The morning washed the world in deceptive gentleness; soft light filtered through the branches, and cool breezes passed like fleeting phantoms. Yet nature's beauty did nothing to soften the cruelty etched into the earth itself—felled trees stood like deformed pillars, torn leaves lay scattered, and dried bloodstains marred the morning grass like painted portraits of death. In a hollow between tree trunks, Lloyd lay shrouded in shadow, his stomach growling with hunger, every movement dripping with pain from exhausted muscles.
"Ugh…" he muttered, his voice worn thin by fatigue. "I haven't eaten in two days… and yesterday was the worst." His eyes closed briefly, recalling the horrors of the previous night—a tree moving like an arm, stones slithering like serpents, and green eyes glowing like dead stars. That creature, made of roots and stones covered in glowing moss, seemed part of the earth itself: slow but relentless, moving nature as though it were its own limbs.
Memories came in flashes: logs rising, roots stretching like arms, stones flying like arrows. The forest had turned into a hunting ground, and he ran and dodged. Even his shadow, once his refuge, became his pursuer; he was forced to hide in the hollow of an ancient tree, his chest heaving, fingers trembling from cold and hunger.
Now, in the morning, he tried to focus on something else. He looked up at the sky with weary eyes and whispered softly, "What is that old man doing now? Training? Or amusing himself in the markets? Well, I won't lie… He's strong, but he never stops training… Still, I always wonder—why did he help me? Who is he, really?" Lloyd stood, a new determination burning in his chest: "I must push myself… if I am to avenge my parents."
---
In the corridors of the imperial capital of Austeria, the scene was as different as the sea from the river. The royal palace stood majestic, its walls pulsating with gilded mirrors and the shadows of ancient manuscripts, its passages swarming with guards clad in armor gleaming under torchlight. Among these guards, Kane moved—calm as a rock in a turbulent river. When he walked, they paused to salute him, their titles echoing: "Blade Demon," "Guardian of the Kingdom," words spoken and then erased in his presence.
Kane did not boast, yet he carried an undeniable aura: a straight back, silver hair shining like polished metal in the lantern light, and a face carved with the lines of war and resolve—traits that made onlookers feel they stood before more than a man. His eyes were what set him apart: deep black like the void of night, sharp as a honed blade, with a gaze that read the land and people as a hunter reads his prey.
He stood before the door to the royal hall, knocked rhythmically, and entered after permission was granted: King Rex on his throne, the royal cloak draping like the shadows of time, greeting him with respect tinged with wariness:
—"Welcome, Kane… Blade Demon."
Kane replied with quiet dignity: "I hope you are well, Your Majesty."
The pleasantries were brief, for the matter was greater than words. The King stepped forward, his eyes unable to hide their anxiety: an army of demons gathering at the border, planning a full-scale attack this time. Kane's face shifted—a dark spark of anger, then his mask returned: the calm before the storm. He spoke in a low voice, yet it carried an unbreakable vow:
—"I will repair what these monsters have ruined. I will exterminate them."
What made Kane remarkable was not just his words, but every movement exuding authority that needed no language: the way he rested his hand on his sword's hilt, the grace with which he stepped back, the clarity of his voice when addressing his men. The King tried to temper his speech with mercy:
—"Hasn't the time come for you to forget… to move on?"
Kane cut him off with a strike of cold honesty:
—"There are no sins I forgive, Your Majesty. I ask you not to remind me of what is no longer mine."
He exited and headed to the military headquarters where soldiers gathered like arranged waves. He stood before them, spears surrounding him like thorns in fields of silence. There, amid the crowd, Kane seemed as if the entire history of war embodied itself in his form. He raised his voice, rich and edged with resolve:
—"Soldiers! Today we face an ancient and enduring enemy. For decades we have maintained an illusory neutrality, and now their patience has ended. Today, we will not allow them to stab our land. Our goal is one: their defeat and annihilation."
A cry erupted thereafter: "Yes, sir!" as if it were the final echo against the world's wall.
Preparations were swift and unambiguous; ranks moved, lines formed, and a trap was set in the village of Arlam. Half an hour of anticipation later, the shadows of demons surged—eyes blazing, bodies deformed, voices like the tearing of lava. Kane stepped forward to meet them, and before their deathly murmurs faded, one demon looked at him with disdain:
—"Reckless fool… Do you mean to fight us alone?"
Kane smiled a smile that showed not teeth, but something deeper: certainty armed with steel. His tone when he spoke was soft yet thunderous:
—"Today I will defend this land with my life if I must. And I will show you why the title of one who wields both blade and core is feared."
He drew his sword, and it was no ordinary blade; it gleamed with coldness, as if forged from dawn itself, and his very being held reins of elements colder than the air. He raised it toward the sky, as though swearing an oath to the void:
—"Shards of Ice!" he uttered, and the word was like lightning.
In one moment, the morning sky exploded with thousands of tiny crystalline shards—delicate yet sharp as iron tongues, flying through the air like dewdrops turned into blades. This was no mere spectacle; each shard was a frozen spirit intent on killing. They launched with sudden brutality, scattering enemy ranks like wheat before a scythe. Half the demon soldiers dissolved under this cold rainfall; bodies torn apart, blood gushing like red rivers upon the soil, chunks of flesh scattered and burning with a terrifying cold.
The blood was not merely a physical sight; it was a message. A brief silence fell over the place, and precursors of horror gripped hearts. Then came Kane's voice, calm now yet carrying the weight of finality:
—"Advance!"
The troops surged forth like broken waves, swords cutting through the air, the smell of iron, sweat, and smoke blending into one moment. Kane did not stand apart from the fray; he was no distant commander but a warrior flowing through the storm's heart. He moved with cunning lightness; a strike here, a precise cut there—his style relied not on chaos, but on efficiency, as though every attack was a perfected calculation.
Amid the battlefield, Kane seemed a living statue: wounded before him, blood on his cloak, yet his steps remained steady as the moon, his gaze unbroken. When he attacked, he did so with utmost precision; when he struck, he left a mark like a signature. The soldiers respected and feared him simultaneously, for his strength was measured not in the number of blows, but in how he shifted the battle's weight by his presence.
And in this bloody scene, it was clear that this day was not merely a minor battle; it was a declaration that one who stood with such power—calm, severe, smiling for few—possessed the ability to make the enemy reconsider. Amid the sparks and scattered flesh, Kane breathed the spirit of combat into his men: show no mercy, leave no trace of weakness, and if a village is destroyed, it will be rebuilt, but blood will be the price of freedom.
Yet, in one moment, fireballs hurled toward the soldiers inflicted heavy losses upon their ranks. Kane stood up from the ground amid the ashes, looking at their leader, who declared:
—"My name is Ignis, Supreme Commander of the troops. If you thought me foolish enough to fall into your trap, you are fools… Now die in regret."
His speech ignited a rage in Kane, who retorted:
—"We shall see about that, scum."
| End of Chapter Six |