A journey of war 3

Villages burned like paper.
Towns fell like dominos.
Wherever Hell’s Hidden Warrior wandered, silence followed.
Not from fear.
But from the complete lack of survivors.
He did not scream when he fought. He did not roar when he destroyed. His voice was the thunder of cracked stone, the wail of metal grinding through flesh. Buildings crumbled beneath his feet. Children’s laughter once heard in town squares now echoed only in memory.
No war. No enemies. No purpose.
Only destruction.
Then came the jingle of bells.
“Whoa-ho! You again, Big Blue!”
Jack of No Trade appeared like a shadow in a magician’s hat—springing from the debris of a shattered bell tower, twirling a half-melted umbrella.
The Warrior glanced at him.
They didn’t speak much. They never needed to.
“You’re really committed to the whole 'silence and genocide' vibe, huh?” Jack said as he stepped over a flaming corpse, unfazed.
The Warrior didn’t stop.
Jack followed.
They walked—one burning the earth beneath him, the other humming a circus tune, occasionally skipping in rhythm.
Jack leapt onto a crumbling roof.
“You know, I’ve played in a lot of ruins lately. But yours are special. They’ve got that... touch of sorrow. A little ‘oh no, my soul’s on fire’ flavor.”
No response.
Just the crunch of ash beneath armored feet.
“You’re searching for something, huh?” Jack’s voice lowered. “Or someone?”
Finally, the Warrior paused.
His spear dug into the earth like a tombstone.
He looked up.
Eyes burning. Quiet.
“I am… waiting.”
Jack blinked. “For what?”
“A war worth dying in.”
Jack laughed—but there was a crack in it.
“Well, aren’t you poetic. Maybe when you find it, I’ll join in. Could be a real showstopper.”
The Warrior nodded once.
A rare sign of acknowledgment.
Then he marched on.
Jack stayed behind, staring at the scorched horizon. His fingers drummed his scythe’s handle. His mask never moved—but behind it, his eyes softened.
“You’re not the only one waiting, soldier boy,” he whispered. “You’re not the only one.”