The continent of Belka was a vast land full of rich rolling plains of golden wheat and sprawling forests of dark rich green. Dotting the landscape were many small villages and the occasional grand castle or fortress. One such village was ablaze.
The village was teeming with grotesque and dark creatures. The creatures were short in stature, stubby arms and legs that were mismatched with their massive heads that housed jaws with rows upon rows of teeth that ripped through steel. Their four beady eyes on either side of their grotesquely disproportionate heads glowed a bright red and darted about looking for their newest target.
Fighting back these foul creatures was a Templar of Turian. A warrior who lived and died for battle and honor. He slashed with fluid movements, carving deeply into the flesh of any creature near enough, if not entirely dismembering them. His blade was a lengthy 70 centimetres long, and slightly curved. With every slash, blood flew off the blade to be replaced by new blood, bathing over the iconic hammer marks. The followers of Turian called this blade a Katana.
The black blood of the foul creatures splayed over the Templar’s armor. The normally radiant colors of the armor were now dyed black with the countless numbers he had slain. The armor was made of steel scales, further protected and held together by leather. The followers of Turian referred to this intimidating armor wholly as Samurai.
Behind the Templar cried out a young boy, no more than eight years old. Tears streamed down his face as he cowered behind the Templar, eyes puffed and nose flushed red. His already short tea colored hair was singed and dirtied. His eyes were a glossy violet, darting between the charging creatures and the Templar. His simple cotton shirt and pants were torn, shredded, and also singed. Between each tear of his shirt could be seen a bruise or a scratch, some deep enough to become scars should they be given the chance to heal.
The Templar tirelessly slaughtered the creatures as they almost threw themselves upon his blade. Eventually one creature literally did manage to impale itself. Now having motion of his blade suddenly stopped, the Templar could not defend himself with his weapon. The creatures bit down on his limbs and began chewing. The crunch of metal, bone, and flesh could be heard above the roaring flames of the burning village.
Abruptly the creatures stopped all motion. They screeched, clawing at their oversized heads.
*Pop* *Crack* *Splat*
One by one, the creatures heads began to erupt into a gory mess of teeth, brain matter, and the black ichor that is their blood.
The Templar had fallen to his knees, grasping his sword to remain kneeling. His Samurai was shredded around his arms and legs. Flesh hung off exposed bone, and he bled profusely.
You could not see it, but you could tell behind the mask they called a Somen that the Templar was smiling. He lived by his doctrine to the letter.
“Heh… a good… death…” Were his last words as his body slumped with his last breath, still holding to the blade that the Templars believed housed their very souls.
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“By Turian’s rage… The village has been decimated!” A regiment of thirty Templars approached the burnt village. Corpses littered the the village streets. A majority of the corpses were strange creatures. A large portion clearly died by the blade of a Templar, while many still had ruptured heads. The corpses of the villagers were partly consumed or incinerated. In the center of the village knelt a Templar, surrounded by the corpses of the creatures.
“There! See if the honorable Templar yet lives!” The frontmost Templar pointed, and several ran towards the kneeling Templar. The first to reach the kneeling Templar could tell upon closer inspection, this Templar had died fighting to the end. He shook his head to affirm the honorable one was dead.
“A child! He yet lives!” Another of the Templars who had gone to examine the fallen called out. The Templar picked up the child as the rest of the Templars searched for survivors. The Templars found no one else, and they carried back the sole survivor to their church.
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I felt weak. My eyes fluttered open with difficulty. I felt a burning sensation in many places over my body. I observed my surroundings. I was no longer in my burning village surrounded by demons. I was no longer in that place of terror. I was laying on a somewhat uncomfortably thin futon in a small room with white plastered walls. There was a small window that did not open letting the sun shine through. The room had no other furnishings or decoration other than a small wardrobe.
I attempted to prop myself up to a sitting position, but failed. I attempted once more and failed yet again. I groaned in frustration. Tears would have come to my eyes once more, but instead all that came was a headache. I had already cried all the tears I could. When I saw my family butchered by the creatures, ripping out their entrails, gleefully chewing…
I abruptly turned to my side, and heaved. There was no food in my stomach it seemed, so nothing came forth. Just as I returned to laying on my back, a wooden door positioned opposite the window opened. An elderly man wearing the red robes of a Turian priest entered with a roll of cloth and a bowl of water.
“Ah, you are awake lad.” He spoke upon seeing me.
“Where am I?” Was the first question that came to mind, although I had an idea of where based on my sudden visitor.
“In a church dedicated to our Lord Turian. The church itself resides in the town of Yunir. The Templars found you at Belka.”
“What about the others?” I asked, although I feared I knew the answer to this question as well.
