“I have many names, my lady,” It wasn’t a lie. He’d received many names and titles from the kingdoms and empires he’d saved from the darkness. Some of them were more famous than others.

Imrathil was the name he’d received from birth, given to him by a mother who did not wish to have children, but he had plenty of names to choose from if he so wished and using any number of them would not be a lie.

In the Far North, his most famous name Fenrir; he earned it after a pitched battle in the Blood Fjord of Volskjar, where he rallied the Northmen against the Dread Legionnaires of the Shadow Lords, evil men who bent their knees to the Demon King.

In the Far East, his most famous name was Chernobog, earned after he slaughtered an entire host of Demons and evil men in the Battle of the Volodov River. It was probably one of the bitterest victories he’d ever won, pyrrhic and bloody; hundreds of thousands died, their corpses bogged down the flow of the Volodov River and became a dam of frozen flesh and bone.

In the Far South, he was known simply as Angra Mainyu, or just Angra, the Destroyer of Armies. Imrathil still wasn't sure when or how he received that name, but it was the one that stuck. Or, at the very least, it was the name that most people remembered him by.

Imrathil dipped his head. “You may call me Ahriman of Parsa; I am but a humble explorer. My journey has simply taken me here. That is all.”

Ahriman… he’d earned that name, among many others, in the earliest days of his rise to power and glory, when he saved the city of Parsa from a marauding band of demons and monsters. Only his closest friends knew of it, his old comrades, whose souls were likely already in the bosom of the gods. Though, Imrathil was reasonably certain that a few of his allies in the Knights of Dol Morag knew of it as well.

The Elven Ranger did not lower her weapon. Imrathil noted, however, that she seemed to relax upon receiving his name, though only slightly. “You’ve come a long way from Parsa, Sir Ahriman; but traversing the ruins of the Dead City has been forbidden by the Lord of this Land. I must ask that you leave this place for your own good.”

“Why?” Imrathil asked, raising an eyebrow. The remains of Greensedge didn’t seem cursed and neither was the air noxious. In fact, with most of the infrastructure still standing, this city should’ve been recolonized and cleaned up. Then again, the original Greensedge was made to cater to the needs of Slayers. With the Nameless Woods gone, there would be reason for Slayers to visit this place; without its main source of income, the city wouldn’t survive. Still, there were enough resources to support at least a fledgling community. There were several ore veins in the Nameless Woods, untouched and undiscovered by prospectors. Imrathil ran into them by accident, on a quest to find a rare flower that grew from the droppings of dragons. Iron, copper, silver, and gold veins ran underneath the forest floor, alongside other minerals he could not name; perhaps, in time, and with enough investors and enough efforts, this place could become a thriving mining town.

Maranael raised her sword just a bit higher and pointed it towards the distant fortress that loomed over the city. “Seventy years ago, a little after the Fall of Greensedge, a High-Level Demon came to this place and locked itself within the fortress. No one knows where it came from or why it chose to settle in these ruins, but all attempts at subduing or killing the beast has failed. As a result, the Lord has decreed that no man, woman, or child may venture into the Dead City.”

“It has taken the lives of many,” She lowered her sword and her hood, revealing her face. She was beautiful, most of Elven women were; her skin was as white as snow and as smooth as porcelain. Her silver eyes glimmered softly in the absence of the sun. And her white hair, cut short, ending just below her ears, swayed in the wind. “I lost many sisters to that creature.”

Imrathil crossed his arms across his chest. Her story sounded outright stupid. High-level Demons weren’t to be tangled with, unless you were a part of the Knights of Dol Morag or, at least, strong enough to be one of them. This Lord of theirs should’ve sent for one of his former allies to assist in disposing of the creature; it was the whole point of their organization, to shield the mortal races from the dangers of the Demon King’s taint. This woman, Maranael, might’ve been far above the average, Imrathil would admit as much, but she wasn’t strong enough to fight a High-Level Demon, not even close.

“You’ve fought it before, my lady?” Imrathil clarified.

“Yes,” She answered briskly.

“Why hasn’t your lord called for the aid of the Knights of Dol Morag, then?” He asked. Then again, the mere fact that this town was overrun by monsters at all meant that something was wrong. “This creature was clearly beyond you and your brethren, and all the other people sent to die at its hands.”

At that, she blinked, seemingly stunned by Imrathil’s question. “What hole have you been living under? The Knights of Dol Morag were disbanded almost a century ago, long before this city was overrun by monsters. They’re of no help to no one, bickering over their lordships in the Northern Provinces, like spoiled brats. If one came here, it will be in the name of conquest.”

Imrathil swallowed the rage that threatened to bubble out of his soul. First, they betrayed him, cornered and ambushed him as though he’d done them the most terrible wrong. And now, they abandon the very principles, the very purpose, which brought them together in the first place?! Was he the only one who truly believed in their shared vision of a brighter and safer world? Was he the only who still cared for the people?

