The world outside bloomed beautifully. , vibrant green fields, and glistening trees reflected the blessing of the returning sun. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of hope and new beginnings.
Meanwhile, soldiers marched towards the formidable Kingdom of Thoms.
Agarth, his voice firm, commanded, "Stop. Let me go and be prepared."
The castle gates swung open, and Agarth, mounted on his horse, galloped towards its heart. Dismounting, he walked with purpose to meet Yade, who was already preparing with his soldiers.
"Yade!" a voice called from behind him.
Yade turned to find Agarth.
"My friend," Yade exclaimed, embracing him. "Perhaps it's the time you spoke of."
Agarth's gaze lowered. "Perhaps, or perhaps not."
"Agarth," Yade said, "I need you to lend me a man. Take the child far from here, to your home in Norms Valley. He's the same age as your son, Aron."
"Of course," Agarth readily agreed. "Vince will ensure his safety."
"Thank you," Yade replied. "After two thousand years, the flames of hope finally rekindle."
Agarth placed a hand on Yade's shoulder. "Perhaps this is what's destined for us, Yade.
Perhaps this is the moment a true warrior and leader awaits."
"You're right," Yade affirmed. "Let's go then.
" They both mounted their horses and rode towards their army.
"Let's not dwell on what lies ahead," Agarth declared. "Let's give our all."
They joined their forces, a formidable army of at least 2,000. Archers were positioned at the rear, guards stood firm in the front. They had reached their battleground.
"Soldiers!" Agarth roared, his voice chilling the spines of his men. "Don't be scared. Today is the day we've lived for. It doesn't matter what lies ahead. A good death is always to be killed for good, for our successors who trusted us with their future. Now, we don't look back!"
Then, a rumbling.
It was a horrific sound, each step a tremor of dread. The army of death was on its way, countless in number, at least 6,000 soldiers strong, and armed with destructive weapons. They had catapults—not one, but at least fifty. It was a terrifying sight.
Agarth and Yade, mounted on their horses, watched. Agarth's mind raced, counting the impossible numbers. These foes were not only countless but destructive. Yet, a defiant spirit burned within Agarth, fueled by the unknown outcome of this war.
The soldiers trembled, fearing the traumatic darkness they beheld. "How can we possibly win?" one whispered. "They have too many catapults, and we only have ten."
"Let's not think about it yet," another soldier urged. Step by step, the dark army advanced, finally settling into position.
Then, a path opened in their midst, and he appeared: a man with a dark, menacing presence and eyes burning with fire. Every step he took brought immense pressure, a clear harbinger of death. He was immensely powerful, a force Agarth and Yade had never witnessed. Yet, they began to walk towards him.
He stopped. "Lyoth," he uttered, and silence fell. He stared at Agarth, sensing his power, recognizing him as a Norm.
Walking thuds. Step by step. Armor rattled.
The weather mirrored the impending doom—dark and traumatic, like a brewing thunderstorm. Winds howled, chilling them to the bone. Heavy rain was about to fall.
This clear field, far from Thoms, was where they would make their stand.
"Who are you?" Lyoth's voice was so powerful it threatened to kill them in seconds. He was an immense threat.
"I am Norm, Son of Braith," Agarth declared.
"And you?" Lyoth pointed a blade at Yade's face.
"I am Thom," Yade replied.
A silence fell over the battlefield, both armies halted by the parley of their leaders.
"If you stop this war now," Yade appealed, "the blood of both armies can be avoided."
"Avoid?" Lyoth's voice trembled with contempt. "I can kill your armies in seconds. Retreat and beg for your death. If you do that, I might consider letting you live as slaves." He paused. "After two thousand years, the flames of hope were rekindled by someone—what I call a true successor. When I killed that pathetic knight two thousand years ago, I waited for this moment. I will give you a choice: kneel and bring me that black sword, or die miserably with your soldiers and your pathetic lives. Now tell me."
"Then I will choose death gladly," Agarth said, his voice pure and courageous.
"As you wish." Lyoth slashed at Agarth's neck, but Agarth blocked it just in time, though the force sent him flying back three to four meters.
As he lay on the ground, struggling to sit up, he saw Yade already dead, his chest torn open.
"Then as you wish," Lyoth repeated. He pulled his right hand skyward, holding his blade, and then swept it towards the armies of Norm and Thom.
A rattle. Silence. Then, suddenly, the army of death charged.
Agarth rose. Thousands of soldiers charged towards him. He roared, "Advance, goddamn it!" His soldiers rushed forward, blades clashing as both armies collided. In an instant, hundreds fell on both sides.
