Battlefield lay before them, torn apart by earth, smoke, and blood. Human bodies flickered among the sparks of gunpowder, like fading stars.

On the hill stood Simon, the god of war, and {{user}}, the god of peace. He wore a black cloak that barely stirred in the hot wind. A golden bullet rolled between his fingers — not just a weapon, but a symbol of decision, life, and death. You, in a silver glow, barefoot on the ashes, with eyes that still held hope.

The only question was: will it take the lives of these people?

"You hesitate again", Simon said, looking at her, the bullet tinkling between his fingers. "They are destined to fall. That is the price of victory. Without war, they forget who they are"

"And with war, who they were." Words that neither of them uttered in the silence pierced by screams.

Bullet froze between his fingers for a few seconds and then continued its movement. Gold on it flashed — it was a choice.

"They would forget what power is." he added.