In the kingdom of Nival, chess was more than just a game—it was the language of the court, the tavern, and the army. Every child learned to play by the age of six. Some said it prepared the mind for politics. Others believed it was just a dance—like war without blood.
On a soft, golden morning, the village of Elmar awoke to the sound of birds dancing on the rooftops. Children always started their day before the adults, their laughter reaching the village corners even before sunlight.
Arthur and Daemon were in the small training ground beyond the barley fields. Each held a polished wooden sword, specially crafted by the village blacksmith for the young apprentices. The training was an ancient tradition that had survived even after the wars ended—practiced not in preparation for battle, but in honor of the legacy of ancient heroes.
Arthur stood out for his physical strength. His movements were precise, his strokes measured, and his stance firm. Daemon, on the other hand, was quick and agile, but he was more interested in leading and guiding others than winning. He called to the children and guided them like a leader on the field rather than a fighter. But farming was Arthur's true refuge. Once his training was over, he would sit beside his mother in the fields, helping her gather herbs, smiling whenever he touched the soil. To him, farming meant life, peace, and belonging. Family was the heart of this small world, and each evening, they would gather for a humble meal, followed by laughter and stories from the past. Elizabeth, their mother, who instilled peace in their home, would always tell stories about their father and the meaning of bravery—but always with warmth, never sadness. Every week, the village of Elmar held an event for children in the Spirit Tree courtyard called "The Gathering of the Brave Little Ones." Each child wielded a wooden sword and dueled before the eyes of the villagers. Daemon
**stood out during these events—his agility and spirit made him beloved by all, and he always triumphed over the other children, raising his sword in triumph with a glowing smile.**
**Arthur, however, never participated. He preferred to sit beneath the Spirit Tree, watching silently, a deep, unbought peace in his eyes. He didn't need victory—for him, true triumph was seeing his brother happy, surrounded by cheers and joy.**
**Elmar was a village that knew no pain, only **belonging.**
**And the brothers, each in their own way, represented two sides of a single dream:**
**One with the sword, the other with the dirt.**
**Fifteen years had passed since the last children gathered beneath the Spirit Tree. The village of Elmar changed, and the two boys grew into two young men, now twenty-two.
Damon grew more poised, wiser, with a fire in his eyes that never faded. Everyone saw him as a young leader—not because of his lineage, but because of his unwavering will.
Arthur, however, chose a different path. He cultivated the land, traveling between villages in search of rare seeds—seeds that held the promise of life. "Every seed holds hope," he always said, "while every sword promises only ruin."
One day, Arthur departed for a nearby village in search of a rare type of seed that grows only in mountainous soil. He left Elmar in peace, unaware that clouds of danger had gathered over his home.
That night, eight marauders stormed the village—faces distorted with greed, eyes blazing with hatred, blades ready for blood. Their screams tore through the evening silence, and the entire village froze in fear.
Damon was alone with his mother, Elizabeth. When he saw the fields burning, he didn't hesitate. He grabbed his old wooden sword and advanced bravely. One against eight. But he wasn't weak. He brought down four of them, each blow driven by childhood, love, and honor. But he was wounded, exhausted, and finally, they overcame him.
They bound Damon and Elizabeth, plundered the village's harvest, and left the villagers terrified in their homes.
Then sunset came... and Arthur returned.
His back carried a bag of seeds. He stood frozen at the sight of his mother and brother bound, the village wrapped in silence like an ancient grave.
He advanced, unarmed, and said calmly—his voice tinged with anger—"Sorry... am I interfering with your work?"
One of the bandits sneered. *"What's in your hand?"*
"Nothing valuable... just seeds," Arthur replied.*
One of them approached to examine the sack. But in an instant, Arthur drew a hidden sword and struck.
**One strike. One man falls.**
In the blink of an eye, his calm eyes became lightning.
He moved like someone born to kill—but he hated it.
One by one, he brought them down with unparalleled speed and precision.
Before they could blink again, the ground was littered with the corpses of the bandits.
Arthur hurried to his family and untied them.
Daemon, wounded and gasping, looked at his brother in astonishment. *"Why did you choose to carry the seeds instead of the sword?"*
Arthur held up his bloodied hand and said, *"Because seeds carry life, and swords carry death."*
In that moment, there was neither victory nor defeat—only a deep realization that both brothers were right, each carrying a burden the world desperately needed.
Days had passed since the attack, but they hadn't passed within them.
*Damon* still smiled to the others, but behind the closed door of his room, he withdrew into silence. He couldn't forget the image of himself bound, blood dripping from his shoulder, his mother cowering beside him, the rest of the village watching—helpless, as if he were just a boy… nothing more.
*"Eight men… and I wasn't even enough for one?"***
He replayed that moment over and over, the thief's smile as he felled him—etched in his memory.
On the other side, *Arthur* dug into the soil as if trying to bury something deeper than the seeds. To the world, he was the hero, the savior. But in his eyes, a shadow remained.
"Can blood-stained hands plant life again?"***
Every drop of sweat that fell to the ground reminded him of those drops of blood. He couldn't separate the earth from his remorse.
Damon stopped staying up late. He no longer laughed or played. He would wake up before dawn, training his body to exhaustion, as if the aching muscles could drown out the pain in his soul.
He stopped playing chess. He stopped observing village life.