"Come forth, you bastard warriors! I long for the day I die, but today is not that day!"
High above the hills of a very ancient continent, a place of the medieval times, a war was being fought.
The battlefield was a butcher's yard, blood and steel decorated the scene. The air was thick with the stench of death; coppery blood, the acrid tang of sweat, and the foul reek of opened bowels.
Here and there, men screamed, men died, and the earth drank deeply of their lifeblood. It was impossible to ignore the savagery, but even more impossible to ignore was the hunk of a man who stood amidst the chaos.
Alexander Northblade, the tyrant prince, wielding his blade like a scythe reaping a harvest of flesh.
His laughter was a mad thing, wild and unhinged, as he drove his sword through the chest of a foe. The man's eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips before the light fled them.
Alexander merely laughed at the man's pain and wrenched his blade free, the steel singing as it carved through bone and sinew. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, painting his armor, his face, his soul.
He turned, still having that mad grin of savagery, and met the next man with a slash that sent his head spinning away from his shoulders.
"Is this all you've got?!" he roared, his voice a challenge to the gods themselves. "I was told the men of Westland were stronger than this!"
An ax whistled toward his skull. Alexander ducked, still laughing as he spun around and lashed out his sword in reply. The axman stood lifelessly, his chest carved open, the sight of his heart pumping for the last few seconds before he collapsed in a heap.
Alexander was drenched with blood, yet he lusted for more. He licked his lips, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue, and surged forward, deeper into the fray.
He walked with a limp, shoulder slanting to the side that wielded his greatsword. Nearby, an enemy warrior was crawling on the ground, attempting to get back on his feet.
Alexander drove his sword into his neck as he passed by, not even sparing a glance. The man let out a final whimper and his body flattened on the scorched ground.
"Northblade!"
The voice cut through the chaos, catching Alexander's attention as he turned slowly. Through the smoke and haze, he saw the leader of the enemy warriors, Sir Jonryn Blackwood, a mountain of a man clad in battered silver armor.
An insulting laugh left Alexander the moment he set his eyes on the man. "Ha! Ha! Blackwood! Is this finally it? Have you finally been able to pull your balls out of your arse and face me like the man you should be!?"
Blackwood raised his greatsword, its point leveled at Alexander, with his eyes burning with anger. "It ends today, Northblade!" he roared. "Your father's tyranny! Your insatiable lust for war and blood! It ends now!"
Alexander chuckled, a cocky glint in his blue eyes. He stretched his hands at both sides, as though inviting the danger. "Then come, end it. Many more like you said those very words, and my sword still remembers what their blood tastes like."
Their feet struck the earth as they ran towards each other, with roars of rage and defiance tearing into the air and once they were close in fighting distance, they swung their swords at the same time.
Their blades met with a clash that echoed like a thunderclap. Their swords were locked for a moment, they strained against each other, muscles taut and faces mere inches apart, glaring into each other's eyes.
Using his strength, Alexander shoved Blackwood backwards, breaking the deadlock. He swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming to take off Blackwood's head, but the warlord was fast enough. He dodged and weaved, then lunged his blade at Alexander's chest.
The bloodthirsty warrior blocked the strike, a devilish smirk appearing on his smeared face. He attacked again and so did Blackwood.
Steel screamed against steel, sparks flying as they traded blows. Alexander was the oppressor, his strikes were relentless, all worthy of being a killing stroke. Blackwood parried as much as he could, but the weight of Alexander's assault drove him back step by step.
"You're slower than I expected!" Alexander taunted, dodging a counterstrike and driving his knee into Blackwood's ribs. The older man grunted, stumbling, but recovered quickly, his greatsword slicing through the air in a deadly arc.
Alexander sidestepped, his laughter ringing out, and slashed a shallow cut across Blackwood's arm.
"For an old man you fight well," Alexander sneered, circling his foe. "Better than I thought in fact. But you did not truly believe you could face me alone, did you, Blackwood?"
Panting, the king of Westland lifted his gaze at Alexander. "You are right. I knew I could never defeat you alone, tyrant prince."
"Mhm?" From the corner of his eye, Alexander noticed a glint of steel coming at him. He lowered his head and rolled out of the way, finding his feet a few paces backwards.
Before him, there were now four more warriors who had emerged from the smoke, all wielding swords with deadly intent.