Swords clashed, soldiers died. "Damn it!" A spear thrust into Soldier's gut. The cries of battle were deafening, men from both armies dying. But then, Agarth's rage surged. He cut down at least ten soldiers, relentlessly pushing towards Lyoth.
Finally, he reached Lyoth.
"You are strong, I have to admit, Norm," Lyoth conceded. "It's been a long time since my blade tasted the blood of a Norm. Now, let's see what you've got."
Agarth roared, "Damn you!" He charged, slashing. Lyoth dodged, then turned, his left hand slashing. Agarth quickly parried with his sword, then skillfully maneuvered to target Lyoth's neck, but it was blocked. "Impressive," Lyoth commented, "but nothing like what the Norm stopped me with." He kicked Agarth in the gut, sending him airborne, crashing to the ground. Agarth stood again, but he was injured. All around him, only blood and corpses marred the sand.
Lyoth stood before him. "What happened? Scared?" This time, Agarth charged, throwing his sword. It was blocked, but for a split second, an opening appeared. Agarth drew a second sword, dropped low, and slashed.
Lyoth's hand was severed, his blade still clutched in the dismembered limb. "Wow, truly impressive," Lyoth scoffed, "but this is nothing." He regenerated his hand.
Agarth gasped for breath. "How can you do that? You're human!"
"I was," Lyoth confirmed, "but with the great power of my master, I have been immortal for two thousand years. Now, let me show you true power."
The fallen warriors of the Norms lay as corpses, but suddenly a wave swept through them, and they rose, undead.
Agarth was shocked. "Hundreds of our soldiers were killed, and theirs too, but how can they regenerate? Perhaps I know nothing, or we have never truly seen war."
Agarth's anger and rage intensified. His sword shined. "Even if I can't kill you, I will not let you destroy!"
Lyoth sneered, "Only one thing can kill us, which you fool never really achieved: the light swords, and of course, the death blade."
Agarth panicked, unsure what to do. He thought only of his family, but his gaze shifted to the sword-clashing, the dying, the blood-soaked sand. What, then, defined a true warrior?
Was Aron truly right? He pondered, a cinematic scene playing in his mind. What were freedom and peace?
"Perhaps I have chatted too long," Lyoth declared. "Let's end this, Norm."
Agarth looked at his hand, then saw his reflection in his sword. A silence. He stared at Lyoth, the dark warrior, and placed his sword against his face.
Raindrops. Heavy rain began to fall. The sound of rain seemed to enter Agarth. He faced the sky and sighed, then charged.
Blades clashed, each dodging the other's attacks. Agarth swiftly turned, his left hand gripping his sword. Lyoth kicked him, but Agarth regained his position. Agarth leaped, charging, blades clashing. He continuously pushed Lyoth, but Lyoth watched him carefully. Finally, an opening. A devastating punch to the gut sent saliva flying from Agarth's mouth, then a kick. Agarth was disoriented.
He charged, but then—slash. His blade was broken.
Agarth knew he had lost. One hand clutched his gut, the other struggled to support his weight. He tried to stand, but Lyoth injured his leg. "Ahhhhh!" Agarth cried out in pain. He saw everyone on the battlefield dying, and flashes of his memories returned—all the happy years he had lived with his family. Why, he wondered, was destiny like this? If only he hadn't known the outcome, could he have fought better? Thousands of questions flooded his mind.
"You did a great job, warrior," Lyoth conceded. "Be proud. It's been two thousand years since even a mere human left a scratch on me. But look at you, in this pathetic state. Nothing is here to help you, not even the successor."
When Lyoth uttered "successor," Agarth thought of his son, Aron, all their moments. He smiled, even with death standing before him. He was a great father, proud to have raised strong, righteous children.
"It is not my destiny to defeat you," Agarth whispered. "It is written for someone else. And one day, when he finds you, you will eventually fear, and death will haunt you."
"Then let it be so," Lyoth replied. "I will wait for that too."
The weather was harsh, the wind a howling gust. The war was over. Thousands had died, but those who were scared fled the battlefield.
Agarth was on his knees. Finally, a spear pierced his chest. The rain continued, and Agarth gazed at the muddy sand, gently touching it. He knew it was his time. Thunder roared, but he faced the sky, calm. A calm death. Slowly, the rain seemed to carry his soul. He smiled, tears in his eyes, closed them, and died with honor, with one last breath.
Lyoth walked towards the Kingdom of Thoms, leaving Agarth on his knees, dead.
The end.