In a disastrous battlefield, rain fell, and blood was washed away from the dead. Two massive armies collided. One consisted of hundreds of military soldiers, and the other consisted of many distinct groups of warriors. People with different backgrounds fought with no end.
Deep in the battle, a warrior fought with his bare hands. A group of soldiers encountered him and fired their weapons. In an instant, dozens of bullets flew towards the warrior. A tank also shot missiles towards him. The warrior focused, and energy radiated out of his body. He stomped the ground, and it cracked apart. He planted his hand inside the crack and pushed up the ground. With raw strength, he broke the ground and created a wall, blocking the bombardment. Still, the tank missile broke through, and dust covered the area.
"Did we do it," one of the soldiers questioned. His eyes scavenged the dust field in a frenzy. The soldier, next to him, breathed heavily and lowered his weapon.
Just then, the warrior, unscathed, leaped out of smoke. He landed in front of the soldiers and glared at them. He charged and unleashed a flurry of punches.
Rattled, the soldiers fired relentlessly.
The warrior weaved out of the way and retaliated. He tore through lines of tanks, leading him to his main target.
Past the group of soldiers, a young man stood. He looked back and frowned. His long moustache swayed with the wind. "So, you are their king," he muttered.
After a while, two cloaked figures observed the aftermath. Their cloaks flapped with the wind and displayed a symbol of an eye.
"What a sad sight," one of the cloaked figures said, "I can still hear their last cries for help."
The other cloaked figure looked back and chuckled. He reminded, "This is the war that we started, brother."
The cloaked figure solemnly looked down and replied, "I know, but I wonder if there was another way."