Wan's feet sank into the soft, damp earth as he moved deeper into the forest. The once-lush greenery now seemed like a prison, thick and suffocating, the trees crowding in around him like silent witnesses to the destruction of his home. The air smelled of moss and wet leaves, but it carried with it the bitter sting of loss.

Thirty-five villagers were all that remained of the Tenebrian village. Wan had counted them himself. Children, the elderly, the sick—the weakest were all left to him to protect. He had been forced to assume the role of leader without ever truly asking for it, but here he was, with their eyes upon him, their survival resting in his hands.

As night fell and the moon rose above the canopy, Wan paced back and forth, thinking about what to do next. The first few days after the attack had been filled with frantic survival—finding food, making shelters, keeping the villagers safe. But now, with a modicum of safety established, it was time to take the next step. They needed to regroup, find allies, and, most importantly, seek revenge on the Hunters.

Still, there was an unsettled feeling gnawing at the back of Wan's mind. It was the power he had unleashed, the power that had saved them in the moment of despair. He had no idea where it had come from or why it had surged through him when he needed it most. The vision of that flashing light, blinding the Hunters, had been just the beginning. Something was happening to him, and he wasn't sure whether it was a blessing or a curse.

The next morning, after making sure the villagers were secure, Wan set out alone on a patrol. He needed to clear his head, check the perimeter, and maybe, just maybe, find something that could point them toward the next step in their journey.

He moved through the trees, his boots lightly tapping against the undergrowth, his senses on high alert. His mind was still on the strange energy he had felt, the sensation of power that coursed through him during the battle. As he walked deeper into the forest, his eyes scanned every shadow, every movement in the distance.

That's when he saw it.

At first, it looked like just another rock, half-buried beneath a thick blanket of moss and roots. But as he moved closer, something about it seemed… off. A faint glimmer, almost like it was calling to him, drew his attention. Wan kneeled beside the stone, brushing away the dirt and leaves that obscured it.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

It was not a stone.

It was a blade.

The hilt, smooth and worn, seemed to pulse faintly under his touch. It was no ordinary weapon. The blade itself shimmered in the dim light, as though the metal was alive. The edge was perfectly sharp, despite the blade being buried for who knew how long. There were markings—runes, symbols—that spiraled along its length, strange and foreign. Wan didn't recognize them, but there was an undeniable familiarity to the patterns, as if they were part of something deep inside him.

And then, as his fingers brushed against the blade's surface, a strange sensation washed over him. His vision blurred, and he was no longer kneeling in the forest, but standing in a vast, open landscape, surrounded by towering mountains.

He saw a people—tall, proud, and regal—standing before an imposing figure. Their faces were a mixture of awe and reverence, their eyes fixed on the one before them. He was a warrior, an ancient protector, clad in armor that gleamed like the stars themselves. In his hand, he held the very blade that Wan now touched, his grip firm and unyielding.

The vision shifted—flickering, warping—showing Wan brief glimpses of battle. A fierce conflict between great armies, blood spilled on the land, and in the midst of it all, the protector, wielding the blade, cutting through enemies with divine precision and ease. But the vision also showed a great sorrow—this protector, standing alone, the last of his kind, staring down at the empty battlefield after the war had ended.

The vision faded, leaving Wan breathless, his hands shaking as he stared at the blade in his grasp. His mind raced. What was that? Who were those people? And why could he understand their language, despite never having seen it before?

He turned the blade over in his hands, his eyes now fixed on the text etched into the hilt, the only words that seemed to make sense in the chaos of his mind: BLADE OF THE ANCIENT PROTECTOR

Wan's heart pounded as he slowly stood up, the weight of the blade pressing against his palm. He could still feel the echo of that vision in his mind, the weight of the protector's sorrow, the reverence of the people who had once followed him. There was a connection here—a deep, undeniable link that stretched across time.

His gaze hardened.

There was something more to this blade, something more to him, than he could possibly understand. This wasn't just a relic of an ancient race—it was a part of his fate.

"I need to learn more," Wan whispered to himself, looking down at the blade once again. "I need to understand who I really am."

The feeling of the blade in his hand, the visions, the power—it was all leading him somewhere, pulling him toward something far greater than survival, greater than revenge.