Chapter 91 – Flames by the Spring
Whenever Darius returned from one of his sister's errands—whether crushing a bandit horde, driving off beasts at the borderlands, or silencing some lord's conspiracy—he sought one thing above all else: peace.
That peace lay hidden in the mountains, where steam rose from a secluded hot spring only he and Selene knew of. The waters, rich with minerals, soothed old scars; the silence muffled the weight of blood on his hands.
As he trudged the familiar path, boots caked in dust, his thoughts wandered—not to his sister's commands or the men he'd slain, but to a woman.
He had met her months ago, on a road too far from home. Sharp-tongued, storm-eyed, she drank him under the table without a wince. One reckless night together had left a mark on him that no battlefield ever had. By morning she was gone—no name, no trace, only a smudged note left behind: "I had a good time."
Since then, she haunted him. Every tavern, every campfire, he half-expected to hear her laughter.
But now, cresting the ridge toward his spring, all thoughts of her vanished.
The land was no longer silent.
Voices echoed off stone. Wagons clogged the path. Soldiers sharpened blades. Merchants haggled. Knights in gleaming armor stood shoulder-to-shoulder with wandering adventurers. Smoke from dozens of campfires mingled with the steam of his spring.
Darius froze, brows pinched in irritation. His sanctuary—his one place of calm—was overrun.
"Oi," he growled, striding into the throng, his broad shoulders parting the crowd. "What in the hells is going on? This land isn't yours to squat in."
A young warrior, pale at the sight of him, stammered, "Y-you don't know? A few days ago… a pillar of fire shot into the sky from this place. We thought it a calamity, but when we came here…" He pointed toward the spring.
At its heart, perched on a pedestal of stone, glimmered the Blades of Chaos.
Whispers swept through the crowd. The trial. The dream. The weapons.
Merchants and soldiers spoke of visions: battles against monstrous foes from the old tales. One man described snapping Hydra heads that swarmed until the dream spat him back, trembling. Another recalled standing before a hulking Minotaur King, whose axe crushed him in the trance, only for him to wake alive but drained. A scarred adventurer muttered of frost trolls, Hydra, even the Sisters of Fate.
All shared the same pattern: die in the dream, wake in the spring. Alive, but exhausted, strength leeched as though stolen.
And in every vision, each had wielded the Blades of Chaos. Some claimed the power was intoxicating, others that its weight nearly broke them.
Darius's scowl deepened. His spring full of gossipers, invoking storybook heroes as prophecy—it was too much. He stepped into the steaming pool, water swirling around his boots.
"Everyone out," he commanded, voice sharp as steel. "Now. Or I'll make sure your monsters feel real."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but one look at him was enough. One by one, they filed away—though their whispers promised return if he failed the trial.
When silence returned, only the hiss of steam and the glow of the blades remained. Darius exhaled, rubbing his brow. Maybe this is exactly the kind of chaos I've been waiting for.
He pressed his hand to the pedestal. Vision blurred. The spring dissolved into storm and fire.
---
He stood on a battlefield.
Dark clouds rolled above, lightning tearing their bellies open. Rain churned earth to mud and mud to blood. The stench of iron, fire, and death filled the air.
In his hands burned the Blades of Chaos. Heavy. Unpredictable. Alive.
Before him, Spartan ranks waited—shields raised, spears bristling. Across the field surged the barbarian horde, painted in blood, their war cries shaking the ground.
"Hold the line! Shields locked!" Darius bellowed.
The Spartans slammed spear to shield, thunder answering thunder.
Then the hordes crashed.
Darius was already moving, blades sweeping wide arcs, tearing through flesh and bone, chains wrapping necks and dragging foes screaming into fire. Spartans pressed forward in unison, their discipline matching his fury.
But victory was denied.
A laugh rumbled across the storm, low and grinding, like stone against stone. From the horde emerged their chieftain, pale flesh stretched over a hulking frame, eyes burning with unholy fire. In his grip: a massive hammer. The undead Barbarian King.
Lightning split the sky as he slammed his weapon down, shockwaves splintering Spartan formations.
"Finally," Darius muttered, firelight dancing in his eyes. "A real challenge."
The duel began.
The King swung his hammer, each strike a quake, each shockwave toppling men. Necrotic aura withered those who stood too close. With guttural chants he summoned spectral berserkers, clawing their way into battle.
Darius answered with fury.
He rolled beneath the hammer's arcs, chains whipping, blades carving burning crescents through phantom warriors. Shield up, he absorbed shockwaves, then countered with brutal chain-grabs—pulling spirits into his flaming slashes. Spinning whirlwinds of steel cut down ranks around him, while shield-bashes staggered the chieftain mid-swing.
The King laughed, sweeping Spartans aside with thunderous blows. Darius leapt, chains pulling him higher, and plunged both blades into the giant's chest, carving fire deep. The warlord howled, hammer spinning, spectral hordes surging again.
"Forward! Cut them down!" Darius roared, Spartans forming a wedge behind him.
When the King raised his hammer for the final, crushing blow, Darius saw his chance. He whipped both chains around the shaft, yanking with all his might. The weapon jarred off-course. Darius sprinted up the chains themselves, fire carrying him to the giant's face.
With a roar, he crossed the blades in a blazing X, driving them through skull and soul alike.
The King collapsed into ash.
Silence fell.
The illusion unraveled. Storm and blood dissolved into steam. Darius lay in the spring, breath ragged, Blades coiled at his wrists. They hummed with fire. They were his now.
As he closed his eyes, a folded parchment drifted toward him on the water's surface.
To obtain the title of King of War, you must claim all five pieces of the set.
Darius let it sink, chuckling. "Five pieces? Right now, I don't care. Let the fools chase their prizes."
---
But fate does not wait.
Several months passed. Darius trained in solitude, mastering the chains, savoring the rare peace of the spring. Others came—warriors who had found the remaining pieces of the set. One by one they challenged him. One by one they fell. He never cared who they were, only that they were defeated.
Yet among them was a woman he had searched for since that reckless night.
She came carrying his child upon her back—in her hand, the Leviathan Axe, and her name was Seria Tidebreaker.
Together, they conquered not only the trials but history itself.
In years to come, the world would know them as King and Queen of War. The five pieces of the set, once scattered and fought over, were theirs—not hoarded, but shared. The empire would beg for their aid, legends would twist, but one truth endured:
War itself had found its rulers.