The wind in the dead Varkonn city was hollow, empty, and cold as iron. Ash drifted across the broken tiles like the ghosts of people who should have been here. Mothers. Warriors. Children. Merchants. Streets that once echoed with shouting and steel now carried nothing but silence.
Aldrich stood in the center of the abandoned courtyard, his black coat swaying in the breeze, katana at his hip, dark eyes narrowing as he took in the absence, the stillness that felt wrong in every direction.
Not destroyed.
Not raided.
Not evacuated because of some beast.
No—this was purposeful. This was a clearing.
Something in the air felt… staged.
He walked deeper into the empty clan chambers, boots echoing softly. The long hall where the Varkonn council usually gathered was vacant except for a single object on the main table:
A letter.
Folded cleanly. No dust on it. As if someone had placed it here seconds ago.
Aldrich slowly reached for it, eyes remaining sharp, muscles coiled for danger. He unfolded the parchment.
The handwriting was bold, crude.
"If you want justice for your parents, come to Dasair.
—Varkonn Patriarch"
Aldrich felt nothing at first.
Then he felt everything.
Fury.
Memory.
Smoke.
His mother's scream.
His father's body collapsing at the forge.
The laughter of the two assassins he killed days ago.
The smell of burning wood as his childhood home fell.
His jaw tightened, eyes darkening.
"Dasair… barbarian territory," he murmured, voice low and cold. "So you want me to walk into your den."
Good.
Let them gather.
Let them prepare.
Let them think a boy with a sword would be intimidated.
He left the empty city in silence.
The road between Varkonn territory and Dasair was dry and long, carved between cliffs and scattered trees. Noon sun pressed down, turning the dirt path into a pale ribbon that snaked toward distant barbarian lands.
Aldrich walked without stopping.
Nine years of Hollowdene discipline had carved his body into a weapon—lean, powerful, composed. His trench coat flapped lightly at each step. The black bandanna around his head kept his hair out of his sharp, cold eyes.
Every breath he took was measured. Every footstep deliberate.
But halfway down the path—
He paused.
A cold, sharp instinct pressed against his spine.
Someone is watching.
Aldrich didn't turn. Didn't draw his blade. Didn't tense. He simply let the wind pass through him like a whisper.
Then—
The ground trembled.
Hooves.
Dozens.
No… hundreds.
Aldrich lifted his gaze—and the world became thundering chaos.
On the ridge ahead, lined like an army descending from the heavens, were two hundred Varkonn warriors atop armored horses. Their cloaks of deep gray flapped in the wind, tribal silver insignias gleaming across their chests.
Their blades were drawn.
Aldrich's eyes narrowed.
The leader rode at the front—a massive man with braided hair and a greatsword strapped across his back. His glare was sharp and unyielding. Rage. Pride. Arrogance.
The Varkonn Patriarch.
So they hadn't gone to Dasair at all.
They were waiting for him.
Hunting him.
Riding to finish what they started.
Aldrich stepped forward, the dirt crunching under his boots.
The Patriarch raised his chin.
"You're the last Yagurah," he thundered. "And today, your line ends for good."
Aldrich slowly reached for his katana, drawing it with one hand. The metal whispered like a calm breath, elegant and cold in the sunlight.
He held it low at his side, the tip grazing the dirt.
His voice was smooth. Clear.
A cold fusion of the calm, regal cadence Eldran had shaped into him…
…mixed with the subtle Southern-English edge he inherited from Taro…
…and that quiet American undertone that made every word hit clean and sharp.
"Today…" Aldrich said, lifting his blade slightly as a slow, dangerous smile grew on his lips,
"…is the day the Varkonn family dies."
He tilted his head.
"Come, then."
His stance loosened—
A warrior ready to kill or be killed.
"Ride toward your death."
A beat.
The wind stilled.
Then—
"RIDE!!"
The Patriarch's roar split the sky.
Two hundred horses screamed forward, steel flashing, dust exploding behind them as the Varkonn army thundered down the ridge like an avalanche of flesh and iron.
Aldrich exhaled once.
A long, steady breath.
And stepped toward them.
Time slowed—
Just enough for Aldrich to see each rider, each blade, each intention.
Horses pounding.
Steel screaming.
