Back in Lindtel, the old Smith was deprived of the right to privacy, shadowed by the sleepless eyes of the crows. For weeks, a mob of corvids circled his woodland shelter, leering atop branches to pry into his comings and goings. Even when he’d leave the clearing to head towards the local towns for business, he’d be tailed by a member or two of the horde, ensuring he’d been surveilled at all times.

  In residential spaces, birds weren’t the only members of the Crow’s corps to spy on the smith. Dark hooded figures loomed around the corners, fading in and out of shadows as they shifted to match the man’s pace. He was well aware of their presence, of what their motives were, and yet he chose to pay them no mind.

  Aside from the stalking and eavesdropping, the lurker didn’t seem to bother him much, allowing him to partake in his duties uninterrupted. The smith had surmised that “The Crow” must have informed them to keep their distance and lie in waiting until the time comes to execute their plan.

  However, in an effort to preserve the sanctity of his home, the smith had boarded up the lone window on the facade, concealing the inside from the onlookers.

  At some point, the smith had stopped leaving the house entirely, spending days on end concealed behind its thick stone walls.

  Days passed with no sign of the smith. As the tempests roared between the thickets of oaks and birch, the desperate crows gathered in hordes atop the barren tree branches. They cawed incessantly in an attempt to draw their target from his man-made burrow, but it was to no avail.

  One night, the obnoxious cries would come to an end as the mob perched silently, courtesy of an oncoming envoy. Twelve hooded figures, dressed in dark robes, cantered through the woods atop strapping black mares. They made their way across the thick of the forest and into the clearing, dismounting to approach the lonesome abode. Once close, they flourished bright runic lamps and peered through eccentric masks at the mossy exterior.

  Bearing no lamp of his own, the leader of the lot gestured towards one of the men, instructing him to knock on the door.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

  No response. The leader instructed his henchman to seek three more attempts, but they resulted in the same outcome.

  Pursuing a different approach, the leader looks for the largest amongst his men, commanding him to tear down the boarded window. He was a towering giant of a man, so large it seemed the weight of his own limbs had hindered his gait. The behemoth obliges, ripping the wooden planks off the facade and chucking them beyond the treeline.

  Another of the henchmen approached the window, shattering the glass pane with the hilt of a knife. He peeked his head into the frame, inspecting the humble interior of the home. Alas, it seemed empty, though evidently only recently abandoned as the fire within the oven remained active.

  After receiving the information from the henchmen, he deduced a similar conclusion. The Smith was hiding somewhere within the house. Without uttering another word, the leader walks right up to the door and strikes it down with a powerful kick, breaking it in half and sending it flying off its hinges.

  The envoys march into the dimly lit home, scouring every corner of the dwelling in search of any sign of a secret rune or latch. Eventually, it would be the leader himself who finds the fault within the flooring that denoted the entrance to the Smith’s cellar. Intrigued by this new finding, he summons his henchmen to observe as he unlatches the hidden door.

  Creaking, the door flings open, revealing the underground chamber accessible via a wooden ladder. Before they could even begin to descend, the leader orders his men to halt and pay close attention. Something seemed to have caught his attention, something that didn’t seem right. A sharp noise, rhythmic and consistent. Ticking?

  BANG!

  A roaring boom echoed through the night sky, rousing the local fauna into panic as they cried and fled away from the clearing. The ensuing shockwaves sent violent gusts of wind bursting into the forest, warping the proud oaks from the impact and threatening to tear their roots from the soil. Towering above the trees, a sweeping plume of smoke rose where the dwelling once stood, concealing the area in clouds of withered earth.

  As the dust settled, the distinctive silhouette of a burly, rotund man could be observed emerging through the smoke. It was none other than Smith, bare-chested and armed with a short-barrelled, clasped between his meaty hands. Grim and stoic, he scanned the area of impact, gazing upon the blazing field of flames and debris. Furniture and wares lay scattered beneath the rubble, perched beside disembodied limbs and mangled corpses.

  Limping beside the ruined remains of the doorframe, the pitiful figure of a charred and bloodied survivor attempted to flee the scene. Unfortunately for them, the smith hadn’t planned on keeping survivors. Relentlessly, the smith aimed his shotgun and took his shot, firing a cluster of bullets into the back of the figure's skull, scattering their brain matter against the inner wall.

