(Execution Livestream Continuation, The Pit, A Common Cult Soldiers POV)
"PUSH MEN! KEEP PUSHING!"
The Legion Commander barked behind him, the words cutting through the chaos with the sharp authority of habit, yet the Cult soldier barely registered them at all.
’I have no energy to push on anymore... Commander.’
The thought surfaced weakly, drained of urgency, drained of protest, and yet his body moved anyway, legs driving forward as if they no longer belonged to him, arms lifting and striking in time with the men on either side, muscle memory answering the command long before conscious thought could catch up.
They pushed as one.
Each of them leaning into the advance like there was no tomorrow, shields locked, blades flashing, boots slipping against blood-soaked stone as the second ring pressed back against them with relentless force.
And still, something felt wrong.
His body carried no fire.
No excited mana surge.
The attack felt numb, as though the world had lost its sharpness, as though color itself had drained away and left only dull shapes and motion behind.
The clang of steel no longer startled him.
The screams barely registered.
Even the pain had softened into something distant, muted, like it was happening to someone else.
’How much longer will I survive?’
The question rose unbidden as he fought, breath rasping through his chest, lungs burning with each inhale, and when he risked a glance to either side, the answer frightened him more than the question itself.
Half of his unit was gone.
Men who had stood beside him at the start, men whose armor he recognized without thinking, men whose voices had blended with his when the banners rose and the horns sounded were nowhere to be seen.
There were no bodies.
No goodbyes.
Just absence.
’Where is everyone...? Where did they go?’
The thought echoed hollowly as his blade came up again on instinct, parrying an incoming strike, feet shifting to cover a gap that should never have been there.
He remembered the beginning clearly.
Commander Mickey James’s fiery speech as he spoke of pride, of history, of reclaiming the Cult’s lost glory, and how his blood had burned then, how his spirit had surged as if courage itself had gained weight and mass.
Back then, the war had felt loud.
Bright.
Almost simple.
However, now, nearly three hours into the battle, that feeling felt like a memory from another lifetime.
The war had become monotonous.
Not easier.
Never easier.
Just constant.
A relentless stream of motion that assaulted every sense until his mind stopped trying to keep up.
Kill.
Dodge.
Cover the man to your left.
Drag the wounded back when they fall.
Step forward when the line advances.
Obey commands because hesitation means death.
There was no space between actions anymore, no room to think or feel, only the next movement, again and again, until the repetition wore grooves into his soul.
His sword felt heavier.
His arms trembled faintly.
His legs burned.
Each new swing came a fraction slower than the last, each step forward took more effort, as he felt a terrifying truth slowly settling into his bones.
’The enemy is not tiring the same way we are...’
He realized, as unlike the Cult Vanguard who kept pressing forward creating new openings, the defending Righteous Faction Forces were all stationary and fresh, each line amongst them facing the enemy for the first time ever, as their movements remained fresh and crisp.
*CLANG*
*SLASH*
*THUD*
Beside him, yet another Cult soldier died, the man’s eyes wide with relief rather than fear as he collapsed, as watching him die, the Cult soldier felt an odd sense of envy.
’Rest well brother, you have fought hard for our cause.... Your sacrifice wasn’t in vain.’
The Cult soldier thought, as he wondered as to when it would be his turn to finally rest?
Surprisingly, the idea of death did not paralyze him anymore.
Nor did it make him hesitate.
It simply existed, walking beside him as closely as his shadow, present in every breath, every clash, every heartbeat that continued despite everything screaming that it shouldn’t.
And yet, even knowing that death could be waiting just beyond the next strike, he did not stop.
He fought.
Not because the speeches still inspired him.
Not because he felt brave.
He fought because he genuinely believed in his core that even if he died here, it would not be in vain, that fighting for the ’Dragon’ was a cause worth dying for.
And hence, as the enemy blade finally did decapitate him, he did not feel fear or anxiety, only relief, as the world twisted violently and his vision dropped low across the battlefield, spinning past shattered shields, broken spears, and boots still charging forward, the stone beneath him slick with blood and mud as sound dulled into a distant hum.
His severed sight caught his own body a moment later.
Headless.
Still upright.
His sword arm completing one final swing out of habit before the weight of absence caught up, knees buckling as the body folded forward and collapsed into the churned ground among countless others.
’So... this is how it ends.’
The thought came softly, without bitterness, without regret, as darkness crept inward from the edges of his vision, the battlefield blurring into indistinct motion and color.
He felt strangely light.
Free.
No more weight in his limbs.
No more commands to obey.
No more need to push.
’141...I killed 141 Righteous Bastards’
He counted calmly, the number surfacing clearly despite everything else fading.
’It wasn’t much... but I did my part.’
A faint smile tugged at his lips, unseen by anyone, because even as his vision dimmed completely, he knew the truth with absolute clarity.
He had played his part.
He had been one of the countless nameless blades that had pushed the Cult forward inch by bloody inch.
And for that, his life had meaning.
And because of that, he had no complaints even as he made the ultimate sacrifice.