PREVIOUSLY-
The man's body dropped to the ground, blood streaming from his eyes, nose and ears.
Finally, the gates opened to a praying room, the pews neatly stacked beside the walls as more templars crowded the area.
The man entered the room, white hair catching a glimpse of sunlight before the door closed beside him. The man's azure eyes glanced over the huddled templars.
"Oh, how unfortunate of you," Henry Duskrane casually stretched his back,
"To be stuck with me."
From the crowd of templars one shouted, "Attack! He is unarmed."
Bodies lunged at Henry as the count only cracked his knuckles.
BOOM!
---X---
Templars… flew. Like pyramid of cards blown by a strong gust of air. The sound of impact echoed inside the closed chamber, instilling fear in the hearts of the templars.
Location - Outskirts of Mosswood, Morlain Barony, Fafnir Empire-
Vincent's steps stopped before an old cottage. The simple establishment rested where the clear fields of the village met the forest canopy. A small garden with growing vegetables lay on the porch's right as a small smithy sat to the left.
"We have arrived," the man beside Vincent parted his lips. He had a rough silver beard, the length of a fist as his eyes, shifting between veins of gold and silver moved to Vincent.
"Archmage Nerthos," Vincent stepped towards the cottage, "I will repay the favor soon."
Nerthos ran a hand through his beard, a faint curve on his lips,
"No need to, young man. After all," he winked, "It's a request from our Merlin."
Vincent shrugged, "If that is how you want it," he turned, but the old man had vanished as if he was never present in the first place.
CREAK!
The cottage door opened to the muscular frame of a man who seemed to be in his late fifties,
"Thomas' grandson," he gestured to Vincent, "Come inside."
The boy obeyed, calmly stepping into the room. His gaze swept the room, rows of weapons, hunting material and flowers decorated the living room.
"Sit," The man's voice commanded quiet authority, like an old predator amused by a fledgling.
Vincent obeyed, sitting on the modest sofa before him.
"Rybak!" The man shouted as a young boy, a few years older than Vincent, entered the room.
"Make some tea for the guest."
The young boy nodded once before turning towards the kitchen.
"My grandson," The man leaned against his chair, his amber eyes blinking slowly through strands of white hair loosely tied in a bun.
"State your business."
Vincent straightened his posture, respectfully bowing before looking the man straight in the eye.
"Sir Harkon," his gaze traced the man's forearm, countless scars hugging his skin, "Please teach me."
Harkon crossed his arms, "What do you wish to learn?"
Vincent tilted his head, "Everything."
The old warrior's shoulders twitched once before exploding in full-blown laughter,
"Hahaha! Like father, like son!"
A tray appeared between them, the scent of tea leaves curling from the ceramic cups,
"Grandfather." Rybak turned to Harkon, stretching out a cup, then to Vincent, "Young Count."
Vincent accepted the gesture, "Thank you."
"Your father was like that too," Harkon chuckled, running a hand through his hair, revealing his forehead where a single burn scar shone in sunlight.
"He wanted to learn a weapon he could find tough to wield, but alas," his gaze shifted to the spears, halberds and other weapons resting on the rack, "Every weapon was easy."
Vincent rubbed his chin, "Is that why I never saw him wielding a weapon?"
"It ends quickly," Harkon took a sip, "That's what Henry would say whenever he sparred."
"He lived on the thrill of combat, the swings aiming for your neck, the stabs reaching for your eyes, the pain, everything about combat people fantasized about."
"He could not feel it in weapons, so he uses fists more."
Vincent leaned forward, eyes sparkling in curiosity,
"So, is he weaker with fists."
"No." The answer fell like a hammer on anvil, "It just lets him fights in a more dangerous range, the results remain the same though."
"Yet," Vincent dropped back to his seat, "You were able to beat sense into such a monster."
Harkon said nothing, for a moment, "That does makes me sound a little strong."
"Rybak," He turned to the lean boy standing besides, the boy mirrored his grandfather's eyes, his short black hair frizzy and messy.
