The Winner Writes History

"History is written by the winner. The one who wins gets to write history."

I stared at the sentence for a long moment.

Was the villain actually the villain?

Was the hero really the hero?

Or was history simply a story told from the perspective of whoever had been standing on the winning side?

I sighed and slowly flipped through the pages of the book resting in my hands.

I had never been particularly good at understanding complicated things. Give me something simple, and I could probably manage. But complicated ideas? Politics, history, philosophy—all those things that required you to look at something from ten different perspectives?

Not exactly my strength.

And yet, for some strange reason, I was surprisingly good at thinking about random things.

My mind had a habit of wandering at the most inconvenient times. I could be eating breakfast and suddenly wonder what would happen if humans could remember every single dream they had ever experienced. I could be studying and suddenly find myself thinking about whether people were actually good or bad, or whether circumstances simply pushed them into becoming one or the other.

And apparently, today, my brain had decided to question the entire concept of history.

I chuckled quietly at myself.

"Why do I even think about these things?"

I closed the book and looked at its cover once more before standing up.

The library was almost empty.

It was one of those quiet afternoons when the entire place seemed frozen in time. The faint hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the occasional rustle of pages somewhere between the shelves. Sunlight slipped through the large windows, leaving pale golden patches across the wooden floor.

I had originally come to the library just to find something interesting to read.

Somehow, I had ended up with a book about history and morality.

Typical.

I walked toward the circulation desk, holding the book against my chest.

"Hi. I would like to issue this book."

The librarian looked up at me.

She adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose before reaching for the book.

"Do you have a library card?"

I nodded.

"Yep. Here you go."

I pulled the card from my wallet and placed it on the counter.

She picked it up and scanned it.

A small beep echoed through the otherwise silent library.

The librarian entered something into the computer, then scanned the book before carefully attaching a barcode sticker to the inside cover. She checked the screen again and finally looked back at me.

"For how long are you planning to keep it?"

"Not long," I replied, thinking for a moment. "Maybe a week?"

She nodded.

"Okay. Here you go."

She slid the book toward me.

"Just remember to bring it back on time. Otherwise, you'll be fined."

I smiled and took the book.

"I'll remember. Don't worry. I promise."

"Good."

I tucked the book carefully into my bag.

As I turned toward the exit, my eyes wandered briefly back toward the rows of books behind me.

Thousands of stories.

Thousands of lives.

Thousands of versions of the truth.

I wondered how many of those books contained stories where the person everyone called a villain believed they were the hero.

The thought made me smile.

Maybe that was the strange thing about stories.

There was never just one side.

I pushed open the library door and stepped outside.

The warm air immediately greeted me.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and began walking home.

The book felt slightly heavier than usual against my back, though perhaps that was only because my mind was still stuck on the question written on its first page.

Was the villain actually the villain?

I shook my head.

I really needed to stop thinking about random things.

But as I walked down the familiar road toward home, one thought stubbornly remained in my mind.

If the winner gets to write history...

Then what happens to the truth?

By the time I finally reached home, the sky had already begun to darken.

I stood outside the familiar front door, shifted my bag higher onto my shoulder, and rang the doorbell.

I barely had to wait.

The door opened, and there stood my mother.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.

Then she slowly raised an eyebrow.

"So, Madam, you finally found your way back home?"

I sighed.

"Come on, Mom. I told you I was going to come home late today, didn't I?"

"Of course."

She stepped aside to let me in.

"These days, you ask less and simply announce what you're going to do."

I gave her my most innocent smile.

"Sorry, Mom. Please forgive me this time, okay?"

She shook her head, trying very hard to look annoyed.

"Fine, fine. What can I even say? Who listens to me anyway?"

I walked inside and slipped my shoes off near the entrance.

My mother closed the door behind me.

Then, as if she had suddenly remembered something important, she looked at me.

"So, did you have your dinner?"

"No, Mom. I'm starving."

I said it with such confidence that even I almost believed myself.

The truth?

I had actually eaten something earlier.

And I wasn't even that hungry.

But admitting that now would probably start World War III.

My mother stared at me for a moment.

