I do not know if peace ever truly existed for them.

  Perhaps human history was never written by hope, but by command.

  We are born inheriting a mission. We do not question where it comes from.

  We ask only: Where is the next destination? Whose throat must our blade find? Which peak shall our banner crown?

  The morning the royal command was issued, the bells rang one beat earlier than usual.

  I was already armored and standing on the steps. Behind me, the full formation of the Auracirclet Guard.

  The lieutenant stood silent, eyes resolute. I knew she would not waver. Her duty, like mine—was not to think, but to complete.

  The king’s herald read the decree aloud, declaring the official launch of the “Final Purge.”

  We did not march for border unrest, nor for vengeance.

  We marched to cleanse the last impurity from this world—those remnants that should not exist.

  The Fiendkins.

  Just a name. Yet a threat.

  A history forgotten, erased.

  They were born in the wrong place.

  They lived too long.

  Their existence was heresy.

  There is no place left for them.

  We would decide their end for them.

  On the eve of our departure, the royal capital was as quiet as a sacred altar.

  People gathered of their own will—at street corners, in plazas, beneath the city walls.

  Children cheered. Elders prayed. Armor gleamed in the firelight.

  Humanity does not fear war—so long as we believe the war marches in the right direction.

  An alchemist volunteered to join us. He was no warrior.

  He said he came to chronicle “our great deeds.”

  I allowed it.

  He would write of every one of our victories. He would not interfere.

  He knew—we were the executors of belief.

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  He, merely a witness.

  There was also a girl from the mess unit, who requested to march with us.

  I asked if she understood we were not headed for a campsite.

  She said she did.

  She said: “I want to walk just behind the front line—and cook a hot meal for those who win.”

  I saw the blade at her waist. Small, dull, but clean.

  She didn’t talk much. I respected that kind of silence.

  On the day of our departure, we marched in silence.

  Hooves struck earth. The masses knelt in farewell.

  The royal court stood atop the highest platform.

  There were no drums. No orders.

  Only their gaze—fixed on us.

  I could feel it land on me—like the sun burning a mark into my forehead.

  I raised our banner.

  It bore no words—only flame patterns in gold and black.

  It was a symbol of will, nothing more.

  The faithful would remember it.

  The enemy would learn to fear it.

  “We are not here to start a war,” I told the Guard.

  “We are here to end a lie.”

  The lieutenant silently adjusted her spear.

  The others followed.

  Behind us, the prayers of the people.

  Ahead, empty earth.

  But I knew the Fiendkins were waiting somewhere.

  They had not fled.

  They were merely breathing in the wrong moment of time.

  And we—we are the ones who cleanse time.

  This is our war.

  We do not ask about victory or defeat.

  We ask—how many still stand?

  We walked through the gates of the Holy Capital.

  Behind us, no return.

  Before us, no obstacle.

  Every step we took was the continuation of a command.

  This was not a beginning.

  It was the start—of an end.