Quiet, sparse thuds came from above as raindrops crashed upon the wooden roof. The red evening sun was still visible, only a crimson sliver over the mountainous horizon. Drops of water ran along the ceiling before finally succumbing to the pull of gravity and falling upon an infant boy, resting peacefully in a straw bed. A glowing line of pure gold drew its way from the top of its shoulder down to the back of his hand, as if it were fate itself laying its claim upon him.
The sound of raindrops knocking on the roof slowly became a deafening din as sheets of rain cascaded down upon the home. The wooden support beams groaned under the stress, but nevertheless held as they had countless times before. As dark clouds finally occluded what little light remained from the sun that had disappeared beneath the horizon, the boy’s mark seemed to glow ever brighter. The sun itself seemed to manifest within the humble building, protecting him from the chilly onset of the stormy night.
The night was interrupted by a loud crack - the sudden sound of wooden planks snapping could almost be mistaken for lightning. In walked a mountain. His black hair had been cut barely long enough to cover the top of his head, and his face was permanently contorted into a stern half-sneer that suggested quite firmly that he had no patience for this.
“Don’t!” A woman shouted, her voice hoarse and breathy, but powered by enough fury and terror even to overcome the explosive roar of thunder. “You can’t take my boy!”
“The decision has been made.” The mountainous man said, effortlessly pushing her aside as he made his way toward the sleeping boy.
“Then you’re going to unmake it!” She charged between him and the glowstick of an infant, spreading her arms out defiantly - only to once again crumple like an angry sheet of paper as he shoved her aside.
“That is not my place.” He said, grabbing the child - one hand enough to hold the boy’s entire body. The man apathetically blocked out the kid’s anguished cries as he stepped through the door. In an act uncharacteristic of a man of his size, he moved so quickly that he seemed to teleport, stopping several houses down the muddy, unpaved road, next to a sturdy and heavily-guarded carriage.
Gently, he settled the child in a cradle that awaited him in the back of the carriage, before climbing in himself. Despite its rigid, sturdy construction, it creaked and wobbled as he got in and sat down. The coachman promptly woke the resting horses, and they began their journey to the capital.
“Mission accomplished, Commander?” The coachman cheerfully attempted to strike up a conversation.
“War has given me the privilege of taking more than enough sons from their mothers, Samuel. There is no joy in this.” The commander coldly replied, looking behind them at the woman still desperately running after them through the ever-growing rainstorm. Even as the mud twisted her ankles and pulled her to the ground, she continued after them desperately, until the weather finally pushed her to the ground and kept her there.
“Of course, I understand, Michael. But this boy, isn’t he supposed to be the prophesied miracle, one that will give us a peaceful break from the senseless bloodshed?”
“Ends do not justify means. I don’t care how many lives we’ll have saved down the line, I just stole a child from his mother. If you don’t see the pain I’ve inflicted, or the evil I’ve done, then you’re either evil or willfully ignorant.” Michael growled as he tiredy pulled his ornate pauldrons off and set them on the ground.
“I get it, I get it. Sorry. But man, can’t you ever look on the bright side for once? He’d probably have gotten hunted down by the demons sooner or later if we didn’t take him under our protection.” Samuel attempted to defuse the awkward tension Michael had formed. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
Michael sighed, his hand gripping at his head as though he was dealing with a vicious headache. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps this was for the best.” He said, looking back softly at the sleeping luminescent child. “All I can hope to do is make it up to this little torch.”
---
Countless golden arcs traced through the air, untraceably fast sword strikes forming a lethal cage around their target. The slim figure that delivered the attacks dashed forward, decisively kicking his opponent straight through the chest. With a sharp exhale, he turned around and watched singed pieces of the wooden training dummy fall into the soft grass of the training ground.
“Mike! Old man!” The boy waved his sword around in the air as he shouted at a giant of a man whose graying hair reached nearly down to his shoulders.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Did you see it, did you see it?” The boy asked excitedly, practically jumping up and down.
“Yes I saw it, so stop waving that sword around like an idiot!” Michael replied crankily. “Using showy moves like that. Here, try it on me.” He walked over, taking off a luxurious cape to reveal a full set of armor underneath.
