Hymns of the Cosmic Truth

The air inside the arena was suffocating, thick with the stench of ink, aged parchment, and the faint metallic tang of blood—an ever-present reminder of the atrocities that sustained this war. Shadows from the oil lamp's flickering glow danced across the jagged walls of the canvas structure, making the room feel like a living beast, breathing and oppressive. At the heart of it all sat the boss, a mountain of a man whose broad shoulders seemed to bear the weight of not just the war but the world itself. His hunched figure loomed over a sprawling desk cluttered with maps marked by sharp ink strokes, casualty reports, and grim strategies. He did not look up as Reshu entered, though the faint crunch of ash under Reshu's boots betrayed the residue of battle he carried with him, a silent echo of what had been left behind.

"You're late," the boss grunted, his voice a guttural rumble, commanding and unyielding. His gaze remained fixed on the map before him, his thick fingers tracing the lines as though they might whisper the secrets of the next battlefield. "What's the count?"

Reshu stood like a statue, his scarf—a ragged remnant of a life that now felt more myth than memory—fluttering slightly as the cold night air slipped through the tent's seams. His voice, sharp and unrelenting as a winter gale, answered without hesitation. "Taraka. Ten thousand soldiers. All dead."

The words hung in the air like the toll of a funeral bell. Finally, the boss looked up, his piercing eyes cutting through the dim haze. For a fleeting moment, his lips twisted into what might have been satisfaction, though it was devoid of warmth. The expression wasn't pride but a cold acknowledgment, as though Reshu were nothing more than an instrument in his arsenal, a blade sharpened for slaughter.

"Efficient as ever," the boss murmured. His tone was dry, transactional. Praise had no place here—only results.

Reshu said nothing, his gaze fixed on a far corner of the room, where shadows stretched long and thin, as if trying to escape the weight of the tent's atmosphere. His silence was a language of its own, one he had perfected over years of servitude to this war.

The boss leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his bulk. His eyes, tired but ever-calculating, shifted to Reshu like a predator assessing the value of its prey. "Any witnesses?" he asked, the sharp edge in his voice probing for imperfections.

"No," Reshu replied, the single syllable as devoid of emotion as the killing fields he left in his wake. It was a word that carried finality, a truth that allowed no room for questioning.

The boss nodded, his massive hand brushing across the edge of a map. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips, a twisted semblance of approval. "Good. The council will be pleased. Rest. You'll have your next orders soon."

Reshu's hand twitched at his side, a subtle reflex he quickly stilled. He turned, his movements precise and deliberate, like a soldier marching to an eternal rhythm of war. The tent flap swayed as he reached for it, but just as his fingers brushed against the coarse fabric, the boss's voice sliced through the air.

"Anything else to report?"

For a moment, Reshu froze. His gloved hand hovered near the flap, but his mind had already retreated to another place, another time. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the pendant hidden deep in his pocket; its edges worn smooth by his grip over the years. Images flashed through his mind—Serena's face, radiant and unyielding, like a flame in a storm. For a fleeting moment, her laughter echoed in his ears, a melody too fragile for this world. But the memory burned, searing him with a warmth he could no longer afford. He crushed the thought with the precision of a blade sheathing itself.

"No," he said finally, his voice hollow, dulled by the chains of his loyalty.

The boss's eyes narrowed, his gaze like a blade pressing against Reshu's armor, searching for cracks. After an agonizing silence, he returned his focus to the maps, his dismissal a silent decree.

Reshu stepped out into the night, the cold air biting against his skin. The battlefield beyond the tent stretched out like a wasteland, lit faintly by the light of a fractured moon. The sound of the distant river reached his ears, a mournful murmur as if the earth itself grieved for the lives lost in the blood-soaked soil.

The pendant in his pocket felt heavier now, a quiet betrayal against the weight of his duty. Somewhere out there, in a world that seemed lifetimes away, Serena's memory lingered, unspoken and untouchable, a light in a world of shadows. But Reshu had made his choice long ago—a choice to bind himself to the darkness. And tonight, as he stared at the cold expanse of the night sky, he could feel the chains tightening.

The storm within him raged on, silent and unrelenting, as he walked away from the boss's tent, knowing that no rest would ever come, only the endless march toward the next battle.