God Of Last Regret

Chapter 2: Broken Vessel

Kael stayed slumped against the cold altar stone,harsh breaths that tasted of iron and dust,as the sound of marching boots outside the ruined temple grew louder, rhythmic and relentless, like the heartbeat of something that refused to die. That mechanical voice in his skull had finally shut up, but its words still scraped around inside his mind like shards of broken glass dragged across bone.

War System. Vessel. Essence.

The terms meant nothing and everything at once,he didn’t have time to unpack the bullshit, and death was coming again, wearing the faces of soldiers who didn’t care who he used to be.

He forced himself upright, testing the unfamiliar body with gritted teeth. It felt wrong in a thousand subtle ways stronger through the shoulders and arms, muscles like coiled wire that are ready to snap, but the joints ached as if they’d been slapped together by a careless god,his left leg throbbed with that old Sarajevo limp, the one that had never healed right after the shrapnel tore through it. Some scars didn’t give a damn about dying and waking up in a new world,they followed you like loyal dogs.

The sword in his grip was still sticky with someone else’s blood,he wiped it half-heartedly on his torn tunic and pushed deeper into the temple’s shadowed interior. Flickering torchlight from the fallen soldiers cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. Ancient carvings covered every surface, winged warriors locked in eternal combat, mountains of corpses piled beneath their feet, gods laughing from storm clouds as mortals bled for their amusement. The images slammed into his head like rusty knives, triggering something primal.

Aresion.

The name exploded behind his eyes with a burst of hot pain that buckled his knees. He caught himself on a cracked pillar, vision swimming with flashes crumbling empires, rivers running red, gods treating entire civilizations like disposable pawns in their endless games. Kael growled low in his throat and shook his head hard enough to make his vision blur. “Get the fuck out of my head,” he snarled at the empty air.

The inner chamber was worse. A massive statue of the same winged figure lay smashed across the floor, its head severed and missing, one marble wing cracked down the middle. Whatever treasures this place once held had been stripped clean by looters long before him. Fine. He didn’t need gold or glory. Just another day of breathing.

Kael dropped to his knees beside the nearest corpse a young soldier, barely twenty, face still smooth under the blood. With cold, practiced hands he rifled through the man’s gear. A half-full waterskin. Strips of dried meat wrapped in oilcloth. A chunk of tough bread that smelled faintly of mold but would keep him alive. Flint and steel. A serviceable dagger with a worn hilt. He took it all, stuffing items into a worn leather satchel he pulled from another body. Every movement was efficient, mechanical. Old habits from too many warzones.

Then a groan sliced through the heavy quiet.

Kael froze mid-reach, heart hammering against his ribs.

An older soldier mid-thirties, grizzled face twisted in agony was dragging himself across the stone floor. His left leg was bent at a sickening angle, bone jutting through torn armor, and dark blood leaked steadily from a gut wound. The man’s eyes locked onto Kael with pure, animal hate.

“You bastard scavenger…” the soldier rasped, voice wet with blood. “The Legion’s gonna gut you slowly. String your insides from the trees. You’ll beg”

The rage came without warning.

A red flood swallowed the world. That wild, hungry power roared up Kael’s spine like liquid fire, burning away thought, reason, everything except the need to *end* the threat. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He crossed the distance in two powerful strides. The soldier tried to lift his sword, but Kael stomped down on the man’s wrist with a brutal force crack as bone gave way like dry wood.

Then the blade came down.

Three times. Ugly, inefficient hacks born of panic and fury. Hot blood sprayed across Kael’s face and chest, metallic and warm. The soldier’s screams cut off into wet gurgles, then silence.

When the red haze finally lifted, Kael stood panting over the ruined body, sword hanging limp in his hand. The man’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, wide open in eternal fear. Just another life ended because Kael’s new vessel decided killing was easier than thinking.

“Shit…” he muttered, voice cracking.

Nausea rolled through him. He turned away and dry-heaved against the wall, nothing coming up but bile. This wasn’t who he wanted to be anymore. Back in Sarajevo, he’d sworn after the last civilian convoy got hit that he was done. Done with the killing. Done with becoming the monster the war needed. And here he was, one hour into this second chance, already knee-deep in fresh blood.

[Minor Essence Absorbed.]

[Vessel Integration: 14%.]

[Level 2 Confirmed. Basic Combat Instinct Fully Integrated.]

The voice was flat, mechanical, devoid of judgment or comfort. Just cold numbers ticking away in his skull like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

Kael wiped the blood from his face with a trembling hand, smearing it across his cheek. “I told myself I wouldn’t fuck this up,” he rasped toward the broken statue, voice echoing in the empty chamber. “One hour. One goddamn hour and I’m already back in it.”