“Always battle-ready, huh? Well, here goes!” He charged forward, sword glowing once more as he prepared to swing it. Before it had even left his side, though, the flat of another blade pressed it back towards him.
“Too telegraphed! You think your enemy is just going to stand there dumbfounded? I could leave the battlefield, write a book about how disappointing that attack was, and come back before you finished the first swing!”
“...That bad?” He lowered his head in disappointment.
“Look, Arty, you know I want the best for you, and I know you’re trying your best. But here you are, trying to put together all of these flashy moves and flourishes before you can even do the basics. Read, block, parry, dodge. Once you can do those, then you can try and strike.”
“I’ve been doing nothing but reading, blocking, parrying, dodging, and running for the past eight years!” The boy complained. “Maybe if you’d actually teach me something instead of-”
“Arthur.” Michael’s voice lowered into a deep, harsh growl. “If you wanted a lesson so badly, all you needed to do was ask.”
“W-wait, I didn’t mean…” Arthur’s backpedaling came too late, as he was forced to dive to the side. The winds from one thrust of Michael’s sword were enough to cut through all of the grass in front of him.
“Block it, stop dodging!” Michael bellowed, bringing a huge overhead swing down over Arthur’s head. Arthur knelt down and put his sword over his head, holding his other hand against the flat of the blade to form a wall against the incoming sword. Despite this, he felt the metal blade bend, and soon after, his wrists. “Argh!” He cried in pain, dropping the sword.
“I’ve told you a hundred times. Blocking isn’t enduring. It’s neutralizing.” Michael explained, picking up the collapsed Arthur. “Nobody expects you to swallow a dragon’s breath.”
“That’s easy for you to say. How do I neutralize an attack without taking it?” Arthur protested.
“In your architecture classes, you’ve learned about the aqueducts, right, Arthur?” Michael asked.
“What does that-”
“Do the aqueducts make sharp corners?”
“No, that’d erode the cana-”
“And what do they do instead?”
“Broad, smooth curves that… don’t take as much of the force?” Arthur looked up at his instructor, wide-eyed. “Is that how you're actually supposed to block?”
“Indeed, you catch on quickly.” Michael grinned at his student.
“Then why have you been having me take the full force of blows when blocking until now?!” Arthur complained at his instructor’s faulty teaching.
“Well, it builds endurance a whole lot better. Just because I don’t want you taking hits doesn’t mean I should raise you so that you can’t.” Michael grinned slyly.
“Oh, that is it.” Arthur said, picking up his bent sword.
“If you’re gonna do anything rash, do it with a decent sword.” Michael said, tossing a fresh shortsword to Arthur from a rack of assorted weapons.
Wordlessly, Arthur grabbed the sword out of the air and dashed forward, changing the angle of his first strike as he got close enough to hit Michael. His blade overflowed with celestial energy as he swung a killer blow at his instructor.
It wasn’t a sensation that Arthur enjoyed. The grass prodded and scratched the back of his neck as if it was making fun of him for getting so thoroughly crushed again. Still, he lay there belly-up, every muscle in his body too fatigued to move.
Next to Arthur, the old man wordlessly laid down on the grass. He let out a deep sigh, mostly of fatigue. “Time ain’t kind, these old bones wanna quit.”
“Then quit.” Arthur said coldly.
“Ha! When I’m comfortable leaving the kingdom’s protection to you, sure thing.”
“Old man, why do you still keep watch? There are plenty of soldiers, and you’re nearly a hundred now.”
“Simple. Because I want you to grow up in a happy, peaceful kingdom, and none of those upstarts are strong enough to keep it that way.”
“...But why?”
“Because I promised myself I would, and because I know one day it won’t be.”
“Won’t be?”
“You know that glowing mark on your arm, right?”
“Yeah, of course. Something about signifying ‘light within the darkness’ or whatever hoo-ha the oracle spouts.”
“I worry for the future of this kingdom, but more importantly, I worry for you. Before you try and protect us all on your own, I want you to keep yourself safe.”
“Old man…”
“...”
“Are you getting sentimental?” Arthur smirked.
“Why you little-”