Two weeks after the battlefield was erased from the map, the capital of Hizosshu erupted in celebration.
Banners of white and gold draped the streets. Bells rang from dawn until dusk. The people gathered in numbers unseen since the founding of the empire, their voices rising in praise for a man they believed had delivered them from annihilation. A battle they never participated in, but the captivity of Migard was enough prove of their victory.
Laiman stood at the center of it all.
Kneeling.
A polished medal rested on a crimson cushion before him, its surface etched with sigils of honor and conquest. Above him, nobles sat tall in their seats, faces bright with pride. Below, the masses roared his name as though it were a blessing.
"By decree of the crown," the herald proclaimed, voice echoing through the grand hall,
"Laiman Kuri is hereby named Baron of Herihon, and forever remembered as the hero who led Hizosshu to victory at the Battle of the Sixty Thousand."
"Rise! , you whom have chosen to dedicate your sword to his highness ... May you days a Baron of Herihon bring contribute to the peace of our nation"
Applause thundered, within the magnificent hall down to the crowd of people crowded outside.
The medal was placed upon his chest.
It was heavy.
Too heavy.
Laiman rose slowly, his movements stiff, mechanical. He bowed as tradition demanded, accepting the cheers, the smiles, the reverent gazes cast in his direction.
Hero.
The word echoed in his mind like mockery.
They saw victory.
He saw fire swallowing flesh.
They saw survival.
He remembered standing alone on scorched earth, spared by a power he no longer deserved.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Victory…
If this is victory, then why does it feel like I lost everything?
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That night, the celebrations continued without him.
He sat alone in his chambers, the medal resting on the table before him. Candlelight reflected off its surface, dancing like embers.
Laiman stared at it for a long time.
Then he turned away.
Two days later, the capital gates opened for him once more.
This time, not for praise—but departure.
A modest escort accompanied him as he rode toward Herihon, the territory granted to him as reward. The land lay far from the capital, bordering regions long neglected by the crown—fertile, yet scarred by years of exploitation.
The road stretched endlessly ahead.
As the sun dipped low, they came upon a sight that slowed the procession.
Chains.
Dozens of Migardians trudged along the roadside, wrists bound, necks lowered. Armed overseers rode beside them, whips hanging casually from their hands. The Migardians' bodies bore fresh wounds—some healed poorly, others still bleeding.
Laiman's horse stopped.
The escort glanced back. "My lord?"
Laiman did not answer.
He stared at them.
The way they walked.
The way they endured.
It was the same.
The battlefield rose unbidden in his mind—circles of warriors standing together, smiling as the world ended around them.
"Free them," Laiman said quietly.
The escort stiffened. "My lord, these are crown-owned slaves—"
"Free them," he repeated.
Something in his voice left no room for argument.
The overseers protested. Some cursed. One raised his voice too high.
Laiman raised his hand.
fire burst forward.
The man collapsed to the ground, unconscious before he could finish his sentence, his body, scarred badly.
The chains were unlocked, with unease.
The Migardians hesitated, disbelief flickering across hollow eyes.
"You are free," Laiman said from the window of his carriage.
One of them stepped forward—an older man, back bent, gaze steady despite everything. He looked at Laiman for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"Did you survive the battlefield?"
Laiman swallowed. "…Yes."
The man nodded slowly, as if confirming a suspicion.
"I thought so."
Laiman frowned. "You were there?"
The Migardian smiled faintly. "Our commanders' words reached far."
He turned, walking away with the others, but his voice carried back clearly.
"Those who cling to life will lose it. Only those who have already accepted death can truly achieve the impossible."
Laiman's breath hitched.
"Because," the man continued, "they no longer fear risk. Therefore, a knight so be a love of risk."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
Laiman stood frozen as the freed Migardians disappeared into the fading light, their chains left abandoned on the road.
Hero.
Baron.
Victor.
Titles rang hollow in his ears.
He looked down at his hands.
They accepted death… and achieved the impossible.
"And I," Laiman whispered to no one, "accepted life. I forgot the part when my instructors, during my academy days said , risk is one with the fight."
The road to Herihon stretched on, quiet and unforgiving, except for the vibration of the carriage.
And for the first time since the battle, Laiman understood the truth that no celebration could erase:
He had not won.
He had been spared.
And that was the cruelest fate of all.
Through the tick forest around the pathway, Laiman and his guards followed, a shadowy figure continues it's watch.