He forced himself to keep moving. No time for wallowing self-pity got men killed faster than bullets. He stripped a dark wool cloak from another corpse, the fabric stiff with dried sweat and blood, and slung it over his shoulders. It smelled of smoke and fear. Good enough for camouflage. The satchel went over one shoulder, the sword stayed on his hip. It felt too natural there, like an old friend he wished he could abandon.

Outside, the war horns blared louder, deep and mournful, vibrating through the stone. Torchlight flickered between the trees at the edge of the clearing. Dozens of them. The Legion was closing in, professional and unforgiving.

Kael slipped out through a cracked side wall, stones scraping against his shoulders as he squeezed through. The forest swallowed him immediately thick pines with low-hanging branches, dense underbrush that snagged at his cloak. His left leg burned with every step, the limp making him clumsy, but he pushed through the pain like he always had. Pain was familiar. Pain meant he was still alive.

He moved as quietly as a man with a bad leg could, ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Twigs snapped underfoot no matter how carefully he placed them. Every rustle in the bushes made his grip tighten on the sword hilt. Memories from his old life bled into the present: night patrols in ruined cities, waiting for the next ambush, the constant dread that today was the day his luck ran out.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes, the sounds of the Legion began to fade. The horns grew distant, the marching boots replaced by the normal night sounds of the forest wind through needles, distant animal calls, the occasional hoot of an owl. Only then did Kael allow himself to stop. He leaned heavily against a rough-barked pine trunk, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. Above him stretched a sky full of alien stars, constellations twisted into shapes he didn’t recognize. Two worlds. Two different heavens. Both indifferent.

He slid down the trunk until he sat on the damp ground, head resting back against the bark. The weight of everything pressed down on him. The body he’d stolen whose memories still flickered at the edges of his mind had been someone important here. A warrior. A pawn in whatever game the gods were playing. And now Kael was the one carrying that burden.

“I don’t know who the hell you were,” he whispered to the night, to the dead man whose life he’d hijacked. “But I’m sorry it’s me in here now. I break everything I touch.”

The wind moved through the branches like a low, mocking sigh.

He stayed there longer than he should have, letting the adrenaline crash wash over him. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The red rage had felt *good* in the moment like power, like control. That terrified him more than the Legion. What if the War System wasn’t just some overlay? What if it was changing him, turning the broken parts of his soul into weapons?

A twig snapped somewhere behind him.

Kael was on his feet in an instant, sword half-drawn, heart slamming against his ribs. He scanned the darkness, breath shallow. Nothing. Just his imagination? Or had a scout slipped ahead of the main force? He waited, muscles coiled, the limp forgotten in the surge of fight-or-flight.

Minutes passed. Nothing emerged. He exhaled slowly, sheathing the blade, but the tension didn’t leave his shoulders. This world wouldn’t let him rest. Not yet.

He adjusted the satchel, checked the edge of his sword again still sharp enough and started walking deeper into the forest. The limp made progress slow and painful. Every step sent jolts up his leg, but he welcomed the discomfort. It kept him grounded. Kept the red haze at bay.

As he moved, more fragments of the original owner’s memories trickled in. Battles under foreign banners. A woman’s face, smiling in the firelight. A promise made and broken. Kael shoved them down. He had his own ghosts; he didn’t need another man’s.

The forest grew denser. Ancient trees with trunks wider than cars loomed overhead, their roots twisting across the ground like traps. He nearly fell twice, catching himself on low branches. Thorns tore at his cloak and arms, leaving shallow cuts that stung. At one point he disturbed a small creature—some kind of fox-like thing with glowing eyes—that hissed and darted away. He almost laughed at himself. Jumped by a damn raccoon equivalent in a world trying to kill him.

Hours blurred together. The sky began to lighten faintly in the east, a bruised purple giving way to gray. Kael’s body screamed for rest, but he kept pushing. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking led back to the soldier’s wide, terrified eyes.

[Stamina Low. Recommend Rest Period.]

The system voice chimed in again, almost helpful this time.

“Fuck off,” Kael muttered.

But it was right. His leg felt like it was on fire. He found a small hollow beneath a fallen tree, screened by thick ferns, and crawled inside. The ground was damp and cold, but it hid him well. He ate some of the dried meat, salty, tough, but it quieted the gnawing in his stomach and took small sips from the waterskin.

Sleep came in fits and starts, haunted by dreams of Sarajevo streets running with blood, mixed with images of winged gods laughing as they crushed armies beneath their heels. He woke once to the distant sound of horns again, far off but present. The Legion hadn’t given up.

Dawn broke fully as he emerged from his hiding spot, stiff and sore. The new day brought no comfort, only the knowledge that he was alone in hostile territory with a system in his head that wanted him to become something worse.

Kael clenched his jaw tight, adjusted his cloak, and kept moving. Limping. Aching. Still choking on fresh regret and old sins.

But moving.

The forest stretched on endlessly, and somewhere behind him, the war followed. He didn’t know what lay ahead safety, more blood, or another broken altar but he would face it the only way he knew how.

One painful step at a time.