Warriors roaring.
He sprinted forward.
His boots kicked up dirt.
His coat snapped behind him.
His eyes locked only on the front line.
They were seconds away.
Five seconds—
A wall of steel closing in.
Four seconds—
He could see their faces now.
Three seconds—
The ground shook beneath him.
Two seconds—
A warrior raised his spear.
One—
Aldrich vanished.
He moved with Hollowdene footwork—
light, gliding, fluid.
He slipped under the spear, sliding across the dirt like a shadow, and came up beneath the warrior's horse.
One slash.
A single, precise cut through the horse's front tendons.
The beast collapsed.
The rider flew.
Aldrich was already gone—
weaving between hooves and blades like wind.
He rose behind another rider—
One slice.
A throat opened.
A warrior fell off his horse gripping at blood.
Aldrich leapt onto a moving saddle, using it as a platform, spinning into the next rider—
His blade carved cleanly through rib and lung.
He kicked the corpse off the horse and used the momentum to launch himself onto the next one.
Hollowdene style wasn't flashy.
It was deadly.
Practical.
Cruel in its simplicity.
Use their weight.
Use their momentum.
Turn their strength into weakness.
A rider swung a heavy axe.
Aldrich ducked under it, grabbed the man's arm, twisted with perfect timing—
and the momentum snapped the man's shoulder out of socket.
He slit his throat while the man screamed.
Another rider swung at him from behind.
Aldrich pivoted around the horse's neck, blade flashing over the animal's head, cutting clean through the rider's wrist. The sword dropped. Aldrich kicked it up with his foot—
caught it—
and flung it across the field.
It speared another warrior off his horse.
Two hundred vs one.
And yet…
Bodies fell like rain around him.
The Patriarch barked a command, riding straight toward Aldrich, greatsword raised.
Aldrich landed on solid ground again, boots skidding across dirt.
The Patriarch closed in.
Aldrich steadied his breath.
But for the first time—
his muscles trembled.
Nine years of Hollowdene training made Aldrich a prodigy—
but these were not scouts.
Not assassins.
Not hunters.
These were barbarian warriors.
Men and women raised from birth to kill.
Stronger than humans.
Faster.
Armored.
Many of them peak human physique.
Some beyond.
And Aldrich had been fighting dozens nonstop.
He was getting tired.
Breaths shallow.
Blood running down his arm.
Shoulder aching from an earlier blow.
Leg bruised from a horse's kick.
He wasn't invincible.
He was still only sixteen.
But fury kept him upright.
Fury sharpened him.
Fury fed him.
Fury made his blade an extension of his soul.
The Patriarch swung down—
A massive arc of steel.
Aldrich raised his katana—
Steel collided with steel.
A thunderous impact exploded across the field.
Aldrich's knees bent instantly under the sheer force.
His boots dug trenches in the dirt.
His grip almost slipped.
Pain shot up his arms.
"Ghh—"
The Patriarch grinned savagely.
"This is the strength of a real clan, boy!"
Aldrich stepped back, barely redirecting the next swing.
The force numbed his wrist.
"This," the Patriarch said, raising his sword again,
"is why your father died—Yagurah steel breaks!"
Aldrich's eyes sharpened into murder.
"My father's steel," he said softly,
"outlasted your entire bloodline."
The Patriarch roared and charged again—
Their blades clashed—
And again—
And again—
Each strike sent shockwaves through Aldrich's arms.
His muscles screamed.
His breath shortened.
His vision blurred for a moment.
But he refused to fall.
Not here.
Not to this man.
Not to this clan.
Not before he burned them to the ground.
His grip tightened.
His stance lowered.
His movements sharpened.
He adapted.
He improvised.
Whether the enemy was larger or stronger—
Eldran taught him one thing:
"Even mountains fall if you strike the right fault."
Aldrich's blade ducked under the next swing—
He slashed across the Patriarch's ribs.
Blood sprayed.
The man snarled.
Aldrich pressed forward—
Another clash.
Another impact.
Another surge of pain.
Until—
The Patriarch lifted his sword overhead for a killing blow—
Aldrich crossed his blade horizontally—
Vaelor's greatsword crashed down, and Aldrich blocked it—but the impact was overwhelming.