The area was cast in thick shadows in a way that obscured the Champion from any detection. The only light came from lanterns scattered in the distance as well as those in front of the gate. Unlike normal guards that would usually be drinking or chattering, these were in full armor and spoke not a word. They emitted a wall-like presence, making it clear they wanted no visitors; however, it wouldn't be up to them who entered and who didn't.

Once out of the shadows, the Champion walked up to the guards in a slow trot, his sword hoisted over his shoulder. His sudden appearance startled the guards who brandished their weapons in return.

"You cannot enter," one of the guards said, as he thrust the tip of his spear right in front of the Champion's chest.

"Pointing weapons at your king," the Champion muttered, then swept the spear out of his way. "This is my castle. You are to guard it from any intruders that may threaten me—"

"You are the intruder, sire," the other guard spoke up. At his voice, the main guard returned his spear back into position so there were two acting as a barricade. Laughable.

"If I'm not mistaken," the Champion leaned forward, his chest pushing back the spears out of sheer brute force. His helmet gleamed in the lanterns' light, which gave an ominous, desirable radiance to what lay behind his visor, "I'm the King. Me. Nobody else—if anybody would dare to contest me, let it be so. Let it be decided in combat."

He took another step forward to make the guards backpedal. Their spears were merely tickling his chestplate. He could easily grab the shafts and break them apart if he wanted to.

"You are trespassing after curfew—"

"It seems you are the trespassers, not me," the Champion declared. He gently pushed his right gauntlet down on the spears to render them useless. "Now," he leaned right in front of the guards' helmets, which couldn't hide the shaking fear from within, "move aside."

"This is high treason..." the guard trailed off, unable to finish as the Champion gripped the spearheads until the material crumbled into nothing. Speechless, the guards look at each other, then ran into the castle. There would be reinforcements soon, but nothing would stand in his path.

He wouldn't lose his throne, even if the whole world was against him.

Like he hadn't been in the castle for months, years even, the Champion stepped forth. The cold breeze rippled against his back, yet he only felt warmth ahead of him. The corridor was barely illuminated by speckles of light along the walls, the main source being moonlight from the windows on the left. Each was a drape upon the floor with a rug in the median. The eerie echo of silence made it apparent nobody was around. At least for now.

"Loyalties," the Champion scoffed, as he marched through the hallway. "Nobody is truly loyal. They only serve for the sake of their own hides. One single threat, one tiny sinister stare, and they revert to their cowardly states. Take the side of the majority. Take the side that will spare you." He chuckled with a shrug. "In the end, they still die. What does it matter?"

In quick succession of silence, footsteps rang through the hallway—a rhythm of them, rather. It sounded like an army charging forth with shields in front of them, swords behind them. One straight line. It was a shame he never had the opportunity to see his former soldiers perform such tactics. All they did was watch. He could never get over the pure cowardice of men supposed to be brave warriors.

"Halt!"

The word bounced around the seemingly vacant hallway until it reached the Champion, who glanced ahead. He spotted a whole row of guards identical to those that challenged him outside, but this time with kite shields having patches of light on their extruded parts.

"Halt in the name of the King! Lower your weapon and surrender immediately!"

The Champion grinned as the soldiers marched forward cautiously and unyielding. He shifted his gaze to his left to catch a faint glimpse of the full moon.

"The irony of cowards is truly saddening," he muttered, his sword sliding off his shoulder to his side. When he looked back ahead, the guards were only feet away from an engagement point. Their silver helmets and shields, royal blue capes, and traces of gold in their armor were all useless. It was all for the reputation among common men.

"One last warning! Drop your weapon!"

The Champion took a menacing step forward that had several guards reel back at the sight. Formation was already breaking. He lashed out his sword to his other shoulder, then swung it to his side in a slanted state, just missing the wall by a hair.

"Or else?"

The guards exchanged glances until the leader finally spoke:

"Charge!"

The formation wasn't perfect by any means, but it was still a straight, seamless row of shields rushing at him. Another row stood behind them, ready to take their places. And another. There were at least four rows. All just to be decimated in a few minutes.

Yes! Run to your deaths!

Widening his hungry grin, the Champion reeled his sword back and swung with all of his might. In one stroke from left to right, he cut right through the shields, as if they were cloth, and knew he took the owners' heads too. The entire row fell down with blood gushing from where they had been killed. Tragic! So, so tragic!

Startled at the sight before them, the second row was hesitant to rush forward. Yet, they couldn't run; they were pinned. The Champion seized the moment and charged forward, two-handing his sword. He plunged it into the exposed chest of a knight, jerked it out, then jammed the handle right into a nearby visor. A blade bounced against his back, making him turn around and kick his attacker right in the gut. Before the knight could even hit the wall in their stumbling state, a bloody blade impaled his helmet to make him a mere decoration.

"He's unarmed! Kill him while we can!"

At the rallying voice and surge of momentum, the third row charged forward with what remained of the second. The Champion rammed his shoulder into the shield of the leading guard and headbutted him to dismantle his helmet immediately. Clenching his fists, he hooked one standing beside him across the helmet.