“I see….” It was the only thing he could say, really. Imrathil sighed, before turning towards the distant fortress. His eyes narrowed and his fists tightened. The Knights of Dol Morag might’ve been disbanded, but he was here and he was alive, and he did not forget his purpose – at least, he didn’t forget why the order was founded. “I’m going to kill that demon.”

While he lacked the supremely powerful skills that once made him the strongest mortal, his stats now should be more than enough to handle a High-Level Demon; it wouldn’t be easy, but it wouldn’t exactly be hard, either.

“Preposterous!” Maranael said from behind him. Imrathil heard her sword sliding down its scabbard, which meant she’d dropped her guard for some reason. Oh, she was still weary, but it didn’t seem as though she was still actively considered him to be a threat, which was strange, since Elves were usually a very suspicious people. Of course, in the hundred years he was dead, something must’ve happened to them, since he couldn’t recall even a single Elf the last time he was in Greensedge. “You don’t even have a weapon!”

“No, I don’t.”

Imrathil walked ahead, ignoring the Elven Ranger’s sudden cry of surprise, before she chased after him. Just as she nearly caught up to him, however, she stopped. She drew none of her weapons; otherwise, he would’ve heard her do it. “Do you truly intend to die?”

“No,” He answered plainly, walking forward. The Ranger underestimated him and that was understandable. He was a stranger of no real reputation, bearing no weapons, bearing no titles, and no proper armor with which to defend himself; the black rags he had on really sold the traveler part of his story, but it wouldn’t make look like a warrior. For all intents and purposes, he was just a vagabond, having nothing and no one. “The demon will die by my hands - literally. I’m going to beat it to death.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

His proclamation, in her limited perspective, was tantamount to suicide. And, if Imrathil was being honest with himself, he’d never actually killed a High-Level Demon using nothing but his bare hands before. At all times, his weapon, the Radiant Spear of Light, was with him and he’d never fought a battle without it. A fistfight with a powerful being from the Demon Realm sounded about as ridiculous as it was exciting.

Sure, he could pick up a random sword from the ground – one that wasn’t covered in rust or withered away into a blunt instrument. But, where was the fun in that? He wasn’t in a hurry. He wasn’t on a timer. He’d take his vengeance, true enough; his need for revenge will be sated, one way or another. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t explore and have fun on the way. And it definitely didn’t mean that he could abandon his former duties as one of the Knights of Dol Morag.

Plus, he needed to collect souls and what better souls to collect than the souls of Demons, beings who fed on the souls of mortals and grew fatter and stronger for it. And he needed to become stronger if he was to perform his end of the deal that brought him back to life. As he was now, the Gods would just laugh at him.

“I can’t stop you if you intend to brave the horrors of the fortress; the Lord of this land decreed that all who wish to try and defeat the Demon be given a chance.” Maranael sighed and shook her head. “But, I must say, you’re the craziest human I’ve ever met and I’ve been alive for five decades now. If you do decide that your life is still worth living, I will gladly escort you away from this cursed place and into Trondsberg.”

He’d never heard of such a city before. Imrathil glanced over his shoulder, smiled, and nodded. If he had been a lesser man, then he might’ve taken her on her offer, but he was not; he was Imrathil, the Radiant, he couldn’t turn his back on his duty. “Thank you for the offer, Lady Maranael, but I’m afraid I must decline; there is evil in that fortress and it must be destroyed.”

And if my former allies are now useless slobs, then the task of doing so falls to me.

“Very well,” Maranael sighed and walked up to him. “I will escort you to the fortress’ main gate, but you’re on your own from there.”

“You do not wish to fight the Demon again?”

The Elven Ranger paused; a look of absolute horror and terror gripped her, and her eyes widened. Her breath quickened, and Imrathil listened on as her heart hammered within her chest, like the feral drums of tribe of Wild Goblins in the depths of the Vilmor Jungle. The look on her face was a familiar one, the same look he’d often seen on the faces of soldiers, who’d witnessed the untold horrors of war. Even the most stalwart of heroes suffered the affliction, an inevitable fate for all those who lived their lives in the battlefield.

Imrathil himself fell prey to it once, long ago, when he was younger. But, times were desperate back then, and he was sent from one battlefield to the next in a never ending haze of slaughter. Demons, Trolls, and Evil Men were felled by his blade again and again and again, and it never stopped – for fifteen years, it didn’t stop. He found no respite and, soon enough, the affliction seemed to just disappear.

He shook his head and halted, “Please, forget I asked the question, my lady; it was not appropriate of me and I beg your pardon.”

“No,” Maranael seemed to glance away, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular. Imrathil noted the lone tear that fell from her right eye. Finally, after a brief moment, she shook her head. “I… I can still hear the screams of my sisters. I don’t want to see the creature and relive their final moments… it is… too much.”