  Breathing slowly, the smith calmly approached the doorframe for himself, continuing his search for potential loose ends. From the door frame, the coast looked clear, as nothing but more debris and unidentifiable body parts littered the clearing. The smith sighed, momentarily relieved; he’d survived this attack.

  Then something caught his eye.

  Not too far from the facade, a peculiar item glinted radiantly against the dark of the night. A brilliant silver blade, unscathed and unsullied, was wedged deep into the ground, supposedly flung into position from the preceding impact.

  It boasted a flat-wheel dark silver pommel, adorned with a crest of the eight-headed hydra and embellished with a bright red gemstone. Its thick, cylindrical handle was laced with black leather and stretched the length of two palms before being inserted into its guard. The guard resembled a true cross, with a matching gemstone embedded as its centrepiece and trefoils decorating the broad far-end of its flat quillons.

  Most impressive was the blade, exceptionally long and heavy; it featured a distinctive straight ricasso engraved with the image of a robed maiden bearing an urn. The strong end of the blade featured a broad fuller, which was inscribed with runes and motifs native to the Elysian Isles. Its edge appeared to glow a faint golden hue despite its almost-white silver body.

  Gritting his teeth, the smith scoffs; he recognises the blade and what its presence meant for him.

  The smith watched cautiously as the air around the hilt turned into a dense mist of crimson, swirling into a cyclone of converging thick liquid. As it gathered, the liquid condensed into chunks of red flesh, assimilating into five slender fingers wrapping around the hilt of the sword. The fingers extended into a pale hand, which inturn extended into a shapely arm.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Within seconds, the figure of a man had formed out of thin air, completely in the nude and exposed to the elements.

  The newly born man was quite the sight to behold. Gracefully tall, he enjoyed an athletic physique and square shoulders. His face boasted a youthful but refined structure, adorned with amber cat-like eyes. Bursting from his head was a long mane of wavy red hair, swaying and dancing in the wind like vengeful serpents of flame.

  BANG

  The smith takes a piercing inhale and fires a shot at the man, leaving a gaping cavity within the figure’s chest.

  The figure is taken aback, staring at the assailant before inspecting his wound. Immediately, the flesh around his wound twists and convulses, constricting the gap as the hole in his chest healed entirely. He tilts his head, grimacing at the assailant as he yanks his sword from the ground.

  Sighing, the smith discards his shotgun onto the soil and reaches to grab an armament slung behind his back. The uncanny weapon swooped above his shoulder before the far end of its lengthy handle landed into his offhand. It was a heavy metal spade, made of blackened steel and equipped with a serrated head, designed to hack through flesh and bone.

  Grim and stained with dried blood, the very sight of this butchering tool was often enough to incapacitate an opponent with terror. The figure, however, remained steadfast, flourishing his lustrous blade in the direction of his opponent.

  Shaking his head, the older man initiates the fight, swinging the head of his war shovel towards the red-haired’s neck. Gracefully, the man dodges the first attack as he ducks beneath the blow.

  The assault, however, was far from over, as the smith would instantly respond by shifting his weight and bringing his shovel down at his adversary. Once again, the naked man dodges the strike, weaving to stand behind his opponent.

  For a moment, it seemed the smith had left himself open, allowing the man to land an opportune blow to his back. The man launches forward in an attempt to secure a quick victory, but he would instead be lured into a trap. In an impressive feat of strength and dexterity, the smith directs his weapon towards himself, passing the sharp end of the spade beneath his armpit as he thrusts it at his opponent.

  Just in time, the man anticipates the attack, raising his guard to block it. The raw power behind the thrust, combined with his shift in momentum, sends the man a couple of feet backwards. As he finds his footing, the redhead engages a defensive stance to counter the smith’s aggressive approach.

  Carelessly, the smith disregards his opponent’s change of pace, resuming his assault as he rushes for an overhead strike. Exhaling, the man began a swift and synchronous routine to terminate his enemy.

  First, a gentle flick just in time to parry the attack.

  Second, a shift in stance, starting from the back left to arch toward the neck of the blade.

  SCHLINK! A clean slice separates the head of the spade from the handle, rendering the armament useless.

