A piercing scream rang out.
Blood spattered everywhere. The iron-clad slaughterer took the lives of his own people while paying no heed to their pleas.
Another stain spread across the stone wall.
Black, thick, and layering layer upon layer.
Someone was crying.
Hope stolen by violence, hearts crushed before the slaughter, all they could do was weep. Many had even lost the strength to cry.
Among them, the hero who had fought back so bravely groaned with stakes driven through both legs.
The beautiful homeland his parents had told him about no longer existed.
In a prison where not even sunlight reached, there was no God.
There were no such thing as miracles.
He breathed in the stench of blood that grew thicker by the day, and continued to carve "curses" into the magic stones. His hands went nub, his skin cracked, and his flesh tore... until he could no longer move.
He lived at the bottom of the earth and headed straight into despair.