"False light breeds weak light…
Weak light breeds shadows…
And only the shadow gives birth to true light."
---
The sky rained arrows, not water,
and the wind howled like angry spirits.
The knights advanced in silence,
their armor clashing under the rain of projectiles.
At the front, the commander stood,
his face pale beneath a cracked helmet.
He turned to his men:
"Prepare your weapons… hold your ground… this is no training."
Then he looked forward,
his nose catching the stench of burnt flesh and gunpowder.
"I smell death… so what comes after?"
---
The battlefield was nothing but a manifested hell:
Flames devouring corpses before they touched the ground.
Armored beasts crawling like metallic locusts.
Soldiers' screams drowning even the clash of swords.
The commander drew his sword, shouting at the top of his lungs:
"No turning back! Either you return carrying your shields…
or carried upon them!"
The soldiers answered as one:
"Homeland or death!"
A cry that tore fear out of their chests.
---
The battle began:
Soldiers thrown away like dolls stuffed with explosives.
Enemy cannons roared, turning earth into storms.
The beasts charged toward the rear lines…
until suddenly, a storm of arrows cut through them like a hurricane.
While the commander was giving orders,
he saw death in his men's eyes…
then noticed the enemy cannons aiming at him.
The enemy leader raised his finger:
"Three… two… o—"
He stopped at one.
---
The soldiers turned,
and what they saw froze the blood in their veins:
Their commander's head rolled across the ground to their feet,
severed mercilessly.
From the flames, a man appeared:
His body burned and scarred.
His eyes glowed with violet fire.
His neck wrapped in a torn scarf.
In his hand, a strange weapon—
a polished piece of metal, shaped like the jaws of a beast.
He tore apart the first who stood in his way.
As a cannon squad aimed recklessly at him,
he pointed the weapon at them…
Too late.
A violet shell burst forth with the scream of a hundred demons.
The explosion erased everything.
No wreckage, no bodies—only black void.
---
The enemy commander remained standing, shocked, whispering:
"If death were a man… it would be him."
Then came something worse:
A giant hammer struck from the void,
throwing the man into the flames.
But he rose, roaring like a beast:
"The bastard… is here!"
He shouted a name that shook the battlefield:
"MORGAN!"
Seconds passed… then the sound of clashing armor echoed.
From the fire appeared Morgan:
His body massive as a tower.
Armor forged of rough steel.
A hammer like a sharpened block of iron,
its handle long as a gallows beam.
The man held his sword as if it were his last hope,
muttering:
"I'll kill you… I'll kill you… but…"
---
"Why?"
---
The pages turn back to the true beginning of the story.
---
From the eyes of the city's birds,
a place beating with life unknown to him:
Spices mixing with the scent of ripe fruits,
the shouts of merchants clashing like children in a game,
while children themselves ran underfoot like flocks of sparrows.
At the mountain's foot, away from the market's noise,
the young man stood before a fresh grave.
The wind played a moment of silence
between the tombstone bearing his grandfather's name
and the young man's hand pulling a yellowed paper from his pocket.
The will read:
"When you feel your light is no longer enough… return to your grandfather."
He smiled bitterly—
those words were written for a group,
but he was only an individual.
---
In the old storage room,
the armor waited like an old companion.
The cold metal gleamed under layers of dust,
as if asking: "Is it time?"
The sword stood beside it as a silent witness.
But the strangest of all…
was the decorated cannon.
An engraving read:
"Headless the Tenth."
Was he once a king who bore that name?
He fixed the cannon into his left arm,
as if it had always been meant for him.
When he wore the brown scarf—
the same color as his hair—
it felt as if he wrapped himself in memories that were not his.
His last look at the house
was like closing a grave's lid.
---
On the carriage bound for the city,
he breathed different air.
To his right,
a woman tried to silence her crying infant
as if the child was warning of coming ruin.
To his left,
two men exchanged war news:
"Did you hear?!"
"The Kingdom of Cecile is on the verge of collapse!"
"The king is still missing!"
"The capital's been under siege for months."
"The prince of Hagar has gone to liberate it."
The other man sighed with despair:
"Then we are next…"
The young man lowered his eyes to the floor,
closing them.
What he saw beneath his eyelids was not darkness,
but his grandfather holding his bloodied hand.
He awoke from the nightmare.
The carriage had stopped.
They had arrived.
---
The colorful city did not welcome him.
His heavy steps,
the armor ringing like a death bell,
the eyes of people untouched by mercy.
"People here live in blissful ignorance,"
he muttered to himself.
