Ryuken led his army of revolution into battle against the forces of the first Daimyo who had conspired in the murder of his father, the Shogun. This was the moment he had waited 25 long years for...a moment forged in pain, loss, and unrelenting determination. The time had come to enact his revenge and reclaim the honor of his lineage. The battlefield was set, and the revolutionaries clashed with the Daimyo's formidable forces under the crimson hues of dusk. Ryuken, wielding the power of his multiple Divine and Demonic Spirits, was an unstoppable force. His blade danced like lightning, cutting through enemy generals as though they were nothing but paper before a storm. Amidst the chaos, the Daimyo, witnessing the might of the rebel leader and the collapse of his army, fled the battlefield in terror. He retreated to his castle, transforming the confrontation from an open-field war into a desperate siege. Experience tales with empire The night grew long as the skirmish turned into an unyielding struggle, dragging on into the cold hours of dawn. Ryuken's forces, though battered, pressed forward. With their dwindling strength, they breached the barricades and cut down waves of soldiers, including archers stationed on ramparts and artillery operators who rained cannon fire upon them. The city gates finally gave way, and the rebels surged into the stronghold. However, what followed was not the triumphant victory Ryuken had envisioned. Under the shroud of darkness, a devastating miscommunication rippled through the chain of command. Some of the troops veered off-course, spreading into unintended directions, where they were ambushed by well-hidden enemy units lying in wait. Others fell prey to attacks from frightened and desperate cityfolk, who mistook them for invaders to pillage their homes. The confusion and disarray within the rebel ranks turned what should have been a decisive victory into a chaotic bloodbath. The rebels did succeed in their ultimate goal. Ryuken, with his unwavering resolve, personally struck down the Daimyo who had stolen everything from him. The once-grand castle crumbled under the weight of the final battle, its walls collapsing amidst fire and ash. But the cost was staggering. BLIP!! As the first rays of sunlight broke through the thick clouds of smoke, they illuminated a city transformed into a haunting tableau of ruin. Entire districts were reduced to rubble, their once-thriving streets now littered with bodies...soldiers, civilians, and rebels alike. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of smoke, blood, and despair. Ryuken stood amidst the wreckage, his blade slick with the blood of his enemies. Around him, his surviving comrades...those who had fought by his side through the years...surveyed the grim aftermath. Victory had been achieved, but it was hollow, overshadowed by the staggering loss of life. The very people they sought to liberate had suffered the most. The light of dawn painted the city in hues of orange and gold, but it brought no comfort. The rebel army's triumph was marred by the sobering truth of war: even the noblest of causes can bring unimaginable suffering. Ryuken's heart, though hardened by years of pain and vengeance, felt the weight of every life lost, and the ashes of his enemies seemed to blend with those of his people. The number of lives lost on both sides was staggering, climbing into the thousands. But it wasn't merely the soldiers who fell on the battlefield; the death toll extended to innocent men, women, and children caught in the crossfire. This was the inescapable truth of war...a grim reality that transcended righteousness and justified causes. Even when you fought for what was just, the blood spilled often soaked the hands of those least deserving of suffering. Ryuken had ordered his army to spare civilians before the battle began, drilling into his men the principle that they were liberators, not destroyers. But the war does not heed intentions. When swords clash and fires rage, even the noblest ideals are consumed by chaos. The people within the besieged city saw Ryuken's army not as saviors but as harbingers of doom. To them, the banners of revolution were no different from the banners of oppression. For those whose family members stood among the enemy ranks, Ryuken's forces were monsters...foreign invaders come to dismantle their fragile world. No amount of planning or caution could erase the deep-rooted fear and hatred that gripped the hearts of the oppressed when their homes were under siege. Families barricaded themselves in their homes, and in their desperation, even those who once cursed the Daimyo chose to take up arms against the rebels. It was a cruel paradox. The very people Ryuken sought to save viewed his revolution as the cause of their suffering. And when survival instincts overtook reason, the innocent bled and burned just the same. This was the part of war the great tales of heroic triumphs rarely spoke of. The songs and ballads of bards glorified battles and victory but omitted the anguished cries of children orphaned in the chaos. History books chronicled the names of heroes, kings, and conquerors but ignored the unmarked graves of commoners, farmers, artisans, and merchants who had no part in the war but bore its brunt. No matter which side claimed victory, it was always the innocents who paid the steepest price as collateral damage. This was the immutable cost of war, a cruel ledger where even the righteous could not escape bloodied hands. ****************** After receiving the report of the casualties, Ryuken, despite his injuries and the insistence of his comrades that he rest, chose to take a solitary walk through the war-torn city. Each step he took was slow, deliberate, and heavy with dread. Step! Step! His boots echoed through the streets, littered with debris and broken lives. A heart-wrenching wail broke the oppressive silence. "Wahh! Wahh!" cried a boy, no older than four, his tiny hands clutching the bloodied bodies of his parents. He shook them frantically, his innocent mind unable to grasp the finality of their deaths. "Mother! Wake up, Mother!" screamed another boy, perhaps seven, his voice hoarse from hours of sobbing. His wide, terror-stricken eyes mirrored Ryuken's memories from the night his own family was slaughtered. "Grandpa! No! Don't leave me!" wept a young girl, cradling the cold, lifeless body of her grandfather...the only family she had left. Her cries pierced Ryuken's heart like the sharpest blade. Ryuken's eyes widened, his face pale with shock as he moved through the streets. Everywhere he turned, he was met with scenes of unimaginable sorrow. His people, those he had vowed to liberate, were scattered across the city tending to the wounded and comforting the survivors. Yet their efforts seemed like trying to extinguish a wildfire with a handful of water. The aftermath of the war revealed a grim tapestry of despair. Heaps of mutilated bodies...soldiers and civilians alike...were piled like discarded refuse. Their faces, frozen in expressions of pain and fear, told stories of lives that ended abruptly and mercilessly. Many of them had been armed, perhaps to defend their families, or had been caught in the confusion of battle, mistakenly struck down as enemies. Despite Ryuken's strict orders to spare civilians, the chaos of war had claimed hundreds of innocent lives within the city. Each corpse was a silent testament to the horrors unleashed when swords are drawn. Ryuken stopped, his legs refusing to carry him any further. His breathing grew ragged, and his hands trembled as the weight of his decisions and their consequences bore down on him. "I'm no savior..." spoke Ryuken to himself, mired in guilt and regret. This was not the victory he had envisioned. His heavy voice mirrored the grim reality that he brought forth as he spoke... "I'm just another destroyer."