The wind over the northern plains bit with a cold that didn't come from winter, but from the silence of abandonment.
Aldrich Yagurah stepped across the cracked stone path leading into Varkonn Territory, expecting noise—shouts, clangs of training, guards barking orders, the smell of smoke from forges. Instead… nothing. Only the gentle tapping of a loose gate creaking back and forth.
The city was abandoned.
Shattered pottery lay in the street. Doors swung open as if families fled mid-meal. Dust settled on tables still set with half-eaten bowls.
Aldrich didn't speak. He simply walked forward, katana in hand, steps echoing across empty homes.
He found the Varkonn clan hall with its banners torn down. It was empty too—every room, every corridor, every training yard. But on the patriarch's dais, a single parchment lay neatly placed, weighted with a stone.
Aldrich picked it up.
"If you want what is left of us… come to Dasair."
"We wait where warriors die."
Dasair.
The barbarian territory.
Far north—past the black pines, past the snow ridge, and into land where strength was the only law.
Aldrich crushed the note in his fist.
He stepped out of the hall and began walking toward Dasair, his jaw set, breath steady. Hollowdene had taught him to hunt. Saelari had taught him to kill. And now Varkonn… Varkonn would teach him how to erase a clan from existence.
But halfway there—crossing the narrow pass between the two territories—his footsteps slowed.
The faint crunch of a pebble.
The shift of weight on gravel.
And then that feeling—
eyes on him.
Aldrich didn't turn immediately.
He let his head lower slightly… then looked forward.
And the world shifted.
From behind the treeline, from behind rocks, hills, the path ahead—
Two hundred riders.
Horses snorting steam into the cold air.
Swords glinting.
Armored riders marked with the black and red sigil of the Varkonn.
Aldrich didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
But his heartbeat slowed.
Not out of fear.
Out of anticipation.
Among them, the front rider slowly pushed his horse through the formation. A huge man—seven feet tall, broad shoulders like a mountain, beard black as soot, blade resting across his saddle. His eyes locked onto Aldrich with pure hatred.
The Varkonn Patriarch.
Aldrich slowly slid his katana free.
The metal sang in the wind like a beast waking from hunger.
He held it angled downward, tip grazing the dirt.
Then he spoke—quietly, but the plains carried every word like thunder.
"Today…"
His eyes lifted, burning like two dying stars.
"…is the day the Varkonn family dies."
The riders shifted uneasily.
Aldrich stepped forward one pace.
Then another.
His voice dropped into a cold whisper, one born not from anger—
but from fury held too long.
"Come."
He raised his blade and pointed it straight at the incoming army.
"Ride toward your death."
The wind stopped.
The world held its breath.
And then—
The Varkonn patriarch roared, raising his greatsword high.
"KILL HIM!"
Two hundred horses thundered forward at once, shaking the very earth.
And Aldrich Yagurah…
did not move.
He simply lowered his stance, exhaled once, and let the storm of fury inside him ignite.
And the chapter ends with the image burned in bloodred dusk:
The Varkonn patriarch leading two hundred warriors, charging at a lone man with a katana…
and Aldrich stepping forward to meet them.