Lost in thought,
he collided with a child and knocked his food to the ground.
The boy tried to hold back tears,
turning them into anger:
"Can't you see where you're going? You id—"
But the boy froze,
his eyes meeting the young man's gaze.
What he saw…
was not a man, but a walking corpse.
Shadows burned in his eyes beneath the helmet.
Everyone watched, tense,
as if awaiting a wolf's attack on a lamb.
The young man knelt before the child, silently.
The boy closed his eyes in fear, awaiting death.
But all he felt was… something cold.
He opened his eyes.
The young man held out a golden coin.
"Buy a better one."
A sigh of relief swept through the crowd.
The child thanked him,
but the man only waved his hand and walked on.
At last, he seemed human.
---
Inside the antique shop,
the young man examined a preserved fish.
The old shopkeeper began speaking:
"A sailor gave me that back in my youth.
I used to travel a lot, like you."
He sighed:
"Ah, if only I could return to those days…"
But everything froze when the young man asked:
"Old man… do you know Yarnem?"
Silence struck like thunder.
The old man smiled uneasily:
"I think you mispronounced it.
You mean Yara? That's a painting…"
But the youth repeated,
each word falling like a hammer:
"Do. You. Know. Yarnem?"
The old man froze, lowering his head.
He gave no answer.
The young man understood,
turned, and left.
Yet before he stepped out,
a soft voice called:
"Son… you are too young to die. Please… stop."
Then, more chillingly:
"You're not the first… and you won't be the last."
The young man smiled faintly,
lifting his cloak to reveal the cannon on his left arm.
Without a word, he left.
The old man sighed:
"At least I tried."
But a mocking voice whispered from the shadows:
"You failed, old man. Now he will die."
The old man turned:
"No… it's you who will starve if you don't finish your work.
Didn't you see his eyes?
He's not like the others.
But that piece he carries…
I swear I saw it decades ago."
---
The young man walked under the setting sun,
its red light staining his armor like old blood.
The old man's words echoed in his head:
"Not the first… not the last…"
He stopped, gripping his sword hilt
as if trying to squeeze memories from the cold steel.
Then something else arrived.
---
A sharp chill climbed his spine like an icy blade.
He turned quickly—
but saw only townsfolk moving like swarms of ants.
The shadows of buildings stretched like hungry hands.
Suddenly,
a black shade passed above him, whispering like a scratch on coffin glass:
"They are coming…"
He froze.
He saw shadows melting among the crowd.
Merchants.
Women.
All breathing in the same rhythm.
He entered a narrow alley, walls dripping with damp.
Chains rattled underground.
A whisper: "They've arrived…"
Men emerged:
One disguised as a woman, eyes shining like scorpions.
Another, a peddler, his dagger curved like a serpent's tongue.
"All who seek light through shadows… drown in shadow."
---
The first struck from below,
his blade seeking the youth's tendons.
Another leapt from above.
The young man was faster.
He blocked the low strike with his scabbard.
The attacker above split in half—
blood spraying across his helmet.
The masked man stammered in shock:
"Wha… wh…at is this?!"
His partner screamed,
but the youth shoved the blade into his mouth,
shattering his throat.
He turned to the masked man,
leaving the other to writhe on the ground like a worm.
---
The masked man held his dying comrade's head gently, whispering:
"You are not the first… but I will be the last."
He charged, hurling smoke bombs that burst into black fog.
He rushed through—
But a strike from the cannon's head crushed his ribs,
flinging him aside like a ragdoll.
The youth stood unharmed,
holding the dead man's body as a shield.
The masked man crawled back in fear:
"He's not like the others… not like the rest!"
The youth advanced slowly.
The masked one begged:
"Haven't you killed enough already? Stay back!"
He tried to crawl away.
But the young man's boot crushed his back.
"My question to you:
Haven't you killed enough?"
The man's eyes widened at the cannon, whispering in horror:
"No… impossible… it cannot be you… who… who are you?!"
The youth's voice thundered:
"Shadow… Yarnem."
The sword plunged into his back three times,
amid his agonized screams.
His hands clawed the ground, searching for salvation.
The youth stood over him, panting:
"Shadow… that brings light?
I… am the bringer of light, in the name of shadow…"
---
As he left the alley,
he saw a familiar face—
the child he had given money earlier,
now holding a letter.
The boy handed it to him and ran away in fear.
The young man opened it.
The words read:
"They see through the eyes of the dead."
A message that announced the beginning of the hunt…
---