As the knights and mages headed out, they set everything on fire, some salvaged all they could, others went around, looking for survivors. The goblins on the other hand, enjoyed themselves to the blood and flesh of all they could find. The mages ensured that there was no structure left intact, leaving behind a trail of total destruction. The snow was slowly turning crimson the more it fell, as if nature was crying out, anguished by the massacre of an entire kingdom, pleading for justice for the bloodshed.
Renard could not feel anything. He could not move, yet did not even feel as if he had a tangible body. It was as if his soul had been scattered everywhere - everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Suddenly, all he could see was the entirety of the remnants of what used to be Belfast.
The kingdom was gone. From above, he saw only ruin stretching in every direction. Smoke drifted into the grey sky, thin and slow, rising from what used to be homes, shops, stalls and mines. Fires still burned, crackling softly as they swallowed what remained. The snow kept falling, gentle and constant, but it melted as soon as it touched the heat. Steam curled up from the ground like a final breath.
Bodies covered the land. Some lay on their backs, eyes open, as if still trying to understand what had happened. Others were ripped apart, their limbs flung far from their torsos, guts spilled across stone and ash. Faces were crushed, burned, or missing entirely. A knight's corpse had been split down the middle, armor peeled back like paper. Someone's jaw hung loose from a skull, teeth scattered like broken glass. Blood pooled thick in the hollows of the streets, running in slow streams through shattered doorways and across the feet of the dead. It looked less like a battlefield and more like a slaughterhouse.
The wind moved gently across the ruins, but it carried no life. No voices. No sound but the quiet crackle of fire and the soft hiss of melting snow. He saw nothing left to save, only the aching silence of a place that had once lived and now simply waited to be forgotten, and the lingering echoes of help that were cut short. He could see the brutal death that had befallen him, both his and his mother's body bonded in an eternal horrid display by spikes of ice that made them almost unrecognizable. One could only tell by the crown on his hand, and the royal garments that could be made out. An overwhelming silence took over him as he processed the grotesque signs in front of him.
As if now in control of what he could see, his perspective moved across the now non existent streets and wreckages to the place where the blacksmith store once stood. All he could make out was the old man's corpse, crushed by the weight of his own shop. He could make out a rather long box tightly wrapped around by his now pale and rigid hands, as if he were shielding it. Without thinking much, overwhelming sadness and rage took over,
"Why am I seeing all this? Can this all just stop?" He thought to himself. He silently wished that he would just die, that if he closed his eyes he might never wake up again to see such horridness. But alas, he could not even make out what he was, a formless soul wandering above the pool of the dead beneath.
Slowly, reality started warping around him, suddenly turning into the interior of what seemed like a temple.
The temple rose around him like a forgotten monument, silent and still. Everything inside was made of glass. The walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath his feet shimmered with a deep purple hue that seemed to glow from within. Light from outside filtered through the glass in soft waves, casting pale reflections that danced across the interior. It felt like walking through something sacred, but not holy. The air held a weight, like memory pressed into stone.Beneath him were painted figures, stretched across the glass floor. Dark-winged angels looked up from below, their faces lost between sorrow and fury. Their eyes were empty, their mouths parted in silent cries.
In the darkness ahead, he saw a throne. It rose from the glass like it had always been part of it, born from the same strange material. Seated on it was a figure. At first, only the eyes were clear, a deep violet glowing softly in the dark. They did not flicker. They did not shift. They simply watched.
He sat with quiet grace, one hand resting gently on the arm of the throne, the other resting across his lap. His posture was calm and still, but not stiff. There was elegance in the way he held himself, something unshaken. The folds of his robe draped around him like flowing ink, barely moving, as if the world around him dared not disturb him.His face was lost in shadow. No features could be made out, only the outline of a man seated in stillness.
"I see, so this is the path that was chosen." He spoke, his voice elegant and deep.
"In accordance with the contract, I hereby use my authority to defy death and call forth the chosen soul and grant my blessing and my divine will,"
As he spoke, Renard could only watch as a human like figure appeared in front of him, which seemed to suck him in.
"I hereby use my authority to create a vessel for my power, my very essence and authority in mortal form, bonded by the souls of the wailing and the vengeful, the anger and sadness of the dead and their lingering regrets."
The temple shook vigorously as the paintings below came to life, their hands clinging onto Renard's now physical form, pulling him down.
"You shall remember all what you saw, and you shall carry the burdens and pain of everyone, Renard Belfast." The being spoke again. Renard could not neither speak nor move as his body was pulled down into the ground. What was left was what seemed like a new painting; an angel covered by dark violet wings, deep crimson eyes that seemed to be crying out as blood like tears came out from them and on the angel's feet, the other dark winged angels held him up. The entity seated on the throne stood up and walked towards the center of the painting where the violet winged angel was.
"Greed and the biased sense of justice, pitiful indeed. I look forward to see how this story made from your selfish ideals unfolds,"
As he said so, he vanished, leaving his voice echoing in the forlorn temple. Back to the grotesque remains of mother and son, the crown on his hand shattered like glass.
The Belfast Kingdom was no more, quickly devastated by the greed and desire of others, all in the name of Peace.