-----Chapter 4 - Oath of the Last Knight------

The sun bled gold over the training grounds.

Swords clashed, boots scraped against the dirt, and laughter mixed with the ringing of steel. The air smelled of sweat and iron, the scent of warriors who had trained together for years, men who knew each other's strengths, weaknesses, and the jokes that could break the tension before a battle.

Sylvian stood among them, his greatsword resting on his shoulder as he watched his comrades spar. They were brothers in arms, warriors who had spent their lives under the same banners, sharing victories, losses, and the endless waiting between wars.

"You're too stiff, Varen!" one soldier called out, laughing as he barely dodged a strike.

"Stiff? I nearly took your head off!" the other barked back.

Another man wiped sweat from his brow. "Hope you lot have something better than banter when we meet the enemy."

Sylvian smirked, stepping forward. "If not, I'll just let you all die first and fight the exhausted survivors."

Laughter erupted through the field. It was a ritual, these small moments of levity before war.

But beneath the laughter, they all felt it.

The weight of the coming battle.

The war had stretched on for a decade—ten years of blood, betrayal, and bodies piling onto nameless battlefields. Two kingdoms locked in a cycle of suffering, neither strong enough to conquer, neither willing to surrender.

And now, it was coming to an end.

One last push. One final battle.

At least, that's what they told themselves.

---

The throne room was dimly lit, the scent of burning wood mixing with the ink-stained maps spread across the table. The King leaned over them, his fingers tracing the faded borders of a land that had known nothing but war for the past decade.

He looked tired. Not as a ruler, but as a man who had carried the weight of thousands of lives on his shoulders for far too long.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Sylvian stood beside him, not as a subordinate, but as a fellow warrior.

"This war is bleeding both sides dry," the King murmured. "We keep fighting, and soon, there won't be a kingdom left to protect."

Sylvian's gaze remained fixed on the map. He already knew where this was going.

"We need to end it," the King continued. "One decisive strike. We take their capital, force them to surrender, and stop this madness before it devours everything."

Sylvian let out a slow breath. "You're asking me to end a decade of suffering in a single battle."

A smirk flickered across the King's face. "I wouldn't ask if I thought you'd fail."

Sylvian chuckled, shaking his head. "You put too much faith in me."

"I put my faith in those who deserve it." The King placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I don't need a knight. I need a man who will do what must be done."

Sylvian met his gaze. In that moment, they weren't King and subject. They were two men, both exhausted by war, both desperate for it to end.

He nodded. "Then I'll bring you victory."

---

The enemy capital burned.

Flames licked the sky, painting the heavens in hues of crimson and smoke. The city walls, once thought impenetrable, now lay in shattered ruins, their mighty stone crumbling beneath the force of war.

Sylvian stood atop the ruined gates, his greatsword dripping with the blood of a fallen kingdom.

The war was over.

They had won.

Behind him, his soldiers roared in triumph, their cheers mixing with the dying cries of the fallen. Flags of the enemy were torn down, replaced by the banners of his homeland.

A decade of suffering had ended.

Sylvian exhaled, his chest rising and falling with the weight of it all. He had led the final charge, had cut down the enemy's last hope with his own hands. The war that had stolen everything from them was finally over.

And now, he would return home.

Return to his King, his comrades, his people.

Return to the place that made this victory worth it.

---

The ride back should have been filled with celebration.

Instead, it was silent.

From the moment Sylvian saw the horizon, something felt wrong.

No smoke from the chimneys. No banners waving in the wind. No signs of life.

The closer he got, the heavier the silence became.

By the time he reached the outskirts of the kingdom, he knew.

He was too late.

Yet still, he rode forward.

His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, each step of his horse echoing unnaturally in the empty streets. He passed the homes of merchants, blacksmiths, farmers—places that should have been filled with life. There was no wind, no sound, just the hollow echo of his own existence.

Then, he saw the palace gates.

Or what was left of them.

The grand entrance, once adorned with banners and towering guards, now stood shattered, its doors twisted and half-sunk into the ruined earth. The flags that should have flown proudly above the ramparts were nothing but tattered rags, barely clinging to the remains of the stone towers.

The warrior who had ended a decade of bloodshed now stood at the heart of his homeland... and found nothing but dust and silence.

His breath came shaky, uneven. His heart pounded in his chest.

He stopped in the center of the ruins.

Where was the King? His people? His family?

Where was his home?

---

Then—a sound.

A tearing noise, like reality itself splitting apart.

He turned just in time to see the remnants of a castle wall distort, shift—change.

A rift formed where stone should have been.

And something walked out.

They weren't human.

The creatures emerged in silence, their forms twisted, bestial, yet oddly still. They looked at the ruins as if they, too, were seeing it for the first time.

They did not belong here.

Neither did he.

Then, they saw him.

And the moment they did—they charged.

---

The corpses of beasts lay around him.

The air reeked of blood, thick and suffocating. The battlefield was silent, save for the sound of his own breath.

In his hand, he clutched the tattered remnants of his kingdom's flag.

The same flag that once flew over a proud nation. The same flag he had fought for.

Now, it was nothing more than a relic of a dead land.

Sylvian clenched his fists.

He had been too late. He had saved his people from war, only for them to be stolen away by something worse.

His grip tightened on the flag.

He turned, glancing at the lifeless corpses around him. These beasts, these twisted things, had been as lost as he was. Had they been victims as well? Had they been cast into this broken world the same way he had?

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except his vow.

Never again.

He would rise.

He would become powerful enough to never let this happen again.

He would carve his way to the truth.

And when he found whoever had done this—he would make them answer for it.