The years passed. The sixteen-year-old Viren was the perfect image of the weapon his parents desired. He was tall, well-built, and every movement exuded a lethal efficiency honed through thousands of hours of training. He was the youngest commander of the Kestrel Reconnaissance Squadron, and his reputation as a cold and ruthless knight was already beginning to precede him. He had become everything they asked for, yet the silence between them remained as cold as the wind on the tower's spire.
The turning point came on a wet autumn. A rebellion broke out in a remote mining town called Redstone. The miners, long-suffering under inhumane quotas and dangerous working conditions, finally raised their pickaxes and shovels against the corrupt local governor. To Viren, the situation was clear. The nobles of Anemoria, his family included, had a duty to protect the people. The governor should be punished, and the miners' grievances should be heard. It was justice. It was honor.
He entered the strategy room with a confident stride, expecting his father to already be drawing up plans to apprehend the governor. But what he found was a scene that made his blood run cold.
His father and mother stood before the giant map table. Pieces representing infantry battalions and heavy cavalry were not positioned around the governor's residence, but were instead forming a siege formation around the entire town of Redstone.
"What... what is this?" Viren asked, his voice hoarse.
"A lesson in political reality, Viren," his mother, Lady Elara, answered without looking up. "The Redstone rebellion is not just the complaint of miners. It is a spark that could set the entire region ablaze."
"No," his father, General Kaelen, said, his heavy voice leaving no room for debate. "We will extinguish the fire before it spreads. The Third Platoon will move at dawn. They will crush the rebellion."
Viren's world seemed to collapse. "Crush them? They are our people! The miners, their families, their children! They are not the enemy!"
"Anyone who raises arms against the state is an enemy of the state," General Kaelen retorted. "One small town is not worth the risk of a civil war."
"This isn't justice, it's a massacre!" Viren shouted, the anger he had suppressed for so long finally erupting. "You always talk of honor, of protecting Anemoria! But when it's the common people who need protection, you send swords to silence them! You are hypocrites!"
SLAP!
A hard slap from his father landed across Viren's cheek. "You are still a child who knows nothing of the real world," General Kaelen hissed. "You think life-and-death struggles are clean? You think leading is easy?"
He gripped Viren's shoulder tightly. "You will not just participate. You will lead the Third Platoon. You will see with your own eyes what it means to make hard decisions. You will feel the weight of every life on your shoulders. This is your last lesson in reality, Viren."
Viren wanted to rebel, but his father's grip and his mother's cold stare left him powerless. He was forced into his commander's armor and led the troops towards Redstone, his heart as heavy as lead.
The battle was a hell born from good intentions. When the Third Platoon arrived at the gates of Redstone, Viren gave a clear command, his voice echoing through his helm. "We are not here to kill! Incapacitate, do not finish them! Subdue them with minimal force! These are our people!"
At first, the order worked. The trained knights easily disabled the miners who charged with blind rage. They used the flat of their blades, pommels, and shields to bring the rebels down. But the miners' numbers were too great. From every house and alley, more poured out, their eyes blazing with desperation. They didn't fight like soldiers; they fought like men with nothing left to lose.
The situation quickly descended into chaos. Viren's once-orderly unit was broken, swarmed by a sea of angry people. A young soldier at Viren's side stumbled and was immediately mobbed by five miners. Viren saw the panic in the soldier's eyes as a pickaxe swung towards his neck. Without thinking, the soldier thrust his sword, killing the first miner to save himself.
It was the spark that ignited the inferno. Seeing their comrade fall, the other soldiers began to panic. Viren's orders were forgotten, replaced by the most basic instinct for survival.
"Hold! Do not kill them!" Viren screamed, his voice nearly lost in the din of battle.
A miner with eyes burning with hatred swung his axe at Viren. Viren parried, pushing the man away. "Stop!" he pleaded, more to himself than to his opponent. But the man charged again, and again. Viren was forced to wound him, then disable him. But when he turned, three other miners were already upon him.
He shut down all his emotions. The guilt, the anger, the confusion—all of it vanished, locked away in the icy cage in his heart. All that remained was the knight. The weapon. He moved. His sword danced, no longer with hesitation, but with the cold precision that had become second nature. He parried, spun, and slashed. He no longer saw faces, only threats that needed to be eliminated.
When the short fight was over, he stood among five lifeless bodies, his sword dripping blood. He had survived. But something inside him had died. Their faces—an old man with a grey beard, a young man who might have been his age—were burned into his memory forever.
When dawn broke, the rebellion had been quelled. Viren stood alone in the center of the ruined town square, among the corpses and the smoldering remains of buildings. His father approached, his footsteps heavy on the ground, muddy with grime and blood.
General Kaelen looked at the scene, then at his trembling son. "Look around you, Viren. This is the consequence of your hesitation. Your soft orders made your soldiers hesitate, and that hesitation got them cornered. Your good intentions only added to the body count on both sides. You failed."
Viren just stared into his father's eyes, the disappointment and rage burning inside him so immense that no words could represent it. He did nothing. He said nothing.
He mourned what he had just done. The hands that were meant to protect were now stained with the blood of his own people. He had become a monster, just like his parents.
But in the midst of that despair, a new resolve was born from the ashes. He looked at his trembling hands, then clenched them into tight fists. This pain and guilt would not be in vain. It would be his fuel.
"You are wrong," he whispered to the morning wind that carried the stench of death. "Your ideology, your sacrifices... all of it is wrong."
He would no longer try to change them. He would no longer seek their approval. That night, amidst the ruins of Redstone, Viren Aerion made a new vow. He would become stronger, smarter, and more ruthless than they ever were. Not to be their weapon, but to be the force that would shatter their cruel and hypocritical world. He would fight their ideology, fight their kingdom, and if necessary, fight their goddess herself.