In an age when conquest was law and mercy a rumor, the world bent beneath the banners of the Qin Empire. Their legions marched like rolling thunder; their swords turned kings into vassals, fathers into soldiers, mothers into servants, and children into trade. Each defeat fed the empire's hunger, until no nation dared to stand before them.
Yet from the ashes of the fallen rose one who would not bow. His name was Matheus, a swordsman without a master, whose blade carried a promise; to free the broken and defy the mighty.
On the day the governor of Xianyang called his grand tournament, the city roared with anticipation. From every kingdom, warriors came to prove their strength before the empire's gaze. Among them fought a lean, sharp-eyed man disguised in the garb of a commoner. None knew he was Vekas, prince of Persia, seeking to test the empire's mettle without the weight of his crown.
He fought with quiet precision, his spear moving as though guided by wind itself. One by one, his foes fell until none remained. The crowd thundered as the governor rose from his gilded seat.
"Behold the champion!" he cried, raising Vekas's hand.
The sound of celebration shook the arena until a voice cut through it, deep and calm.
"You are not the champion yet."
The crowd froze. From high upon the northern archway stood a figure cloaked in black, face hidden behind a mask of iron.
"Who dares interrupt?" shouted the governor.
The stranger's reply was steady. "If your champion fears one more fight, then perhaps he is no champion at all."
A wave of outrage swept through the stands. Guards surged forward, but the prince lifted his spear.
"Let him speak," Vekas said. "I accept."
The governor sputtered, "You will not"
But the prince's eyes gleamed with challenge. "If I fall, the fault is mine alone."
The masked man dropped lightly from the archway to the sand below. His steps left shallow prints in the dust.
"Name yourself as this is the last time you might be able to do so," said Vekas.
"I am no one," the stranger answered.
"Then no one will bleed today."
Their weapons met with a sound like a struck bell. Spear and sword clashed again and again; dust rose around them in golden clouds. The prince's movements were graceful, measured; the stranger's, swift and merciless. The duel became a rhythm strike, block, counter, breath.
The spear thrust toward the man's heart. The sword turned it aside, carving a narrow slit across Vekas's chest, the fabric tearing but flesh untouched. Gasps rippled through the stands.
Vekas smiled through his exertion. "You aim well."
"You dodge better."
The fight quickened. Sparks flew. The crowd leaned forward, drawn to every movement, every heartbeat. Then, with a sharp cry, the masked man struck the shaft of the spear. The wood splintered; its broken half spun skyward, sunlight glinting on the tip.
Time seemed to halt. All eyes followed the falling fragment.
The masked man leapt after it, twisting mid-air, and kicked the blunt end. The spear flew like a bolt of lightning straight into the governor's chest.
The roar of the crowd died in a heartbeat. The governor collapsed wordless onto the dais.
For an instant, silence. Then chaos.
From the stands, merchants tore away their robes, revealing armor black as midnight. "For the free!" they shouted. The Tigerclaw Army had come.
Blades flashed. Cages broke open. Enslaved men and women poured into the arena, armed with whatever they could seize.
"Protect the Prime Minister!" cried the Qin guards.
The masked man ripped away his disguise. The name rippled through the air like a storm.
"Matheus!"
He drew a bow from a fallen soldier and planted eleven arrows upright in the sand. With each draw, two shafts left the string at once. Ten guards fell before the Prime Minister's dais. Only one arrow remained.
He nocked it, aiming for the minister's throat
but a Qin soldier lunged from behind trying to stab him with his sword without Matheus notice.
The blow never landed as Vekas thrust himself between them, catching the blade across his shoulder. Poison shimmered on the steel as he fell against Matheus. The shot loosed wild, grazing the minister's neck instead of piercing it. The man stumbled back, clutching the wound, terror etched across his face.
Trumpets wailed. Reinforcements flooded the arena gates.
Matheus caught Vekas's arm. "We're done here. Let's all head to our horses and ride he ordered
The Tigerclaws rallied, forming a shield around their leader. Under a storm of arrows, they carved a path through the city gates, the prince half conscious in Matheus's grasp.
Beyond the walls, the plains stretched endless and dark beneath the rising smoke of Xianyang. Hooves thundered over stone and sand until the city was a smear of fire on the horizon.
Vekas slumped, voice thin. "The blade was poisoned. I feel it in my bones."
Matheus steadied him. "Then we ride to Persia. Their healers will attend to you properly "
"Too far," Vekas rasped. "By then my arm will be gone."
Matheus met his eyes. "If you lose your arm, my prince, then mine is yours."
The words hung between them as they vanished into the wilderness. Behind them, the empire stirred in fury, and drums of vengeance began to beat.
The road back to Persia stretched across the salt plains, endless and white beneath the burning sun. Matheus rode ahead, scanning the horizon, while the wounded prince swayed in the saddle behind him. When at last they reached their camp hidden in the canyons, the Tigerclaws worked through the night to purge the poison from Vekas's veins. Smoke and herbs filled the air as the sound of hammers echoed while weapons were mended for battles yet to come.
At dawn, the prince opened his eyes. Matheus knelt beside him.
"You live," he said simply.
"Barely," Vekas whispered. "If not for you, my story would have ended on Qin sand."
Matheus shook his head. "Your story has only begun."
Far to the west, word of the uprising reached the halls of Persia. In the great audience chamber, King Cyrus of Persia sat upon his carved throne, a lions head crowning the seat. Around him stood his ministers and generals, the scent of myrrh thick in the air.
"I have heard of the chaos in Xianyang," the king said, his voice a slow rumble. "They say a man fought there in disguise and lived to return."
General Arsam bowed. "The tale spreads like wildfire Majesty. They call him the Hidden Spear."
Prime Minister Darius, tall and cold eyed, folded his hands. "Fire may warm, but it may also burn. The Emperor of Qin will not forgive the death of his governor. His armies move already, I am told, to hunt the freed slaves and the one who led them."
Cyrus's gaze settled on him. "And what of those refugees who have already crossed our borders?"
"They are ours now," Darius replied. "They carry Persian papers and cannot be returned. Yet Qin will not care for such words. Their vengeance will not distinguish between old and new."
The king sighed. "Then we must pray the gods temper their wrath."
Before another word could be spoken, a maid entered the chamber, bowing low.
"Majesty, the High Priestess calls for you in the shrine. She claims it is urgent."