Gerbert sank into deep contemplations. He walked to the corner of the room and threw his hand over to a dark wooden cabinet. His rugged fingers searched for a moment before pulling open the creaking door to reveal a neatly arranged collection of bottles. He picked one from the very bottom.
“Time flies. Don’t you think?”
He uncorked the wine and poured a deep red liquid into a glass. As he settled into his cushion back at his seat, his gaze fell on the emptiness across the table. He took a sip, the wine bittersweet on his tongue, not enough to fill the void left by changing times and the absence of loved ones.
Just like Kaniel, he was once young and ongoing. Yet the harshness of the world had stained him.
Gerbert had been designated to the branch in the north and had decided to spend the rest of his days in safety. He didn’t steal. Neither did he do charity. The empire always paid him well, so he’d led a lavish lifestyle up till now. Who knows, in a few years, he might even get promoted to a bigger branch.
Yet the resources they sent to the Nashdome itself were decreasing by each year. Gerbert suspected it might be due to the approaching death of the emperor Vincent IX. The nobles were preparing for a war for the crown between the princes. The significant number of adventurers and traveling merchants coming to the area was cut.
Most people in Nashdome had also moved to the warmer areas. Year by year, the population kept decreasing. There were not even a thousand now.
The room was quite quiet, deserted, the candlelight casting long shadows across the scarred wooden walls and tables. The scent of stale ale, burnt wood, and weapons persisted. His hands, rough from years of handling the said weapons and weathering the northern cold, trembled as he set the goblet back on the table, staring into its dark red depths, searching for answers.
The way that kid had looked at him. The old Gerbert would have stormed out of the hall, dagger in hand, ready to carve out his pride in blood. But the fire was gone.
He smiled self-deprecatingly.
“I'm just running, aren't I?”
Gerbert remembered his last voyage into the wasteland. Vividly.
The comrades dying in pain. The spear hanging just a tad bit right to his heart. The reality dawning down on him. His elder brother Geralt getting torn apart by the tribe of bugbears. The shock. The fear. The rage.
He was too young, too prideful.
When he realized, it was late.
Too late.
Gerbert lowered his head, smiling weakly.
***
“Then he lowered his head! He— Pfft. He was scared shitless!”
“Bhhahahahahaa!” The room of elderly, muscular, hard-boiled smiths, all grizzled from years of hammering iron, broke into laughter all across the table.
One, a burly fellow with a silver-streaked beard, Tahir, wiped a tear from his eye, shaking. He clapped with all his might, like a marching band performer. “What then? What happened next?”
Stanley gripped an empty tankard like a battle-worn weapon and slammed it onto the rough-hewn table. The firelight grazed off his bronzed skin as a grin cracked his face. “The lord said,” he tried to mimic Kaniel’s voice, “For ya, it’s lord—”, but broke into a fit of laugher amid his sentence. “For you—it’s lord. Lord Nashdome!”
“Bhahahwahah!”
“AHabahahHAabha!”
As the story went on, the younger smiths gathered around the table, their brows raised, expressions caught between awe and skepticism. They leaned in closer.
A skinny young apprentice couldn’t contain himself and piped up, “But didn’t Lord Nashdome—”
Stanley catapulted an empty tankard at the lad, who barely ducked it, the tankard clanging against the wall.
“Go back to work you morons!”
The youngsters scampered off. The elderly smiths leaned in again, the fire crackling in the forge behind them, casting shadows across their weathered faces.
“What do you think, Stan?” Tahir muttered, scratching his chin. “What kind of person is the new Lord?”
“Lord Nashdome? Well…” Stanley chuckled.
“It’s either a disaster or a catastrophe.”
***
“The Lord is a good person.”
The orphanage was a worn-down building on the outskirts of the town, its walls chipped, though diligently maintained, and smelled of old wood and fresh herbs from the nearby forest. Moonlight struggled through the clouded windows, casting dappled beams across the simple furnishings inside. Wooden benches, straw-stuffed mattresses, well-worn blankets that had seen many winters.
