It was death—a moment, a force, a shadow. Darkness rumbled across nations like a warning, a sign of death itself. It crept through the void, it killed, it tortured. Undeniable pain echoed across lands, the loud cries of children, the roar of destructive weapons. And their strength… was immortality. Humanity could do nothing against them. They were weak, fragile, and perishable—that was their curse.
The shadow marched through the lands, dominating the human race one region at a time. What once was human had now evolved—or devolved—into a lethal, endless threat.
But then… something appeared. An object. A thing , a weapon from the sky, descending like a meteorite,strucked at the earth blasting millions of rock in a second. A black sword. A weapon so powerful it could slice mountains, yet it didn't move, didn't react. It simply embedded itself into the earth. From its core, a barrier formed. A wall of power that the darkness could not pass. The blade—unknown and unmoving—stood as a final hope.
Thousands of years passed.
Humanity grew again. A new generation, born of pain and struggle, rose. And from them, the blade chose a successor. One who would carry the will of the sword. His name… was Norm.
He rose, not as a savior, not as a god, but as a man. A man destined to destroy the evil beings, to give humanity the future they deserved after all the torment and endless suffering.
Heavy rain fell. The air thickened with despair. Darkness fogged the sky. Mud covered the earth. Trees shook under the weight of the storm. The wind howled like a beast. The weather itself whispered of war.
A man rode through the downpour. His horse snorted, hooves slicing the wet ground. He reached the camp, dismounted silently, and walked toward the command tent, step by step, his blade resting calmly in its sheath.
As he entered, his presence changed the air. A heavy aura followed him, dark and suffocating.
"They've breached the gates, Master," said the commander, breathless.
"Did they?" the man replied, voice deep, layered with power. A dark aura coiled around him.
"Retreat. Pull the soldiers out of the battlefield. I'll take care of them myself."
His eyes burned.
I can't let them destroy my master's home. I'll kill them all. Not a single one shall live. But how did they get those light swords…?
His rage simmered under the surface.
Elsewhere…
Horses neighed and stamped in the mud. Torches flickered.
"We've breached their gates and slaughtered their soldiers," a soldier reported. "But as you commanded, we left several alive… to tell their master."
"We need to draw him out," said another.
"Good. Now gather the army. Prepare for war."
"Today," the voice of their king thundered, "we burn the land where darkness was born."
"As you wish, my king!"
They gathered at a battlefield wide enough to hold thousands. Soldiers stood in formation, weapons ready. The king stood at the front, sword drawn.
Thunder cracked. Rain poured like the sky was bleeding. The ground trembled.
Then—a black mist emerged.
The king narrowed his eyes.
From the mist came a figure. A man cloaked in shadows, aura black as death. Twin swords glowed in his hands, humming with deadly power. With each step he took, the soldiers felt the weight of death pressing on their chests.
A true warrior. One blow, and an entire squad could fall. So powerful, the rain itself seemed to freeze midair for a moment. The soldiers hesitated, stepping back.
"So… you've come," said the king.
"Of course I have," the dark man replied. "I am not one of those cowards who watch from afar."
His presence was like a storm that spoke.
"All I've ever wanted… was a duel with you, oh Highly Crowned King."
"The Great Power of Zack…" the king whispered.
"Don't speak of that name!" the warrior roared. Flames erupted around the king as he raised his red sword, glowing with wrath.
"I'll burn you to ashes!" he shouted.
"What a terrible stench you emit," the warrior said, smirking. His eyes glinted—ready.
The king dismounted, lifting his blade toward the dark warrior.
"I will never let you pass onto this ground!" he roared.
Their blades clashed. Sparks flew like stars. Metal screamed. Each blow echoed like thunder.
"They call me Lyoth… the Death Giver," he whispered into the king's ear, toying with him.
The king struck again, but Lyoth dodged with unnatural speed. In a blur, Lyoth retaliated. The king parried, then rushed, zigzagging to confuse his enemy.
But Lyoth was faster.
He grabbed the king's throat mid-charge, leapt high, and threw him off the mountain.
The king's body slammed against the rocks. He was broken. Blood ran from his mouth, his limbs barely responding.
"I never knew you were this weak. Pathetic," Lyoth said, walking toward him.
The king, struggling to rise, mumbled, "I… will not… let you pass…"
But then—
In an instant, he felt… nothing.
His head rolled from his shoulders.
His body stood for a moment, sword still raised—then collapsed. His chest was torn open, blood gushing from the gashes. Lyoth's twin blades had left their mark.
The soldiers stood frozen, trembling. Terror filled their eyes. Their king… gone. In one strike.
How could anyone be this powerful?
Lyoth smiled. A twisted, cruel smile.
Then, he slaughtered the rest.
Screams filled the night. Arms were severed. Faces twisted in agony. Death danced in the rain.
Corpses twitched, burned, and screamed in endless pain. Skin melted. Mouths were pierced with swords. The air reeked of blood and smoke.
"I have killed the Great Power of the Wingman," Lyoth declared, standing among the dead. "Now, only one remains…"
His eyes glowed with rage.
"…the Norm. If he dares get in my way, I'll crush him too. And then I'll awaken my master… the Great Shadow."
He turned to his army.
He walked calmly.
Never once uttering his master's name.
Full of fury. Cloaked in darkness. Death itself.
He was the first child of the darkness .
He was Lyoth.The Black Warrior