The sky was a sickening shade of dark purple, as if splattered with congealed blood.
The clash of cold weapons had completely ceased, replaced by the hoarse cries of vultures circling above carrion. On this battlefield abandoned by the gods, tattered banners lay half-inserted in the mire, like withered hands reaching into the void.
Reed Walker stood atop a mound of corpses. He felt a cold dampness all over his body. Looking down, he saw dark red, viscous liquid seeping from the gaps in his armor. The blood flowed uncontrollably like a spring; he couldn't tell if it was the enemy's or his own.
Amidst the dismembered remains of heavily armored knights, there was only one survivor.
It was a youth, half his face blackened by gunpowder smoke. There was no fear in his eyes, only a ferocity that transcended death, a ferocity that made the soul tremble. The depths of his pupils seemed to burn with a dark, spectral fire, fixing Reed's gaze.
With a tone not meant for humans, a voice mixed with the grinding sound of bones, the youth uttered his final judgment:
"The blood of kings shall end with the sword."
This curse, like a tangible heavy hammer, shattered the lingering magical waves in the air. The malice and death wish in his eyes transformed into boundless darkness, instantly engulfing Reed.
"Whoosh—ha!"
Reed Walker suddenly sprang from his cot, his lungs convulsing violently, as if he had just resurfaced from drowning in the deep sea.
Cold sweat trickled down his sharply defined temples, soaking the faded grey sleeveless undershirt he wore. He stared intently at the ring of mold on the ceiling caused by a leak, until his vision refocused, confirming that this was not the cursed battlefield, but a forty-dollar-a-night rental apartment in Lower Manhattan.
"Damn it..." he cursed hoarsely, his voice like sandpaper.
He instinctively touched his chest. No wounds, no penetrating injuries, just a wildly beating heart. The viscous sensation of blood still lingered on his fingertips, making him unable to discern whose fated blood had stained the earth in that carnage.
Bourbon bottles lay scattered around the room, and the air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and moldy wood. Ashtrays were overflowing with dark red cigarette butts, resembling a silent altar. Outside, the dreary New York rain pattered incessantly, tapping against the ill-fitting windowpanes, creating a monotonous and irritating rhythm.
He was twenty-five years old, yet possessed eyes that seemed to have lived a century in the trenches.
As a former point man for an elite infiltration squad, life after discharge was a long, conscious suicide for him. To his neighbors and colleagues, this tall young man was a complete man of few words. He worked as security at a speakeasy called "The Rusty Heart." This job should have belonged to hulking, muscle-brained brutes who roared at the slightest provocation, but Reed was the quietest among them.
Due to the post-traumatic stress (PTSD) from accidentally killing a civilian, he had developed an extreme aversion to conflict. Even when a drunk spilled liquor on his cheap black suit, he would merely lower his head, offer a tissue, and silently wipe it away.
His colleagues at the bar—the boisterous men who habitually resolved problems with violence—would always joke and pat his shoulder in private:
"Hey, Walker, did you hand in all your killer instinct along with your uniform on the day you retired?"
"Look at our Reed, he's as docile now as a toothless stray dog; he probably couldn't even scare off a stray cat."
Reed always responded with silence, sometimes even offering a wooden smile in cooperation. Only he knew that he hadn't lost his fangs; rather, he feared that if he bared his teeth, he would once again see the eyes of the boy from his dream, and hear again that prophecy foretelling the end.
He stood up, his bare feet touching the cold wooden floor, and walked to the cracked mirror.
The dim light of the rainy night, filtering through the window, outlined his broad yet taut back. He looked down at the palm of his right hand. There was a faint, old scar shaped like a sword hilt. On rainy days like this, the scar would throb faintly, as if reminding him: even if he hid in the deepest recesses of this concrete jungle, some destinies would ultimately conclude with a sword.
He grabbed his smoke-scented suit jacket, pushed open the door, and stepped into the relentless drizzle of New York.