We returned to the capital as the ninth bell rang.

  Its chime held no sorrow—

  each note struck like metal on metal,

  hammering a rhythm called “return.”

  We entered through the east gate.

  The streets had been cleared.

  Civilians lined both sides, dressed in clean winter clothes.

  Children perched on shoulders.

  Elders leaned on carved canes.

  They weren’t looking at soldiers—

  they were looking at the certainty on our shoulders.

  The banner led us in.

  Gold, black, and now red—

  a blaze of color against the cold sky.

  I was at the front.

  My armor had been cleaned, polished.

  No blood.

  No ash.

  Not to hide the war—

  but to tell them:

  We came back. Because we did not fall.

  Applause rose.

  First scattered.

  Then unified.

  Snow slid from rooftops, shining like salt under sunlight.

  Children cried out,

  “It’s him! The Hero!”

  I didn’t respond.

  Not out of arrogance—

  but because I understood:

  Honor is never personal.

  It belongs to every foot that crossed the border—

  even those who never swung a blade,

  so long as they never turned back.

  The lieutenant and the girl were not among us.

  No one mentioned them.

  That is the triumph of the system.

  To forget is not to abandon—

  but to preserve balance.

  The palace steps had been scrubbed until they shone like mirrors.

  Above them, the golden throne.

  Seated upon it, three royal envoys—

  smiling with practiced grace,

  hands clapping in rhythm.

  I stopped at the center of the stairs.

  I didn’t kneel immediately.

  At that moment, I wanted them all to see me standing.

  Behind me, the restructured Guard stood in rank.

  Left and right columns, silent as forest.

  Each one had passed through fire and smoke.

  Each one marched in lockstep.

  Their eyes held no more questions.

  Slowly, I knelt.

  Lowered my head beneath my heart.

  Laid my sword across my palms, hilt facing out.

  My hand pressed against the blade’s back.

  This was not a sacrifice.

  This was affirmation.

  The High Priest read the decree aloud—

  calm, solemn, unhurried.

  He called us “instruments of victory,”

  “siblings of the divine,”

  “executors of the king’s will.”

  He named the accomplishments of each unit—

  but never a single individual.

  I knew why.

  Individuals are irrelevant.

  Systems are everything.

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  We won—

  not because I am,

  but because we are humanity.

  I heard the Supreme Commander descend.

  He did not raise me with his own hand.

  He simply placed the silver coronet upon my head.

  It was as cold as water.

  But I didn’t flinch.

  It was not a reward.

  It was a duty.

  I whispered,

  “I will not let it fall.”

  He gave no answer.

  Just turned away.

  That was acknowledgment enough.

  After the coronation came the procession.

  Not for the throne.

  For the people.

  Once again, I stood at the front.

  Cloaked in the royal mantle—

  darker than the banner,

  decorated with gems yet untouched by war.

  They weren’t for beauty.

  They were reminders:

  This is no ordinary soldier.

  This is a soldier of victory.

  I dislike decoration.

  But I accepted it.

  Because I understand:

  War must not only be won—

  it must be seen.

  The parade route spanned nine hundred paces—

  from the palace gate to the central bridge.

  Below it, the frozen Royal River.

  Lining the bridge: twin rows of lighted posts.

  Daylight torches.

  The kingdom’s highest ritual.

  Crowds cheered:

  “Glory!”

  “Glory!”

  “Glory!”

  Not words I taught them—

  words they remembered.

  I saw a child copy my sword gesture.

  No parent stopped him.

  Because they understood:

  We weren’t bringing war.

  We were taking war away.

  By the sixth block, the choir began.

  It was the third verse of the sacred war hymn—

  Faith unshaken. Flame unquenched.

  On the city wall, fifty prayer flags unfurled.

  Each bore seven words:

  “Only humanity may bear the light.”

  That wasn’t for me.

  That was for the entire city.

  I looked at one flag’s corner—

  torn slightly in the wind.

  And I thought—

  We haven’t conquered enemies.

  We’ve conquered the doubt

  that once questioned if we were righteous.

  Now—

  we stand at the center.

  We are the answer.

  After the procession, a simple ceremony.

  Three master craftsmen offered newly forged spears—

  “For the next campaign,” they said.

  I accepted one, raised it high.

  Not to show it off.

  But to confirm, once more:

  We have not stopped moving forward.

  I stood on the platform.

  The city looked up at me.

  Sunlight gleamed in their eyes—

  like they were gazing upon a relic.

  They didn’t kneel.

  They simply watched, waiting for words.

  I gave no speech.

  Only said:

  “We left.

  And we returned.

  You saw it.”

  “We did not break.

  We did not fall.”

  “We.

  Won.”

  Their applause had no rhythm.

  But it rang louder than any bell.

  Some laughed.

  Some cried.

  Some simply held hands and nodded.

  I didn’t say “thank you.”

  Didn’t say “it was your victory.”

  I said one thing only:

  “We will keep marching.

  Until not one of them remains.”

  That wasn’t a threat.

  It was a promise.