“They only found you, my boy.” The priest said with a sad look upon his face. “Come, let’s redress your wounds. Can you sit up?” The priest knelt next to me. I struggled to rise to a sitting position once more, but I began to lose strength quickly yet again. Just as my arms were about to give out, the priest placed his hand behind my back and helped me sit up fully.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The priest began to unravel bandages I had yet to notice were wrapped around nearly every place of my body. I saw wounds that brought back memories of the narrow escapes I had with my burning and crumbling home, the dark creatures that toyed with me, and the hard earth that had greeted me frequently. The deeper wounds were still very agitated and crimson red, while some bruises were already healing up and some scratches had scabbed over.
“You’re healing well boy. Try not to itch if you can help it.” The priest said as he cut a piece of the new cloth and used it to clean the larger wounds by using the bowl of water. “Tell me your name, boy.”
“Zalton… Zalton Geoffrey.” I replied absentmindedly, watching as he carefully began wrapping the new cloth around my wounds.
“Zalton… You may call me Father Gin. Stay here and rest up. I’ll bring you a meal soon.” Father Gin instructed as he finished bandaging me. He gently aided me in laying back down, and proceeded to exit the room with the old bandages and the bowl of water. I quickly drifted off back into sleep before he could return with the promised meal.
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It had been two weeks. My wounds had fully healed, though some areas still felt tender. I had many new scars in various places, most noticeably a diagonal scar across my nose. It felt like a target, a spot that invited others to strike there. My strength had returned in the first week. Father Gin had told me that once I healed up I would begin training as a Templar. I was entirely against this decision. I did not want to be anywhere that those demons may appear, much less a battlefield. I held my opinion in reservation however, as the church had helped me. The least I could do was honor the man who saved my life by following in his footsteps.
Almost as if on cue to my thoughts, the door to my small room opened revealing the elderly Gin. His soft, short, tousled gray hair gleamed in the morning sun shining through my window. As always, he was clean shaven. Different from usual, however, was that instead of the robe he usually wore, this time he wore the armor of Turian, Samurai. He wore nearly the full set of Samurai except for his helmet known as a Kabuto and his mask known as a Somen. That he was dressed like this could mean only one thing.
“We begin today, Zalton.” He motioned for me to follow, and I did so. I had not been out of room until now. The entirety of the church was plastered in white. There were shrines at occasional intervals. Along the walls were paintings of Templar fully suited in Samurai, bravely combating some beast or another. The church was completely empty of anyone but Gin and myself. As we exited the church I discovered why.
We exited what appeared to be the back of the church, and there was a very large fenced off field of grass. In this field were many Templars. They were either sparring with each other using wooden Bokken shaped like katana or training groups of students at a time. The students dutifully followed their mentors orders and repeated practice swings. Some groups of students seemed to be sparring with each other as well.
The Templars were fully geared in their Samurai, with the exception of some who went without their Kabuto and Somen like Gin. The students wore a black Hakama over a red Kimono, such as myself. It was so far the only clothing I have been gifted since waking here. Gin led me to a group of students who were sparring against each other. Their instructor was watching the students with a discerning eye hidden behind his Somen.
“Templar Kueren, I have another for you. His name is Zalton.” Gin said as he pushed me towards the Templar.
“Thank you Father Gin. I’ll take over from here.” He replied without taking his eyes off the sparring students. Gin nodded and promptly strode toward an area where Templars were sparring, leaving me with Kueren. “Go and get a Bokken.” Kueren said curtly, having yet to take his focus from the students.
I glanced around, spotting a weapons rack filled to the brim with Bokken nearby. I hefted the nearest one, returning to Kueren.
“You will regret selecting that one.” Kueren stated. He had not moved an inch, how could he even tell which one I chose? Besides, I don’t see anything wrong with it. I chose to ignore his statement. Soon after the exchange, one of the students fights had ended. Just as quickly, Kueren spoke, “Lira, you are to face Zalton next.” Kueren pushed me toward the student who had just been victorious.
Lira was a girl, probably two or three years older than myself. She had short brown hair and hazel eyes. She was already in a stance and waiting for me. I mimicked her stance at about ten feet away from her, feet wide and bokken held forward, the tip of the wooden sword coming to chest height.
“Begin.” Kueren called out. He didn’t speak loudly, but his voice carried easily over the surrounding din. The very moment he spoke, Lira had closed the distance between us, coming in for a diagonal slash over her right shoulder. I desperately attempted the block the blow. My hands were immediately numb from having narrowly blocked the strike.
*Crack*
My bokken now had a crack along its entire length. Lira did not slow down her assault in the slightest after my block. She readied an overhead strike. This strike was slower than the last, so I was able to position my bokken to block it in time. Her strike tore through my bokken, shattering it into various splinters. Her strike got through my defense and struck me directly across the nose, as if she had aimed for my scar. My vision was immediately overwhelmed with darkness.