Chapter 1 — The Sword That Laughs
The rain fell in sheets, pounding the earth until the battlefield turned into a river of mud and blood. Corpses bobbed like driftwood, their empty eyes staring into the storm.
Kael Omari stood among them, chest heaving, locks clinging to his skin. The ends of his dreadlocks, dyed bone-white, were streaked with crimson. His sword — the cursed blade known as Abyssfang — was buried in the ribcage of a man twice his size.
"Sloppy swing," the blade whispered in a voice only he could hear. "You cut his guts, not his pride."
Kael yanked the sword free with a wet, sucking sound. "Shut up," he muttered, lips twisting into a crooked grin. "He's still dead."
The blade laughed, a sound like broken glass rattling in a tin cup.
Around him, the remnants of the Crimson Battalion lay scattered. Some writhed and screamed, trying to hold their insides in. Others were already still. The storm drowned out most of the noise, but the smell — that coppery tang of fresh blood mixed with mud — clung to his throat.
A figure picked her way through the corpses, locks gleaming scarlet under the fading light. Nia, the Crimson Strategist, carried herself like a queen even while stepping over intestines. She stopped beside Kael, her dark eyes sharp enough to cut deeper than any blade.
"And yet you're smiling," she said, voice calm, almost amused. "Does killing soothe you now?"
Kael rolled his shoulder, flexing his grip on Abyssfang. "Nah. It's the part before they die — when they realize I won."
The sword chuckled at his words, as if in agreement.
Behind them, a man groaned dramatically. Taye, the Shadewalker, emerged from a toppled cart, locks dyed a bright electric blue and matted from the rain. He leaned on a spear, his shadow trailing unnaturally long behind him.
"You two are insane," Taye said, limping closer. "Talking about pride and smiles in the middle of a massacre. Can we loot the bodies before your tragic flirting continues?"
Kael snorted. "Looting's your specialty. Just don't trip over your own shadow."
"Funny," Taye muttered, kneeling by a corpse and prying a jeweled ring off its swollen finger.
The storm didn't let up. If anything, the rain grew heavier, drumming against Kael's shoulders like war drums. He tilted his head back, letting it wash the blood from his face, even as new streaks of red ran down his sword.
This wasn't the first battlefield he had stood on. It wouldn't be the last.
But something about tonight felt different.
They gathered under a ruined watchtower, a hollow skeleton of stone half-swallowed by vines. Nia crouched by a lantern, its weak flame flickering against her damp locks. Taye sprawled on the floor, already counting the gold teeth he'd pulled from corpses.
Kael sat apart, sword laid across his lap. The cursed blade vibrated faintly, like it was humming to itself.
"You fought reckless today," Nia said, not looking up. "Charging ahead alone. It worked — barely — but it's a habit that will get you killed."
Kael smirked. "Worked is the key word."
Her eyes flicked to him, hard as steel. "Kael. You are not invincible. No matter how much that sword laughs for you."
The Abyssfang laughed at her words, louder now, as if mocking her concern.
"Oh, I like her," the blade whispered in Kael's mind. "She sees the cracks. She smells the fear you try to hide."
Kael's smirk faltered. He clenched the hilt tight until his knuckles whitened.
Nia must have seen something in his face, because her tone softened. "I'm not saying this to wound your pride. I'm saying it because—"
"Because you care?" Kael interrupted, trying to make it a joke.
But his chest felt tight, and his voice cracked a little at the end.
Nia's silence told him everything.
Taye broke the moment with a loud sneeze, flinging a handful of gold teeth into the air. "Ugh! Rainwater's cursed! My locks are ruined. Do you know how long it takes to dye these tips?"
Kael barked a laugh, the tension snapping. "You dye them every week anyway."
"Exactly!" Taye jabbed a finger at him. "Do you know how much dye costs in the Gilded Domain? If I don't loot teeth, how will I keep my style sharp? You think I can rock plain black locks like you? No, my brother. I am a masterpiece!"
Kael shook his head, laughing harder, even as the sword snickered along.
For a moment, the war, the corpses, the smell of death — all of it felt far away.
The reprieve didn't last.
The wind shifted, carrying with it a stench thicker than blood. Rot. Kael's grin vanished as he pushed to his feet. The shadows along the wall writhed unnaturally.
Taye cursed under his breath. "Not now. Not here."
From the darkness, figures began to crawl out. Not men. Not even beasts. These were Wraithborn — corpses reanimated by the Abyss itself, their flesh sagging, their locks tangled with worms.
Nia rose in one smooth motion, pulling twin daggers from her belt. "We're not rested enough for this."
"Doesn't matter," Kael said, lifting Abyssfang. The blade trembled eagerly in his grip, laughing like a madman set free.
The first Wraithborn lunged. Kael's sword split it from jaw to groin in a single arc, guts spilling like wet ropes. Blood sprayed across his face. He grinned again — that crooked grin that made the sword hum with delight.
Another came. Nia danced forward, her daggers flashing, severing its tendons before Kael cut it down. Taye's shadow lashed out like a whip, binding three more before snapping their necks in unison.
But for every one that fell, more clawed their way from the mud. The battlefield itself seemed to be vomiting up its dead.
"This is endless!" Taye shouted, panic breaking through his humor. "Kael, we can't—"
"We can," Kael snapped, though his arms already ached. His golden eyes gleamed with fury. "We have to."
Abyssfang roared with laughter, drowning out even the storm.
The fight stretched on, a blur of steel, blood, and shadows. Kael lost himself in it. He became nothing but motion — a blade cutting, a body moving, a monster laughing through his hand.
By the time the last Wraithborn fell, the watchtower was half-collapsed. Kael stood in the rubble, chest heaving, his locks plastered to his face. His arms trembled, but he still held the sword aloft.
Nia leaned against the wall, blood spattered across her face, her daggers slick. Taye slumped on the floor, coughing, his shadows curling weakly around him.
None of them spoke for a long moment.
Finally, Kael lowered the blade.
The sword whispered softly this time, almost tenderly: "You'll die with me one day, boy. And it will be beautiful."
Kael laughed under his breath, though his eyes burned. He didn't know if he was laughing at the sword… or with it.
Thus began the tale of Kael Dreadborn, the swordsman who carried a blade that laughed at the end of the world.