"Ah, cowardice," Alexander spat. "Will it kill you to fight fair, Sir Blackwood?"
Blackwood scoffed. "Fight fair? You said yourself! You are known as the greatest swordsman in the entire continent. This is the only way it could ever be fair!"
A simple smile of resignation stretched on Alexander's lips. "I suppose you're right."
The four attacked as one. Alexander became a whirlwind, his blade was faster than the others, perhaps sharper, as he deflected strikes and struck back with brutal efficiency.
One man fell, then another, screaming in agony as they succumbed to death. But amidst the blood and triumph, pain exploded in Alexander's leg.
A blade had been stabbed right above his ankle, slicing through flesh and muscle. He dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth. His sword swung instinctively, cleaving through the warrior who had struck him, spilling his entrails onto the ground.
"Still standing!" Alexander growled, defiant even as blood pooled beneath him.
But his strength was waning. Blackwood seized the opening, knocking Alexander's sword from his grasp, causing him to fall to his hands and knees.
"You are a demon, Northblade!" he cried.
"Ugh," Alexander grunted, spitting blood as he attempted to get on his feet. "I suggest doing it quickly if you intend to kill me. Or else, you will not live if I find my feet."
The opportunity flashed before Blackwood's eyes and he raised his sword high, victory in the horizon. "I, Sir Jonryn Blackwood, sentence you to your death! And I rid the realm of the torture you and your father have imposed. Die!!!"
The sword descended swiftly, but then... it fell.
"ARGH!"
Blackwood cried out, staggering. A sleek blade protruded from his chest, its gleaming steel slick with his blood. He dropped to his knees, choking, before collapsing in a heap.
Alexander blinked, his mind sluggish with exhaustion and disbelief. Slowly, he turned his gaze upward to the figure standing behind Blackwood.
The man was... strange. Not a familiar kind of strange, but a strangeness that could not even be explained.
His black clothing was immaculate and foreign, the ribbons around his neck oddly ornamental. In this place surrounded with death and blood, he seemed oddly calm and confident, even as blood dripped from the blade he had used to strike down Blackwood.
Alexander chose to overlook the oddity of this man, and smiled to himself with joy. "A savior in the strangest garb... Well done."
The man stepped forward, offering a hand. Alexander took it, hauling himself to his feet with a wince.
"A commendable act, my good sir. You saved my life," Alexander declared with regal poise, offering his hand for a shake. "When I return to the castle, I will have my father grant you whatever you desire. Money? Land? Women? Anything."
The strange man quietly accepted the handshake, and Alexander smiled proudly at this.
But instantly, with no warning at all, the man pulled Alexander closer to him, and drove his blade into Alexander's stomach. Once. Twice. Three more times.
A smile suddenly appeared in his serene face. "I'm sorry, dear prince," his charming voice spoke. "But I had to be the one to do it."
Alexander staggered backwards and looked down at his bloody torso, watching crimson streams pouring from his wounds. He gazed up at the man, a horrified blaze in his bloodshot eyes. "You... bastard..." he rasped, the words barely escaping his lips.
Blood rushed into his head and he instantly felt weightless. His legs gave out, and he fell, the world tilting in slow motion as he crumpled to the ground.
Time stood still, and Alexander watched the years of his life flash before his eyes bitterly.
Somehow, it all became insignificant, frivolous. Like nothing he had done in all his years was worth anything tangible.
For all his triumphs, was this it? Was this truly how he was going to die?
The great warlord. The Breath of a Silver Dragon. The enforcer of his father's will. Was this how his story was to end? Death in the hands of a stranger? How meaningless was that?
In that second, as his life slipped away, Alexander realized the truth. It haunted him in that stretching second, making it feel like hours. Tormenting hours of self realization.
His death was just as meaningless as his life.
Finally his body hit the ground, sprawled in an arms spread position of death. Alexander laid there, breathing heavily, wanting to smile and laugh it off like he always did when faced with pain and death. But all he felt was immense disappointment.
They say one's life flashes before their eyes at the moment of death. That, in fact, was painfully true. And although Alexander had conquered great kingdoms and slaughtered great kings, he found himself unsatisfied with the life he led.
Yet, one more image flashed before his eyes. It was his killer, the stranger in a black garment, leaning over him, and watching him with his silver eyes that Alexander swore never to forget. Moments before darkness finally claimed him.