Bloodshed – Chapter 12: An Answer That Bleeds
The battlefield was quiet again.
Not the quiet of peace.
The quiet of aftermath.
The rain had stopped, leaving the world drenched and heavy. Mud clung to every step, and the air carried the faint scent of smoke and iron. King walked alone this time. Kael had gone ahead with the others, leaving him behind—not by accident, but by understanding.
Because this…
This was something King had to face on his own.
Near the edge of the ruined field, he saw someone sitting among the debris.
An old man.
Not a soldier. Not armed. Just sitting there, as if the war had nothing to do with him.
King approached cautiously. "You shouldn't be here."
The old man didn't look up immediately. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—too calm for a place like this.
"Neither should you."
King frowned. "I don't have a choice."
The old man finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were tired, but not broken. "Everyone says that."
King crossed his arms. "And you? What's your excuse?"
The old man gave a faint smile. "I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For someone to ask the right question."
King scoffed. "You picked the wrong place for that."
"Did I?" the old man replied softly. "Or is this the only place where the question truly matters?"
Something about his tone irritated King. Not because it was arrogant—but because it was calm. Too calm for a world like this.
King stepped closer. "Fine. Let's hear it. What question?"
The old man studied him for a long moment. Then:
"Why do you believe God exists?"
King froze.
Not because he didn't have an answer—
But because he had too many.
He exhaled sharply. "Because this world is too cruel to be meaningless."
The old man tilted his head slightly. "Cruelty proves meaning?"
"It proves intention," King shot back. "This level of suffering doesn't just happen. Wars, children dying, people killing each other for nothing—if there's no God, then this is all just… random. And I refuse to believe that."
"And if there is a God?"
King's eyes darkened.
"Then He's responsible."
Silence fell between them.
The old man didn't react with shock or anger.
He simply nodded, as if he had heard it many times before.
"And what do you believe He owes you?"
King's voice hardened.
"An apology."
The word lingered in the air, heavy and sharp.
"For every child who died without understanding why. For every innocent person crushed by a war they didn't start. For every life that ended in fear and pain while He… watched."
The old man listened without interruption.
When King finished, his breathing was uneven, his chest tight with everything he had carried for so long.
"And if He gave you that apology?" the old man asked quietly.
King hesitated.
"…It wouldn't change anything."
"No," the old man agreed. "It wouldn't."
King frowned. "Then what's the point?"
The old man's gaze sharpened slightly.
"What if the point isn't what God owes you…"
He leaned forward just a little.
"…but what you expect Him to be?"
King's expression twisted. "What does that even mean?"
"You see cruelty," the old man continued. "You see suffering. And from that, you conclude that if God exists, He must be cruel. Responsible. Indifferent."
"Yes," King said immediately.
"But what if God is none of those things?"
King laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Then what is He? Blind?"
"Absent."
The word hit differently.
King's smile faded. "That's the same thing."
"No," the old man said calmly. "Blindness implies inability. Absence implies choice—or perhaps something beyond your understanding."
King shook his head. "You're just avoiding the problem. Whether He's cruel, blind, or absent—it doesn't change the result. People suffer. Innocents die."
"Yes," the old man said. "They do."
No denial. No excuse.
Just truth.
And somehow, that made it worse.
King's voice rose. "Then what's your point?! That we just accept it? That we just keep acting like everything is fine while the world burns?"
The old man's gaze didn't waver.
"No."
Silence.
"Then say something that actually matters," King snapped.
The old man stood slowly, his movements steady despite the ruined ground beneath him.
"You believe God owes the world an apology," he said.
"Yes."
"And yet…"
He gestured around them—the battlefield, the bodies, the endless destruction.
"…who wages these wars?"
King's jaw tightened. "People."
"Who pulls the trigger?"
"…People."
"Who decides that power is worth more than life?"
King didn't answer.
The old man stepped closer.
"And yet you ask God for an apology."
King's fists clenched. "Because He allows it!"
"And you continue it."
The words struck like a blade.
King staggered back slightly, anger flaring. "I don't have a choice!"
"You always have a choice."
"I'm a soldier!"
"And you chose to become one."
"I was forced!"
"And you chose to keep going."
King's breathing became uneven, his thoughts colliding. "If I stop, more people die!"
"Yes."
The answer came instantly.
"And if you continue?"
King froze.
Because he knew the answer.
More people would still die.
The old man's voice softened, but it didn't lose its edge.
"You see God as cruel because the world is cruel. But the world is shaped by human hands. You demand an apology from the one who gave freedom… while ignoring what that freedom creates."
King shook his head, but slower this time. Less certain.
"That's not fair…"
"War isn't fair."
Silence again.
King's voice dropped, almost breaking. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
The old man looked at him—not as a soldier, not as a child, but as something in between. Something unfinished.
"The same thing you've been doing."
King frowned.
"Act," the old man said. "Not because it will fix everything. Not because it will save everyone. But because in a world where cruelty exists—whether by God's design or humanity's choice—your actions are the only thing that stand against it."
King's hands trembled slightly.
"That's not an answer," he whispered.
The old man gave a faint, almost sad smile.
"It's the only one you'll ever get."
The wind moved softly through the ruins, carrying with it the distant echoes of a war that refused to end.
King stood there, caught between anger and understanding, between blame and responsibility.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he had an argument left.
Only a question.
And the weight of it was heavier than anything he had carried before.
As the old man turned and walked away, disappearing into the gray horizon, King remained where he was.
Alone.
Thinking.
And for the first time—
Truly unsure.