely you have some special technique or ability you're hiding?"

  Mephistopheles replied, "I see you're concerned about my situation... I seek vengeance on the man who killed the most important figure in history the Ultimate Bloodshed User, arguably the strongest man to ever live. I don't possess exceptional skill or talent, I just have a sword, so the odds are slim to defeat him, but I'm determined to try."

  "I cannot understand why you are so optimistic," Chris said. "You are not even thinking of the possibility that you could be killed!"

  "Perhaps your pain and suffering have blinded you from seeing that," Mephistopheles replied. "For if I were to die now, there would be no cause for me to continue fighting."

  "What is it that you feel must be avenged?" Chris asked. "I have seen my share of great evil, and I truly believe there is no room for wickedness anymore. Are you truly in need of vengeance?"

  Mephistopheles expel a sigh staring Chris right in the eye "your ignorance is bliss, I seek revenge what is unfathomable to you, I observed Balisarda Sumernor slaughter my father when I was eight, in his last moments he gave me his sword bloodshed"

  Chris took a step back in shock as he was blown out of the water by Mephistopheles. Chris felt enlightened after understanding the reasoning behind Mephistopheles' vendetta. Chris gathered his courage and asked Mephistopheles a question. "Wait, does that mean the ultimate bloodshed user is your father?" Chris asked nervously.

  Mephistopheles looks down at Chris solemnly and answers him, "Yes, my father was the ultimate bloodshed user. He was a person who fought in many wars, interacted with every single figurehead of each race, the representative of humanity, accomplished tranquility for every race and reached the final stage of bloodshed."

  Chris is shocked by what Mephistopheles knows and asks, "So why did Balisarda Sumernor kill the ultimate bloodshed user?"

  "You mean…my father's right-hand man? …" Mephistopheles does not answer the question directly. Instead, he says an even more shocking thing to Chris, causing him to curl up in the fetal position in shock

  "I was eight years old when it happened," Mephistopheles explained, his voice low. "My mother had sent me to the local shop for milk. While I was there, I overheard two men talking in urgent whispers about rumours of a war. A massive clash brewing between the military empire and the Fifty Factions."

  He paused, the memory sharpening. "They said the war had started after my father, the Ultimate Bloodshed User and Balisarda Sumernor defeated the Leader of the Fifty Factions. But then, in a vicious move, a military general named Veno had taken the defeated Leader's body. The rumour was he was going to execute the corpse publicly, to humiliate the factions and provoke them. That was all the men knew."

  Mephistopheles's eyes grew distant. "I didn't understand it all, but I knew my father would be there. So I ran. I didn't go home. I ran to the high ground, the hill overlooking the military citadel's main yard. And from there, I saw everything."

  "A huge crowd had gathered. The military forces were on one side. Then the Fifty Factions leaders arrived, each with their own soldiers, their faces like thunder. I saw General Veno, standing over the body of the fallen Leader of the Faction. And then... he carried out the sentence. Right there in front of everyone. It wasn't a battle; it was a desecration. You could feel the rage boiling up from the factions like heat from a forge."

  His hands tightened into fists. "That's when my father descended. He landed between the two sides, his hands raised, pleading for calm. He shouted for reason, for a ceasefire before more blood was shed. But the air was too thick with hatred. No one was listening. They were all shouting, weapons drawn."

  A cold bitterness entered his tone. "And then Balisarda came. He dropped from the sky like a meteor and landed behind my father. There was no warning. No shout. Just the sudden, sickening sound of a flaming sword piercing armour and flesh. He ran him through from behind."

  Mephistopheles looked directly at Chris, his gaze intense. "My father stumbled forward. He turned his head... and he saw me, up on that hill. Our eyes locked. And with the last of his strength, he threw his great sword, Bloodshed towards me. It sailed over the chaos and landed at my feet. Then he fell."

  "The fighting stopped then," he continued flatly. "Balisarda's betrayal and his sheer power froze everyone. In that stunned silence, I picked up the sword. It was heavier than anything I'd ever held. I was just a boy, clutching his father's blade, watching the man who killed him take command of the field. So I ran. I ran all the way home and never looked back. That was the day the peace died, and my war began."