The rising sun lit the quiet fields of Axel's home one last time.
He stood at the edge of the pasture, his belongings strapped to a modest travel pack, a folded parchment deed tucked inside. He had sold all the livestock except one—the white stallion that had been born on the same day Martha fell ill.
He named him Silver.
Strong, loyal, and swift, Silver neighed gently as Axel approached and pressed his forehead to the horse's.
"I'll need you soon," Axel whispered, tying a leather charm around the horse's reins—a charm Martha had once sewn for protection.
Before leaving, Axel leased the farmland and barn to his neighbor, old man Jorlan, who accepted with silent understanding and a firm handshake. It was Axel's way of preserving something of his parents before stepping into the unknown.
With sword at his back, books in his bag, and vengeance in his heart, Axel left the village—a place that had once given him family, only to take it all away.
The Town of Elbridge
Weeks of travel led him to Elbridge, a bustling town built around crossroads and trade routes. There, he found his way to a large public library built in the old imperial style—marble, columns, and stained glass.
He spent hours pouring over ancient tomes, war scrolls, and geography ledgers.
The world opened to him like a blade being drawn.
The Continent of Veridale was fractured into three dominant empires:
– Picarion Empire in the West
– Tavernia Empire in the East
– Norvale Empire to the far North
Beneath them, 14 powerful kingdoms and nearly 20 minor border kingdoms fought constantly for land, power, and pride.
Axel's stomach turned as he read one particular passage.
"The Kingdom of Aslaeya remains a minor force, often caught in proxy wars between Picarion and the southern edges. Known for its noble clans and swordmasters, it has endured a century of internal betrayal and fractured rule."
He read it again.
Aslaeya. His birthplace. His family's homeland.
Picarion. Where he had found peace—and now stood ready for war.
And the two were at war.
A war he would now join… not for country, but for blood.
The Warfront
After months of travel southward, following roads filled with refugees, merchants, and fallen banners, Axel reached Rathmoor Fortress, one of the Picarion Empire's forward garrisons.
A massive stone wall guarded by ballistae and smoke-belching forge towers, Rathmoor was a war machine in itself.
Recruitment posters fluttered in the wind, nailed to cracked stone.
"Volunteers Needed — Cavalry and Infantry. Arms will be provided. Glory and Citizenship promised."
Axel stepped forward and placed his name on the roll.
He passed the weapons test easily. His sword was laughed at at first—until he cleaved the practice dummy in half with a single precise swing.
The officer in charge merely nodded. "You're in."
Into the Fire
Axel was placed in a twenty-man unit—Unit 17-B, part of the civilian reinforcement infantry. Most of the soldiers were former farmers, hunters, or apprentices. A few were runaways.
Their first mission came the very next dawn.
Horn blasts shook the valley. Clouds of dust rose from the east.
Cavalry charge. The Aslaeyan army was attacking with full force.
From atop the wall, General Arvund shouted, "Infantry—hold the line!"
No armor. No real training. Just a loose row of farmers with spears and trembling hands.
But not Axel.
He stood still, eyes sharp, breathing steady. The blade at his side hummed with a silent promise.
Hooves thundered like a storm. The cavalry came fast—plumes of dirt, glinting steel, roaring war cries.
Axel waited.
Then, as the first Aslaeyan rider reached the formation, Axel leapt.
One perfect motion—his blade swung upward with the power of his entire body. The rider's chest split clean through, armor and all. Blood sprayed. The horse reared and collapsed.
Axel grabbed the reins mid-fall, mounted the panicked beast, and twisted around.
Now he was in the enemy's own ranks.
And he became like a storm.
He surged forward, cutting through rider after rider. His blade danced in arcs of light and blood. Every strike was precise—neck, stomach, chest. He wasn't just killing—he was dismantling them.
The soldiers who had once stood beside him could barely believe it.
"Who is that?" one whispered.
"A demon…" another said.
But Axel was calm, focused. A white dragon on horseback, his movements an echo of the Sword of the Black Dragon—the style his father had once taught him.
At the heart of the enemy column, he spotted the cavalry commander, a man adorned in red-plumed armor atop a black stallion.
The commander roared and charged, lance aimed at Axel's heart.
Axel swerved, swung his blade under the lance, and as their horses passed, twisted backward in the saddle—his blade flashing like a whip.
The red plume flew through the air.
The commander's head tumbled, bouncing off the dirt before the body even registered death.
The Aslaeyan cavalry broke. Riderless horses fled. Screams echoed.
Axel circled back, returning to his broken formation, now scattered with injured recruits.
He dismounted slowly, covered in blood, breathing hard.
One officer finally managed to stammer, "What's your name, soldier?"
Axel didn't answer immediately. He looked east—toward Aslaeya.
Then finally turned.
"Axel. Of no house. Just a son of farmers… with a promise to keep."