The battlefield was too quiet.
No war cries.
No clashing blades.
Only the soft sound of the wind moving through smoke and broken flags.
The ground was soaked in blood. Broken weapons, crushed helmets, and lifeless bodies lay everywhere—soldiers, horses, even trees blackened by fire. It was the end of a battle… but not the end of a nightmare.
In the center of it all, a boy knelt with teary eyes.
He was only fourteen. His clothes were torn. His hands were shaking and stained with red blood. His face was covered with bruises and cuts. But his eyes—his eyes held a pain far older than his age.
In his arms lay a man—the legend. Arthur Pendragon.
The General.
A warrior whose name made kings fear and enemies retreat.
Now, he was dying.
Blood leaked from the sword wound in his stomach, and with every breath, life faded more.
"Logan…" the General whispered, voice weak, eyes half open.
"Don't talk," the boy said emotionally. He pressed on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding with his bare hands. "You'll be fine."
The General gave a tired, soft smile. "We both know that's not true."
The boy bit his lip. "No, you have to."
"You… survived the ambush?" the General asked, blinking slowly.
The boy nodded once. "Yes. But I couldn't save the others."
"But you came back," the General said. "Though you couldn't save them, I know you tried your best. That's enough."
No… that's not enough.
I couldn't save anyone. Not my family, not my comrades. And now… not even you.
Tears fell down like rainwater. He couldn't control himself anymore.
A heavy silence followed Arthur's words.
"They want you dead too," the General said. "Even our own kingdom. This was never just the enemy's doing."
Logan's fists clenched. "Then I'll kill them all."
"No," the General said firmly, eyes sharpening one last time. "Don't walk the same path I did. Don't waste your life in blood and revenge."
The boy looked away. "I have nothing left to waste."
"You have yourself, boy," the General said. "And the strength to protect others. You are… my legacy, Logan. Not my vengeance. Live—for both yourself and me."
He coughed, blood trickling from his lips.
"Listen to me… Promise me something."
The boy looked back at him—the man who had taken him in, raised him, trained him, stood by him like a father.
"Promise me," the General said again, weaker now. "Don't fight… unless it's to protect someone. Live quietly. Live freely. Happily. Make a family."
"I… I can't—"
"You can," he said. "You must. Is it too much to ask… for you to grant me one last wish?"
The boy's lips trembled. He wanted to deny it. But seeing Arthur's condition, he couldn't. "I promise."
The General smiled. "Good."
His hand dropped to the ground. His chest rose once… and didn't fall again. Like he was hanging on to life just to make Logan promise it.
The boy sat still.
The only sound now was the wind.
Memories started to flash before his eyes.
Five years earlier.
The boy's name was known across the martial world: Logan—the youngest heir of the Martial Dragon Clan.
Born into a family of legendary warriors, sworn guardians of their homeland and peacekeepers in turbulent times. His older brother, Darius, was everything a leader should be—brilliant, kind, brave, a natural heir destined for greatness.
But fate had cruel plans.
Darius fell in love with a woman named Dahlia.
She was beautiful and gentle—an angel in appearance. But beneath the delicate mask lurked a spy.
On the night of the wedding, betrayal struck like lightning.
Assassins moved in shadows, silent and deadly. Logan's parents died fighting fiercely. His brother was slain by the one he loved most.
Logan barely escaped the massacre.
From that moment, his world shattered.
He was captured by smugglers, sold to a foreign kingdom, and thrust into the hell of war as a child—forced into mining for precious ore, gathering intelligence through stealth and deceit, even used as a human shield on battlefields.
Many died. But somehow, Logan continued fighting for his life and struggled every step of the way.
Until he met the General.
The man who took him in, fed him, trained him, protected him like a son. Slowly, the boy climbed from servant to soldier, from soldier to captain. From nobody to the General's trusted right hand—the General's shadow.
In the dark corners of the war camp, whispered rumors called him by a name that struck fear even among enemies:
Shadow Blade.
But now… even his mentor lay dead in front of him.
Why? Why always me?
Logan's agonizing cry echoed across the battlefield.
VAHATRA KINGDOM – War Camp, Commander's Tent
Inside the tent, the king of Vahatra paced impatiently, awaiting news from the battlefield.
A figure appeared, moving briskly. "My Lord, the servant seeks permission to report."
"Speak," the king commanded, his voice sharp and cold.
"The mission was a success," the man said, voice low but steady. "The General is dead. We have severed him from his shadow."
Finally!
Everyone in the tent felt a wave of relief after hearing that.
But seeing the newcomer's posture, the king's eyes narrowed. "And the Shadow Blade?"
"We sent a thousand men to kill him."
A pause.
"And?"
The traitor bowed his head lower. "Dead."
"The Shadow Blade?" asked the king, worried.
"No, my lord. All the thousand men we sent."