The storm had passed, but the world hadn't yet recovered from it.

The horizon was still stained red with embers. The battlefield stretched endlessly, a plain of ruin and smoke where even the stars seemed reluctant to look down. Cain walked through it, his coat torn, his boots sinking slightly in the ash. Each step crunched over the charred remains of armor and bone, echoes of lives erased by fire and faith.

He had been walking for hours, maybe days. The concept of time had gone with the battle's end. His mind, however, was anything but still.

The smell of burnt flesh clung to him. He could wash for a week and it would still remain — a brand etched into his skin, his memory, his soul.

He had done this.

And the part that disturbed him most was how calm he felt about it.

He stopped by what used to be a temple spire, now collapsed and half buried. The once-polished marble was cracked, its inscriptions scorched black. He ran a finger along the broken glyphs — prayers to gods who never listened.

"You weren't supposed to burn," he muttered. "You were supposed to witness."

A sound broke the silence — soft, deliberate, and close.

Cain turned.

From the smoke stepped a figure, limping but alive. Armor dented, blade dragging behind him. The crest on the chestplate had melted beyond recognition, but the eyes gave him away.

It was a survivor.

The man raised his sword with trembling hands. "You… you did this…"

Cain's eyes met his. "I did."

There was no remorse in his voice. No justification either. Just fact.

The man screamed and charged, his steps heavy and uneven. Cain waited, not out of arrogance, but weariness. When the blade came down, Cain sidestepped, seized the man's wrist, and twisted. The sword clattered to the ground.

In a single motion, he turned the man's own momentum against him and slammed him to the dirt. The impact broke something — a rib, maybe more.

"Why?" the soldier wheezed.

Cain crouched beside him. "Because you believed."

The soldier spat blood. "You're… a monster."

Cain tilted his head. "Maybe. But monsters don't pray."

He stood, leaving the man gasping in the dirt. Killing him would've been mercy, and Cain wasn't merciful anymore.

He moved on. The wind picked up, carrying faint whispers from the ruined city ahead. There was something magnetic about the destruction — the way it refused to die quietly.

And there, at the city's center, something glowed faintly beneath the rubble.

Cain approached, his heartbeat steady but curious. The closer he got, the more the air around him seemed to hum, like distant thunder waiting for permission to strike.

He knelt and brushed aside a slab of collapsed stone. Underneath was a crystal, fractured but pulsing with faint light.

A residual soul core.

Cain reached out, feeling its energy hum against his palm. It wasn't alive, not anymore — just an echo of what once powered the holy citadel. But even that faint echo felt familiar.

"Still clinging on?" he said softly. "You never know when to quit."

The core flickered. A ripple of energy ran through the ground, and suddenly Cain saw flashes — memories not his own. Soldiers kneeling in prayer. Wings made of light cutting through the clouds. A voice, clear and commanding, saying his name.

He tore his hand away. The vision snapped, and the crystal dimmed to nothing.

Cain stared at it for a moment longer before rising to his feet. "I told you. I don't serve anymore."

A tremor ran through the earth. Distantly, he heard stone shifting — or perhaps something crawling out of it. The city, it seemed, wasn't done yet.

He drew the {Golden Tyrant} from its holster. The weapon's glow was faint, its runes dulled, but it was still alive enough to answer him.

"Alright then," he said, cocking it once. "Let's see what's left of you."

The rubble in front of him erupted as a massive, charred figure clawed its way free. Its body was molten in places, flesh half-fused with armor, and where its eyes should've been burned two crimson fires.

It opened its mouth, and a voice that didn't belong to anything human came through — distorted, layered, more vibration than sound.

"Cain of the Fallen… you defied your order…"

"Yeah," Cain said, raising the gun. "And I'd do it again."

The creature lunged. The ground cracked beneath its weight, molten blood spilling from its limbs as it charged. Cain fired — one, two, five shots in succession — each golden round tearing through its form in flashes of molten light. But it didn't stop.

It crashed into him, sending both sprawling through what remained of a cathedral wall. Cain rolled, spat blood, and came up on one knee. The creature was already reforming, dragging molten hands across the floor, leaving trails of smoke and ash.

He fired again. The rounds struck the ground around the creature, exploding into arcs of burning metal. The temperature soared; the air shimmered.

The monster's movements slowed. Its molten core pulsed erratically.

Cain holstered the gun and extended his hand. Metal rose from the ground like liquid, forming a dozen sharp spears that hovered around him.

He clenched his fist — and the spears shot forward, piercing through the creature's body one after another until it finally fell, its molten form hardening into black stone.

Cain approached, staring at the smoldering corpse.

It spoke again, weaker now. "You… cannot… escape… the voice…"

Cain frowned. "I've been ignoring it for years."

Then he turned away as the body cracked, split, and crumbled into dust.

Above him, the first light of dawn pierced the smoke — weak, uncertain, but real.

Cain looked up at it, expression unreadable.

"Guess the world isn't done burning," he muttered, and walked on.

Cain walked until the light faded again, swallowed by clouds of drifting soot. Each breath felt like breathing through iron dust, but he didn't slow. The world behind him was already cold, and what waited ahead promised little more warmth.

He glanced at his hands — faint golden residue shimmered across his skin, the remnant of his last spell. The {Golden Tyrant} still hummed faintly at his hip, eager, restless, like it wanted more destruction.

Cain exhaled. "Not yet."

He adjusted his coat, shoulders squared against the dead wind, and kept walking — the lone survivor of his own apocalypse.