There was a suspicious little smile playing at the corners of her lips.

I knew that look.

She knew.

She always knew.

"What?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Nothing."

She turned around and walked toward the kitchen.

"Don't worry. I've tried a new recipe today."

My eyes immediately lit up.

"A new recipe?"

"Yes. Now go freshen up. I'll heat it up."

"Okay, Mom. I'll be back in a minute."

I hurried upstairs before she could ask me anything else.

My room was exactly as I had left it that morning.

I dropped my bag on the chair and pulled out the book I'd borrowed from the library. For a moment, I considered reading a few more pages.

Then my stomach growled.

Loudly.

I stared at it.

"Fine. Dinner first."

I placed the book safely on my desk and headed into the bathroom.

After washing my face and freshening up, I changed into my comfortable clothes. There was something about changing out of outside clothes that made the entire day feel like it was finally over.

I glanced at myself in the mirror before leaving.

"Much better."

I headed downstairs and followed the delicious smell drifting from the dining room.

My mother was already waiting.

I pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Finally," she said. "I thought you had disappeared again."

"I was gone for approximately five minutes."

"Five very long minutes."

I laughed.

She placed a plate in front of me.

I stared at it.

There were eggs sitting in a rich-looking tomato sauce, sprinkled with herbs and spices. The smell was warm, comforting, and surprisingly appetizing.

I looked at my mother.

"What is this?"

She smiled proudly.

"Louis, this is shakshuka."

"Shakshuka?"

"Yes."

"I've never tried it."

"I know. That's why I made it."

She sat down beside me and watched me expectantly.

"Now eat it."

I picked up my spoon.

"Okay, but if I don't like it—"

"You will."

I raised an eyebrow.

"That's a lot of confidence."

"It's my recipe."

"Fair enough."

I dug my spoon into the eggs and tomato stew, making sure to get a little bit of everything.

Then I took a bite.

I stopped.

My mother immediately leaned forward.

"Well?"

I swallowed.

"Wow."

Her face brightened.

"It is amazing, Mom."

"Really?"

"Yes! Yes, this is so good."

I took another bite before she could say anything.

She laughed softly.

"Thank goodness."

"Why?"

"I was worried it wouldn't turn out well. It's my first time making it."

I looked at the plate.

"Mom, this is awesome."

I took another spoonful.

"You should definitely make this again."

She smiled.

"Would you like some more?"

"Obviously."

She laughed and served me another portion.

I ate happily while she watched me.

There was something comforting about eating dinner at home.

Maybe it wasn't even the food.

Maybe it was the way my mother kept asking whether I wanted more even when I was already eating.

Or the way she looked genuinely pleased every time I complimented something she had cooked.

Or maybe it was simply the feeling of being home.

For all my complaints about her questioning me, worrying about me, and reminding me about everything I was supposed to do, I knew I was lucky.

She cared.

A lot.

Sometimes, probably too much.

But I wouldn't trade it.

I finished my dinner and leaned back in my chair.

"I'm full."

"Good."

My mother collected the plates.

I stood up to help her.

"I'll take these."

"No, go upstairs. You look tired."

"Mom—"

"Go."

I smiled.

"Okay, okay."

I walked toward the staircase.

"Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Louis."

I climbed the stairs and returned to my room.

The house had grown quieter now.

I changed once more, turned off the lights, and slipped beneath my blanket.

My eyes wandered toward the desk.

The book from the library was still lying there.

History is written by the winner.

The words came back to me.

I wondered briefly about the question I'd been thinking about earlier.

Maybe there really were two sides to every story.

Maybe heroes weren't always heroes.

Maybe villains weren't always villains.

I smiled faintly at the thought.

"Enough random thoughts for today."

I closed my eyes.

Within minutes, sleep took over.

And for the first time that day, my mind finally went quiet.

The next morning, I woke up with a smile on my face.

I wasn't entirely sure why.

Perhaps it was because I'd slept unusually well. Or maybe it was simply one of those mornings when everything felt strangely peaceful.

I stretched beneath the blanket and slowly opened my eyes.

Sunlight had already begun creeping through the curtains, painting thin golden lines across the walls.