But what made him attractive was how his skin shone like sunkissed bronze against the three spots running along the right side of his nose bridge, flat and no bigger than a pencil tip.
He possessed Harkon's deep-set, intensely curious eyes, but his cheeks were round and full, softening the stern inheritance.
"Spar with him."
BACK AT THE CHURCH-
"Support!" A templar shrieked, turning to the group of white-robed mages casting enhancement spells at the templars.
Men and women alike flew towards the rear. Ahead, Henry gripped a templar's cape, hurling his body towards the balcony. The man's body flew like a ragdoll, colliding with the stone railings.
"STOP!" A deep voice boomed, heads turned to a group of three templars. These templars were special, they did not wear the same armour as others.
At the centre stood a middle-aged knight, a claymore strapped to his hilt. He was flanked by another man with golden hair and blue eyes, red robes clung to his slim frame, to the knight's other side was a quiet woman.
She had long green hair with black eyes that drifted to the fallen templars, then to Henry. A majestic cloak of gold and white wrapped itself around her, the delicate embroidery on it faintly pulsing with mana.
An artifact. No, this was not the usual enchanted weapon many blacksmiths make. An artifact is an item or an article which has consciousness.
They can't be manufactured. They just…exist. Many theories suggested that artifacts are objects with the soul of a faerie trapped inside.
Many thaumaturges hence condemn the use of artifacts and suggest breaking the bond between the soul and the item to free the fae trapped inside.
"Luminary Cinthia!" A templar bowed to the woman before turning to the other two,
"Luminary Blaze, Commander Kaelan."
"Count Henry Duskrane just waltzed through our defences. He states that the purpose of his visit is to kidnap Cardinal Anselm."
Kaelan looked at the templar, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword,
"I must say, the count's arrogance knows no bounds."
However, before the knight could take another step, a hand stopped him. Cinthia.
"What is the meaning of this, Luminary Cinthia?"
"Calm down, Sir Kaelan." Her eyes went to Henry crushing a templar's breastplate before kicking another in the groin, "The artifact is reacting to that man. It is constantly telling me to stay away from that man."
The other mage, Blaze stepped forward,
"We can't help if your artifact is a coward, we have Lord Aerithar with us. This is our ground."
A massive sphere of flames materialized in the air as Blaze stretched his hand towards Henry,
"Steel yourself, heretic!"
Henry however, only smirked. He raised a single palm to the ceiling. A thin layer of colourless aura enveloped his hand as it fell in a vertical arc.
BOOM!
Even from a distance, Henry's simple action cut the ball of flames in two, the sphere exploded shooting stones and glass in all directions.
"How?!" Blaze exclaimed, but Henry's fist had already kissed his nose.
CRACK!
WHAM!
Blaze's body cratered into the wall; blood dripped from his broken nose.
"Oh, come on!" Henry slapped his forehead, "I hit my son with more power than this. These templars are really weaklings."
Templars of the Ashen Church were not weak in any aspect. Each templar was as fierce as a wolf, they hunted corruption and injustice, even against a stronger opponent, a pack of wolves eventually wins.
But Lady Luck was not so gracious today. If Henry was an ordinary swordmaster, the pack of wolves would have hunted the panther. But this was Henry Duskrane, the templars were reduced from a pack of wolves to a swarm of krill trapped in the maw of a whale.
"Luminary Cinthia," Kaelan raised his sword, "Whatever your artifact tells you, pay no heed to it. If we are destined to be defeated, we rather fall valiantly."
Cinthia only nodded before stretching her arm towards Henry.
CRACK!
A stone wall shot up from the floor, then it broke. The fallen boulders transformed into humanoid sculptures.
"Sir Kaelan!" she shouted, Kaelan's sword already in a diagonal sweep.
"Boring." Henry muttered as his fist struck the sword's blade like a hammer, the steel splintering into a dozen pieces.
"Sir Kaelan!" Hundreds of templars surrounded Henry, their swords, maces, spears, all aiming for the count.
Kaelan could only look in shock at his broken blade, then at the massacre before.