His target stumbled back toward a window, where the full moon could be seen in all its glory. He was so captivated, so astonished, that he lifted his leg up and thrust it forward like a spear. At the sheer impact, the knight flew out of the window with a piercing scream in close pursuit. When it ended, when a solid thump erupted, the Champion huffed at the arrival of the cold breeze. He was cleansed. And he wanted more.

Not even looking at the next attacker, who had been swinging at him for the past minute or so to no avail, the Champion grabbed his helmet and dragged him to the broken window. Hands clawed at his gauntlet for relief out of pure desperation, but there would be no mercy. Even before he threw the knight outside to a certain death, he had smashed the head into pulp. But he didn't care at all.

The rest of the guards began to fall back. Only a few kept their shields up, while the rest frantically ran away, but they were all retreating. Unable to appease his bloodthirst, the Champion thrust his right gauntlet forward as his sword returned at once with a gush of blood right behind it.

You can't run! Nobody can!

The Champion dragged his sword in the floor in circular motion until bringing it up and throwing it forward. As perfect as a javelin toss, it impaled all the helmets in its path. Flames began to squirt out of the now-glowing red blade, which didn't lose any speed anytime it penetrated a helmet, even a shield.

A predator doesn't lose its prey! Never!

When his sword finally fell to the floor, with numerous bodies shortly after, he swung out his crossbow and madly let loose bolt after bolt. A black fire engulfed each and every one of them—rather, they were black flames. That was the only thing they were made out of. It was the only thing necessary, anyway.

Guard after guard, they fell. They all fell. The bodies on the floor began to pile up. Ten. Twenty. The numbers didn't matter. As the Champion walked forward, not stopping his rapid firing, he lost sight of what was around him. That a moon was gleaming down right on him. That he was killing men supposedly loyal to him.

But they were traitors. They were all traitors. They had to die. Each and every one of them—there would be no mercy. It was the proper way to enforce stability. To allow for triumph. To truly display Good's strength. 

The Champion let loose one final bolt, then lowered the crossbow. The target he had just hit, who had his back toward him, took a few more drunken steps until falling over. Just like the rest. Not a soul stood. Not a breath was taken—other than the Champion's rapid own.

"Now..."

He trailed off, stepping over the rest of the corpses. When he finally steered clear of the slaughter, he abruptly froze.

"What am I doing here again?"

Confused, he looked behind him, and then back ahead. The corridor had no end in sight. It was as if the lanterns had been extinguished, for a cover of darkness hid almost everything.

Your throne, Jewel answered, annoyed.

"Oh," the Champion remarked, nodding. "Yes, my throne. Where is it?"

Keep going straight ahead, it's not far.

"Is there anybody else?"

Silence followed, with a barely-audible groan to accompany it.

Yes.

The Champion nodded, but he was still stopped.

"Who?"

A furious sigh erupted, having realistic properties by how it echoed in the now-vacant corridor.

Just. Go!

"Hmm..." the Champion murmured.

He finally resumed his path, uncaring for the blood that poured off him. His right gauntlet instinctively thrust itself behind him, his sword returning to his grasp safe and sound. He had almost forgotten about it. He was completely clueless about everything. After the slaughter, it was as if his mind vanished. Poof. He didn't know what to think or do any longer. An eternal trance? Was he truly mindless?

Or was it that he was so disappointed?

"It never has to be this way," the Champion whispered, stroking his bloody sword without looking at it. "It doesn't have to escalate to violence. And it's so simple: just fill your roles properly. Don't betray me. Don't lie to me. Don't plot behind my back. Don't turn your weapons against me."

He sighed.

"Don't abandon me. Don't leave me to die. Don't guide me along the path and then disappear. Don't forget me!"

He fell on his knees with his sword falling out of his grasp. Weighed down by an emotion that had his heart sag, his mind flare without any possible solutions, his mouth wavering in all directions, he glanced down on the floor where a patch of moonlight rested. Crimson blood dripped down from the tips of his fingers.

Plip. Plop. Plip.

"It wouldn't come to this if I knew the path," he breathlessly stated, bringing his shaky gauntlets into view. "They wouldn't have died. They wouldn't have betrayed me. No, I would still be on the throne. I would be the best king and the people would love me." He clenched his gauntlets in remorse. "But I'm not. Nobody loves me. Nobody will take my side. Nobody wants me to succeed. They all want me to lose. They all want to see me suffer and laugh, mock, jeer, taunt, threaten..."

With a slow breath at an attempt for recovery, the Champion cast his gaze ahead.

"Let it be so. Let everyone be against me. Let the world wish for my demise. Let them all see."

A smile returned to his face as he began to stand, the moonlight ever so gentle in its presence.

"Let them all be proven wrong! They will all die helplessly as a realization dawns upon them in the very end, when it is too late to turn back."

His gaze fanned over to his right where familiar doors lay.

"That I am invincible, a true God among all."

He approached the doors and rested his gauntlets upon them. His heart raced in utmost excitement as his right gauntlet couldn't hide its urge for killing.

He could not be stopped. Not now, not ever.