The Grim Loop Of Destiny-Chapter 15: False Salvation.

The Night of False Salvation

Even in the suffocating darkness of night, the expressions on Karban and his warriors' faces were darker still. The stench of fear clung to them, thick and unshakable. Their breaths came shallow, their throats tight with unspoken dread.

A single misstep, one wrong word, and their entire fate would be sealed.

Veythor stood before them, his presence an iron weight pressing down on their souls. The wind carried the faint scent of blood and scorched earth, remnants of past slaughters, as if the land itself had been marked by his wrath. His crimson eyes, gleaming like dying embers, reflected no mercy—only amusement, the way a man might regard insects squirming beneath his boot.

His voice, smooth and measured, slithered through the cold night air.

"Karban, you disappoint me."

The tribe leader flinched.

"Where is your bravery?" Veythor's tone was almost wistful. "Where is that undying defiance that made you so eager to bare your fangs against me?"

His gaze swept over the warriors, all of whom knelt before him, their heads bowed.

"What happened to the proud men of the Yamika tribe?" His voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of a noose tightening around their necks. "You were so eager to label me a demon, so quick to damn me as a monster. And now, here you are, kneeling, groveling—begging. Do you not see the irony?"

Karban's jaw clenched. His entire body trembled—not just from fear, but from a rage so deep it threatened to suffocate him. He wanted to scream, to curse, to lash out—but all he could do was press his forehead against the dirt, swallowing his humiliation like poison.

"No... no, please, Lord Veythor," he whispered, voice hollow. "We spoke out of arrogance. Foolishness. It was our mistake. Please, forgive us. Whatever you desire, name it, and we shall obey."

Veythor chuckled. The sound was light, almost pleasant.

"Anything?"

Follow current novels on freewebnσvel.cѳm.

Karban felt his stomach twist into knots.

"Yes... anything."

A slow smirk tugged at Veythor's lips. "Loyal dogs, aren't you?" He let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. Then, in a voice as calm as it was cruel, he uttered his command.

"Strip yourselves of your weapons and armor. Leave them here. Return to your homes and wait in silence. If you obey, the explosives will be defused in a few hours."

The warriors hesitated, glancing at each other. Their expressions wavered between disbelief and desperate hope.

Was this truly mercy?

One by one, they complied. Weapons clattered onto the ground. Swords. Axes. Bows. Shields. Their armor followed, discarded like the husks of fallen warriors.

"Go."

Karban and his men retreated, moving with rigid, cautious steps, as if fearing this salvation would be snatched away at any moment. Their figures disappeared into the village.

"Phew... we're saved."

Laughter, strained but real, broke the silence. Some warriors let out deep sighs, rubbing the tension from their faces. Others whispered silent prayers, thanking whatever gods they believed in.

They vanished into their homes, relief washing over them like a gentle tide.

The night stretched, quiet and still.

And then—

Veythor smiled.

His fingers twitched.

"Nukerels—activate."

Boom.

A tremor, violent and unforgiving, tore through the earth.

Boom. Boom.

Flames roared into the night sky, painting the darkness with an eerie glow.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The village screamed.

The explosions were not instant. No, they came in waves. Deliberate. Spaced apart just enough to let the survivors feel the horror seep into their bones before the next detonation swallowed them whole.

Fire twisted through the streets like a living thing, consuming everything in its path. The scent of charred flesh and burning wood mingled in the air, thick and suffocating.

Karban's home was the first to collapse.

A wailing child staggered from the ruins, his tiny hands reaching toward the sky, his body half-severed from the blast. A warrior—his father, perhaps—rushed toward him, his mouth opening in a cry of anguish.

Boom.

The flames swallowed them both.

A woman, her body torn and bloodied, crawled across the dirt, dragging her ruined legs behind her. She screamed for help, voice cracking, raw with agony. No one came.

The houses that had once stood firm, built with the sweat and toil of generations, were now nothing more than smoldering debris.

A child's toy—a simple wooden horse—lay half-buried in the ash, its edges blackened.

This was no massacre.

This was erasure.

Erika stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to move, to do something—but she could only watch as the village was reduced to ruins.

Her nails dug into her palms so hard they nearly drew blood. Her body trembled with a fury she could barely contain.

Veythor turned to her, his expression unreadable. His crimson eyes gleamed—not with cruelty, not with joy, but with something far worse.

Indifference.

He exhaled softly.

"Do you understand now, Erika?" His voice was almost gentle, as if explaining a simple truth. "The strongest are not those who wield the sharpest blades, nor those who stand in defiance against impossible odds."

He gestured toward the burning village.

"The strongest are those who control the board. Those who decide whether a man kneels, whether a child lives, whether a people continue to exist."

His gaze met hers, calm. Steady.

"Tell me, Erika—" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Was I the monster? Or were they simply fools who mistook mercy for victory?"

Erika's breath came in sharp gasps.

She had no answer.

Veythor turned away.

Behind him, the village burned.