“With the lord’s help, Nashdome will prosper.”
Vera stood in the center of the room, her light gray robes flowing around her, dusted with patches of wear. A small crowd of scrawny children scurried around her, thin and wiry, their cheeks hollow, limbs delicate, some barefoot, others in patched-up shoes, their clothes oftentimes a size too big or too small, repaired with mismatched fabrics.
They glanced up at Vera with curiosity. She held a soft smile, her hands resting on the heads of a few children nearby. A girl with hair like spun hay and eyes wide as a fawn’s clutched the edge of her robe. A younger boy who missed two front teeth tugged her hand insistently.
“Who cares about him?!” a young voice piped up. “Tell us a story!”
Vera glanced at Pana and gently patted his head. She nodded as she knelt to meet his eyes, her bald head shining. “I’m sure the Lord didn’t mean it. I will tell him to apologize before you.”
“I don’t care!” he screamed. “The story!”
Another girl voiced. “Yeah! Aunty Vera, you’ve promised to tell us the hero’s story for today!”
Vera sighed tiredly, yet the smile didn’t waver from her face. “Fine. I’ll retell you the short version again.”
Children gathered close as she began to speak, her voice quiet.
***
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago…
People lived in prosperity…
Stars blessed every corner with warmth and eyed over tranquil nights.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Children played freely in the meadows as their parents happily watched over them.
Fields burgeoned with golden grains as laughter traversed the morning dew with the sweetest songs.
But this age of serenity and peace did not last long.
From the darkest depths of the forgotten abyss,
From the deepest shadows of the netherworld,
From the hearts of hell,
The Demon arose.
Unlike any imperceptibly strong and cunning.
His sole goal to destroy the world.
The overlord of all the demons.
The Unfallen One.
The Unbridled One.
The One Who Beckoned Destruction.
The Demon King.
Darker than the starless nights—
The King brought forth an era of terror that blackened the heart of the land and dyed its surface with unceasing rivers of blood.
The armies swept through the villages to demolish innumerable heritages and cultures.
They left behind a trail of sundered destruction.
Homes burned to cinders.
Fields trampled and left barren.
The world infringed with the cries and the perished sights of the innocent.
What seemed was all was lost…
When hope was at its lowest, on the verge of being begone,
People on their knees, all giving up without trying to resist,
The Hero sparked their vain hearts.
The flames he was brimming with lighted all the other torches.
Together, they all stood against The Demon King once again.
They were no match.
The Hero lost…
The Demon King destroyed all who dared to relent.
People were given two choices—
Submit.
Succumb.
The Hero refused to give up his light.
After venturing through insurmountable challenges and fighting the King’s lackeys, he stood against The Demon King once again.
The fight lasted long, seemingly unceasing.
The Demon King rampaged, ravaging an overwhelming number of people.
No one stood a chance, and none could withstand the ferocity and evil.
All but The Hero.
He alone stood, alone, he withstood.
His ever-burning light was inextinguishable.
As he lifted his sword, which carried the fire and the lives of his fallen comrades,
He pierced The Demon King.
The Demon King perished, and with him, all the evil was gone.
All he left were empty promises of his return.
The Hero, weakened by The Demon King, forever closed his eyes and lost his glister, lying on the mound of the corpses of his countless comrades.
The Hero too perished.
The Goddess of Life exclaimed,
“Oh, hero. Oh, hero. You have saved the people of this world. But how regretful, now that you are dead.”
The Hero, though, was not sad in the least.
He bowed to thank the Goddess for all the powers she had bestowed upon him.
“It is of no significance. My companions and I will always live in people’s minds.”
“Our heroic tales will be retold from one to the other forevermore.”
“The memories will live forever and never perish!”
