Above the ruins of the fortress, the moonlight was cold and clear.
The dark red Soul Fire in the eyes of the skeletal warhorse had extinguished, the massive skeleton lost its support and collapsed to the ground with a clatter, turning into a pile of spiritless bones.
The Legion Commander stood among the bones, his tall figure stooped.
The dark giant sword that had accompanied him through countless battles now seemed as heavy as a thousand pounds, the tip weakly drooping to the ground, leaving a shallow mark on the scorched earth.
The Soul Fire beneath his helmet was no longer raging, nor cold, leaving only a dimness close to deathly silence, like a dying candle in the wind, ready to extinguish completely at any moment.
Thousands of years of waiting, thousands of years of perseverance, the "Destiny" that supported him was mercilessly punctured, his "revenge" seemed laughable, and even the "regret" and "discontent" that supported his existence were on the verge of collapse.