I turned my head toward the desk.

The book.

The one I'd borrowed from the library yesterday.

It was still sitting exactly where I'd left it.

For a moment, I simply stared at it.

Then I remembered where I'd stopped reading.

History.

The two princes.

The missing sword.

I immediately wanted to know what happened next.

I got out of bed, freshened up, and glanced at the clock.

6:30 a.m.

I still had plenty of time before my practice began.

Perfect.

I grabbed the book from the desk, pulled out my chair, and sat down.

The house was quiet.

Everyone else was still asleep, or at least quiet enough that I could pretend they were.

I opened the book to the page I'd marked the night before.

The chapter began with a title that immediately made me smile.

Two Princes, One Throne.

"How typical," I muttered with a laugh.

Of course there were two princes.

And of course there was only one throne.

It sounded like the beginning of every royal story I'd ever heard.

I continued reading.

The kingdom had been divided between two powerful factions, each supporting a different prince.

The first prince was beloved by the Holy Nation.

He had long, silver hair, a rare trait associated with the Holy Moon. According to the ancient beliefs of the kingdom, silver hair was considered a blessing from the moon itself.

The people who followed the Holy Nation believed that the prince had been chosen by fate.

The second prince had something equally remarkable.

Blue hair.

It was almost identical to the color described in the oldest paintings of the kingdom's first king—the man who had established the kingdom centuries ago.

Because of this resemblance, the nobility had placed their support behind him.

The two princes couldn't have been more different in appearance, yet they shared something far more important.

They were both extraordinarily capable warriors.

The first prince had earned the title Enemy Slayer.

The second was known as the Enemy Destroyer.

I paused.

"Okay... those are definitely dramatic names."

I smiled and continued reading.

Despite the rivalry between their supporters, the two princes themselves did not seem interested in fighting over the throne.

At least, not directly.

They respected one another.

They trained together.

They fought together.

And whenever they met on the battlefield, neither underestimated the other.

Yet both possessed an enormous amount of pride when it came to their abilities as warriors.

Because there was something neither prince was willing to share.

Something they both wanted to claim before the other.

Luminous.

The legendary sword of the kingdom's first emperor.

According to the ancient records, the first emperor had possessed a sword unlike any other. It was said to have been forged for the strongest warrior of the age and carried the power to recognize the person worthy of wielding it.

But after the emperor's death, the sword disappeared.

No one knew where it had gone.

Generations of warriors had searched for it.

Kings had sent armies into distant lands.

Explorers had crossed mountains and deserts.

Scholars had spent their entire lives studying ancient records.

Yet no one had found Luminous.

The legend claimed that the sword could only be obtained by the True Warrior.

And there was only one way to become the True Warrior.

Prove yourself worthy.

I leaned closer to the page.

"So that's what they want."

Neither prince truly cared about the throne.

Not yet, anyway.

They wanted Luminous.

They wanted to be recognized as the greatest warrior in the kingdom.

And, more importantly, they wanted to be the first.

The book described the relationship between the two princes in surprising detail.

They weren't enemies.

Not exactly.

They admired each other's strength.

They respected each other's achievements.

But beneath that respect was an intense rivalry.

Every victory mattered.

Every battle mattered.

Every improvement mattered.

If one prince learned a new technique, the other would train until he could match it.

If one defeated a powerful opponent, the other would seek an even stronger challenge.

Neither was willing to stand behind the other.

Neither wanted to be second.

And somewhere between friendship, respect, and rivalry, their desire for Luminous continued to grow.

I closed the book for a moment.

Two princes.

Two factions.

Two warriors.

And one legendary sword.

I couldn't help smiling.

"Now this is getting interesting."

I opened the book again.

There was something about the story that had caught my attention.

It wasn't the magic.

It wasn't the legendary sword.

It wasn't even the rivalry.

It was the fact that neither prince seemed particularly interested in ruling.

They wanted something else.

Recognition.

To prove themselves.

To become the person worthy of holding the sword.

And perhaps, deep down, to prove that they were better than the other.

I glanced at the clock.

6:55 a.m.

I still had time.

So I turned the page.

And kept reading.