  Third, he shifts into a high right stance before sweeping at the smith’s neck for the killing blow.

  SKRRRNG!

  The blade strikes true, but the man knew it was too early to celebrate victory. The collisions did not feel as though he’d reaped through flesh; instead, it felt as if his blade had struck the hard end of another.

  He inspects his sword, and surely enough, no sign of blood. Turning around, he sees the smith standing firm and unscathed. In one hand, he brandished the bare handle of his spade, while the other hand stroked his greying beard.

  The smith chuckled.

  “Trying to trim my old beard, I see?” he jested, the runic pattern on his arm glowing a brilliant cobalt blue. The motifs on his tattoo were inscribed in blood ink, converging into a talisman embedded near his neck.

  Silent and unamused, the man drops his guard, holding his sword by his side in an attempt to provoke his opponent to attack.

  Shrugging, the smith accepts the invitation, swinging the hefty handle at the man’s head.

  CRACK

  Vigorously, the man extends his arm to counter, simultaneously shattering his arm and the handle in the process. He dashes forward, seizing the opportunity to attack his unarmed foe.

  CLANG!

  The man’s valiant blade lands square across the man’s right cheek, the clash producing a sonorous ringing as the blade deflected off the smith’s impenetrable shell.

  Pausing for a moment, the man clenches his fist as his broken arm warps eerily back into shape.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” remarks the smith, ” haven’t we already-”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the smith was interrupted by his opponent’s blade once again. This time it struck him in his lower jaw, then his left cheek, then his temple. His opponent had abruptly unleashed a flurry of attacks right at him, swinging with wild abandon as his blade consistently failed to break skin.

  Taking a few steps back, the smith smirks. He was eager to mock the man’s futile efforts, only to be cut short by the taste of iron in his mouth as it filled with a viscous fluid. Curious, he spits out onto the mud and inspects the puddle between his feet.

  “Blood,” he thought to himself, “ but how?”

  As he was lost in thought, the smith was struck once more, this time with the cold and dull weight of the pommel. The blunt strike was devastating, connecting with a violent crunch as it

  fell onto his skull.

  Dazed and concussed, the smith staggered backwards and onto his knees. His vision blurry, he tried to discern his opponent's next move. Alas, it was in vain, too quick to perceive. Wielding his blade in a half-sword grip, he swung the hilt towards the smith’s chin, launching him flat on his back from the raw force.

  Befogged and defeated, the smith gazed up at the night sky as he lay motionless in the dirt. For a solid moment, he had a chance to wonder as he marvelled at the stars.

  He thought about his past, the time before the war, his old family, the house in the Gultch of Black Forest. He’d then remembered the time after the war, when Eskel had found him broken and alone. When he’d offered him brotherhood, purpose, another chance at life. A chance for greatness. A chance he would somehow find a way to squander. Who knew it would all come to this?

  Then he thought back to Fjalla, the newest addition to his life. Initially, she was but part of a mission, and yet, he had to admit the girl had grown on him. Her innocence and kind nature had reminded him of the life he’d long lost and brought an unexpected joy to his twilight years. She was all he really had, his proudest achievement, his greatest hope, and his gift to this world. In his heart of hearts, he truly believed it was only through Fjalla that he could perhaps make this world a brighter place.

  He closed his eyes. He prayed she was faring well. That his efforts were not in vain. Everything he’d attempted in life so far had failed, but he prayed this was the exception. It had to be the exception. She was the rightful heir after all, and it was her destiny to survive.

  Contempt, the smith opens his eyelids, smiling at the man who stands above him.

  “Tell the Crow,” the smith requests,” I am flattered.”

  The man nods, his face expressionless as he raises the weapon above the smith’s head.

  CLANG!

  With blistering speed, the pommel comes crashing down onto the smith’s temple, knocking him unconscious.

  CLANG!

  Then Again.

  Then Again.

  The man continues his assault, pounding the smith’s head into a pulp with the hilt of his blade. Eventually, the hammering subsides, as lumps of flesh and bone clung to the leather of the sword’s handle.

  Validated, the man steps away from the corpse, briefly inspecting his victim before setting his sight towards the stars.

  Inhaling deeply, he bares his chest to the heavens and lets out a blood-curdling howl.

  The wolf joins the fray.