“I understand,” Imrathil said, before walking forth once more. “And that is precisely why the Demon has to die, so no other people may see what you have seen and feel what you have felt.”

“Do you know where the beast slumbers?”

“It roams the fortress’ interior and never lingers anywhere for too long. Though, it’s not exactly subtle; the beast is large enough that its horns drag along the ceiling.”

“Good to know….”

The Fortress wasn’t far and its entrance was open, though it didn’t look as though it could be closed at all, given that most of it had collapsed into a heap of rubble and metal. It looked positively ancient, withered and aged beyond its years. Its walls were cracked and ruined, battlements and towers reduced to nothing. Massive gashes were imprinted upon the stones of the fortress, alongside scorch marks that turned massive sections of pure rock into mangled streams of metal and stone that’d certainly been liquid at some point, likely melted down by monstrous fire. The Fortress had certainly seen better days.

And yet, it still stood. In fact, most of it was likely still useable and livable, provided it was properly renovated and cleaned. And provided its current and sole inhabitant was killed. Imrathil focused on the fortress for a moment. There were only a few places large enough to act as the dwelling place of a High-Level Demon. The fortress itself was massive, rising high with six floors’ worth of defenses. The largest portion had to be the main hall, where the local ruler held court. It was located in the third level of the fortress, with a single, massive, stained-glass window, decorated with flowers and bones, marking it as such. The dungeon was another candidate, since it was certainly large enough; he’d have to check it first, since it was located in the first level, after all. From there, all Imrathil needed to do would be to follow the fortress’ interior walkways until he came face to face with it.

It wasn’t his best plan, but he’d faced far worse odds with far less. At the very least, he had some clothes on and that was already better than nothing.

They reached the mangled mess of metal and stone that was the Fortress’ main gate and stopped a few feet from it. It was even uglier from up close. The structure must’ve stood tall and imposing at one point in its existence, but, with half of it melted down and collapsed into the ground, it was nothing more than an inconvenience now. Night had not yet fallen and tiny rays of light streamed from the grey skies, illuminating what remained of the fortress, its ruined towers, battlements, and walls. A faint and wholly unnatural glow briefly flashed from one of the windows, like fire, before it disappeared as quickly as it came. Imrathil’s eyes narrowed. There’s something else in there, aside from the Demon.

Maranael was the first to break the silence. “I will go no further. You may continue if you wish it. The Demon should still be inside. It keeps to itself most of the time, though a few of my fellow Rangers report seeing it walking about the grounds once or twice a week.”

Imrathil nodded once. He took a single step forward and paused, before glancing over his shoulder at Maranael, who stood impassively and kept her gaze upon the fortress itself. “Anything else I should be aware of, Lady Maranael?”

“The Lord has decreed that whoever can bring back proof of the beast’s demise shall receive a mighty reward,” The Elven Ranger answered, shrugging. “I believe the reward might come in the form of a lesser lordship, but I can’t be certain.”

Imrathil huffed. Looking back, he’d received dozens of lordships all across the known world and he’d never bothered with any of them. The one time he did bother was when he was given a castle in Fairwind, an estate in the Kingdom of Veldreth, a Far Eastern nation that was isolated from the politics of the Middle Kingdoms. It was peaceful there; the countryside was nice and quiet, the forests were ancient and untouched, and the castle itself overlooked the sea. It was a nice place, but it took him far from his duties as a Knight of Dol Morag.

“That sounds nice, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want a lordship in the Far South.” He kept his gaze on the fortress, waiting for more flashing lights of fire. “No offense.”

“None taken; I am not here for the beauty of the southern lands,” She said. “I am here, because my duty keeps me here.”

Imrathil blinked and raised a single brow. Elven War-Hosts roamed the forests of the world, unbound by politics and the troubles of the world, defending their Sacred Groves and Monoliths from all who seek the ancient powers. The only reason they would ever venture out of their woodland realms was if they failed or if the world itself was about to fall, which was why hundreds of War Hosts joined the war against the Demon King. “You signed a Blood Oath with the Lord of this land?”

“The Shadowmoon Host swore its loyalty to him, after he offered an abandoned Keep to help rebuild our Order,” Maranael explained. But then her tone shifted and the sadness she exuded was almost palpable. “We patrol his lands and keep the peace to the best of our abilities, but – with more and more demons rising out of the depths of the earth – it’s becoming harder and harder each day.”

“Why would-”

The ground shook and a metallic roar exploded from somewhere within the fortress.

Imrathil focused only on the moment itself, forgoing his thoughts of revenge, his rage, his fury, his indignation, and all the memories of the betrayal that led to his death. For now, he was simply Imrathil the Radiant, the greatest of the Knights of Dol Morag, defender of the innocent and the weak. “Go now, Lady Maranael; you have your own duty, beyond the walls of this city, and I have mine. If your words are true, then you have wasted enough of your time here.”

She nodded once, before pulling her hood over her head. "You're going to die, Sir Ahriman."