“After all—”
***
And he continued thrusting his wooden spear, on and on, over and over, again and again. His steps were soundless, the footwork hardly noticeable. The calloused grip around the weapon was so tight that if one wanted to remove the spear from his grasp, they would have to pull apart his entire arm.
Leonard sweated buckets, the droplets dripping down his hair onto his chest, where barely any spots were left scarless, and then onto the straps of his brown pants.
His veins bulged through his refined muscles with every hitch, his posture as straight as the spear he held. He was moving at what first seemed like a random sequence, here and there, performing various maneuvers.
He was expressionless, emotionless. Yet if one looked deeper into his eyes, there were layers upon layers. It wasn’t as if the man moved without intent; no, every motion had an intention, direction, and clear and certain precision to it.
Leonard continued lunging and striking and spinning and sweeping relentlessly.
Finally, after what like forever, he paused, his chest rising and falling in steady but deep breaths. He let the wooden spear drop to the forest floor as it landed softly in the bed of fallen leaves. The scent of resin and frost hung around him. Tall trees rose, their trunks thick, branches weighed down by patches of snow. The wind bit him.
Next, he reached for the blade lying beside him. A long, single-edged sword. As he took hold of the weapon, his grip shifted, more measured than with the spear. He held it in both hands, adjusting to the weight and balance, then moved into the first series of movements.
“Leo! You didn’t forget to take a lifestone, did you? For how long have you been training?!”
A girl’s voice rang out from a perch high up in the branches of an old ash tree.
“Are you that salty about what happened this morning?” she teased, her shouts light and mocking. “Some interesting rumors are going on. Wanna hear?”
Leonard kept his stance, not turning to look up.
“You should’ve rested for a few days after eating that kick,” she continued, leaning down from her spot on the branch to peer at him. “Vera sure does wonders.”
“Why are you here, Linda?” he asked, his voice low.
“Why, don’t you enjoy the company? You look like you need a friend or two.” She swung her legs playfully from the branch. “I’m out of books to read. I’ve been reading the same stuff over, and over, and over again.” She grinned, watching his knuckles turn white as he gripped the sword.
He finally looked up, annoyed, to be met by her dark gray eyes staring at him with a look that was both irritatingly innocent and knowingly provocative. Her short, wild, black hair framed her face as if the tree itself had decided to crown her its impish queen.
“Cut the bullshit n’ get straight to the point.” He shot her a glare.
Linda leaned back against the tree trunk, her grin softening.
“Well?” Leonard prompted her to speak.
“Can you teach me combat?”
Leonard snickered, about to get back to his practice. Then he halted, looking back at her. “Wait, you aren’t joking?”
Linda jumped off the tree. She brushed off the dirt from her jump and took a steadying breath. Conviction in her eyes, she said, “Teach me. Please.”
Leonard raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. “What has gotten into you? Physical combat? As a woman? Are you out of your mind?”
Just as among men there were no elementalists, women could never surpass men in physical combat. Both could still become great mages and crafters. Humans were the most versatile in that aspect.
Elves were mostly elementalists.
Goblins were mainly warriors.
Dwarves were predominantly crafters.
Finally, dragons had an exceptional knack for magic.
Yet humans could choose any of the four paths. This was both a blessing and a curse, as they didn’t specialize in any of the four. Jack of all trades, master of none.
For centuries, humans were looked at as disposable slaves by the other four races. The chains were broken by the first emperor, Constantine The Great.
“I’m dead serious. Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Leonard sighed, shaking his head. “That’s not how the world works.”
Linda tsked. “Twenty lifestones—”
“Forty.”
“Thirty-two—”
“Fifty.”
The two glared at each other.
“Forty is the best I can do,” she said.
“Sixty.”
…
***
Kaniel looked at the mountain of documents. Perhaps the relaxing bath he had taken was the last moment of peace he’d have in the following days.
“Just as you asked, my Lord,” Gora noted, standing to his left. “The records for the past ten years.”