A sword pierced the air, flying towards Henry's face, but the latter dodged with a snap of his neck, leaning forward as his fist stabbed the templar in the face.
SWISH!
Another spear shot through the crowd, Henry caught it just before it could scar his face, then threw the same spear.
SHLK!
Except, the spear skewered through multiple men before finally stopping.
WHAM!
"It's too boring," Henry sighed, gripping one templar's neck, twisting it, then exploding a backward kick towards another man. His combat continued.
Stabbing one in the chest with his mere palm, then driving his elbow inside another's breastplate before whipping a kick between the two raging templars, striking both in one whipping motion. Then, he kneed another in the gut, turning to headbutt the templar beside.
"I AM BORED!" Henry screamed at the top of his lungs, the outburst brought Kaelan back to reality. He shifted to Cinthia; however, she stood frozen in fear, then at Blaze, who was now weakly standing up.
Lastly his gaze went to the pristine floor, the blood forming a shallow pool beneath his feet. Now even the templars hesitated. The adrenaline wore off as the fallen bodies pulled the men back into reality. The support mages from earlier had already passed out from the view.
The crowd parted as Henry calmly stepped towards the staircase, passing the three elites nonchalantly.
"Strongest church, my foot."
None moved as he made his way to the next floor, stopping in front of a massive oaken door, more ignorant templars waiting at the other side of the closed doors.
WHAM!
Location- Liodar Castle, Leonhart Duchy
The doors opened as Leon calmly stepped inside the mysterious room, Viole following him like shadow.
"Young Master," A young knight bowed, brown hair falling over a pair of cerulean eyes, "This is the military warehouse of our Liodar castle."
Leon's eyes scanned the room, countless swords of all sizes and shapes lay neatly stacked in the room. Armour pieces lay neatly organized as a shelf on the opposite wall held many folded scrolls.
"If you would give us a moment," The man from before leaned closer, "we would like to procure a custom-sword according to the Young Master's wishes."
Leon turned to the knight, "No need, I will take one from here."
The man only bowed, "As you wish, Young Master."
"What is your name?"
"Lancelot, my lord."
Leon walked to the rack, gripping a short sword,
"Then, please show me the way to the training grounds, Sir Lancelot."
A faint smile appeared on Lancelot's face, disappearing as he gestured to the hallway,
"Please allow me to escort you, Young Master."
At the training grounds-
Each soldier wore a brown tracksuit with a single white stripe as golden embroidery faintly shimmered with the Leonhart crest. Instructors in white tracksuits with brown stripes monitored each area.
Organized battalions sprinted, their boots churning dust and frost on the dirt track. Nearby, the camp was a study in contrasts: bundled knights heaved shovels against the snow, while others sat unmoving, meditating in the biting cold.
The sharp, metallic echo of steel on steel dominated one section, where mixed pairs of knights exchanged rapid blows in sparring matches. Yet, the commotion Leon was truly drawn to lay at the far edge: a quiet, miniature squad of children being drilled into formation in the corner of the vast training grounds.
One of the instructors, with a single brown stripe around her right arm, the one running with the knights, halted.
"Sir Lancelot," she turned to Leon, kneeling swiftly, "I greet the Young Duke."
"Dame," Leon tapped her shoulder, "What is your name? And what do you call the soldiers here?"
The knight slowly rose, "I am Freya Boudica. Lieutenant of platoon seven," she glanced at the exercising soldiers, "When training, each knight of the house, regardless of the rank is addressed as 'trainee'."
Leon's lips curled upwards, "Then please address me as a 'trainee' when in training. And treat me like one too."
"But—" Freya intervened,
"No buts, it's an order."
The knight paused for a few seconds, then bowed lightly,
"When do we start, Young Master?"
"Once I change clothes."
Freya only shook her head once, before returning to her position.
"Forgive me for the intrusion, Young Master," Lancelot leaned towards Leon, "The other instructors have not greeted you yet because the training is still in motion. This rule was set by His Grace to motivate us to train harder."
Leon turned, heading towards the exit, "That's a good rule. Now," he looked back at Lancelot,
"Where do I get my training clothes?"