The battlefield was silent, save for the heavy breaths of those left standing. Sunny's body, battered and bruised, was no longer the agile, quick fighter it had once been. The power that had kept him moving, kept him alive through all of this, was fading. His energy was nearly depleted.
Lysander stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching him. His calm, calculating gaze never left Sunny, a twisted smile playing on his lips.
"You've done well, Sunny," Lysander said, his voice smooth, almost like a compliment. "But in the end, you were always destined to fail."
Sunny struggled to lift his sword, his fingers trembling around the hilt. He was ready to fight to the end, to keep standing no matter the cost. But something deep inside him told him that this was it. The end.
"You were never meant to win," Lysander continued, his tone laced with coldness. "I gave you a chance, but you never truly understood my vision. You never understood why I must do this. You were too blind, too driven by petty emotions."
Sunny's vision blurred, his body trembling as the last bit of his energy drained from him. He fell to one knee, gasping for breath. He could feel the weight of his past, his mistakes, his regrets closing in on him. Memories—of Ren, of the village, of his family—flashed in his mind. The pain of loss, the weight of his decisions, the lives lost because of his choices.
And yet, amidst the darkness, he heard a voice.
"Son..."
A voice he knew too well.
Sunny's heart stopped for a moment. That voice... it was familiar, but so distant.
No. It couldn't be.
But just as he tried to look toward it, Lysander's sword plunged into his chest.
Everything went black.