In the silent depths of the forest, young Elahar gripped a branch with a gaze sharper than any blade. Most elves walked the paths of druids, magi, or archers, communing with nature in harmony. Yet from his earliest days, Elahar felt an uncanny pull toward the sword. The way he wielded that branch like steel carried not only elven grace, but a wildness that set him apart.
At first, his parents were unsettled by his peculiar passion. But as the years passed, they came to recognize the raw talent and fierce hunger that drove him. Unlike the others of his kind, who moved with measured harmony, Elahar darted through the woods with reckless energy, carving the air with his makeshift blade. To him, the weight and edge of a sword promised a path all his own.
Time passed, and he sought out the greatest warriors of the elven kingdom. At first he studied the subtle, defensive style befitting his people's delicate senses, but soon he began to forge a style that was uniquely his. He wove into swordplay the magical attunement elves held with nature—reading the smallest tremors in an enemy's movement, drawing on the hidden current of wind and forest mid-battle. His art was a marriage of elven swiftness and a swordsman's cold clarity, a discipline that brushed close to poetry.
When he swung his blade beneath the canopy, he moved as if the trees, the wind, the very breath of the forest surged with him. The force that shimmered at his sword's edge felt like a living part of the woods, and his sharp precision soon drew whispers of renown. In time, they called him the boy swordsman of the elven kingdom—an emblem of a new martial possibility for his people.
Yet Elahar longed for more than the honor of guarding his homeland. He burned to test his strength, to discover the true limits of his power. Each day he trained harder, stoking the desire to cross beyond the borders of the forest and measure himself against warriors greater than any he had known.
He no longer dreamed of being merely a guardian of the elven realm. He dreamed of becoming a wanderer who sought the strongest, a warrior defined not by duty but by challenge. The elf with a blade—a paradox, a rarity—was already being drawn out of the woods and into the vast, perilous world.
His journey had only begun, and with it, the search for his own creed. Elahar would walk the wide roads of the world, facing the strong to find the truth of his blade.
Chapter One: The Resolve to Depart
In a quiet valley beyond the elven forest, Elahar sat alone, his sword resting across his knees. He stared at the steel in silence, haunted by the turmoil of a recent battle against corrupted elves. Their twisted fervor had shaken him, leaving his convictions cracked.
"Am I truly guarding what is right? Does this blade even hold meaning for me…?"
He could not dismiss the thought that even the fallen ones' obsession with relics and old vows was not mere folly. The rigid codes of the high elves—were they truly worth trusting, or only chains disguised as tradition?
At last, he chose. He would abandon the seat of a kingdom's guardian and carve his own path.
Once, in the northern elven realm, Elahar had been its proudest champion, his name resounding with honor. He had fought in countless battles for kingdom and forest alike, and his people revered him as their shield. He himself had worn that glory as armor.
But the weight of old laws and stagnant rule grew suffocating. If he was to grow as a warrior, if he was to seek true strength, the shelter of the kingdom was no longer enough. The clash with the corrupted had carved doubt into him—what if the values he had bled to protect were not righteous at all?
So Elahar resolved to leave. Not to defend inherited ideals, but to hunt strength itself—to fight as he willed, and seek what his battles could truly mean.
Before departing, he went to the elder who had been his mentor and protector. The old one had already sensed the decision and spoke softly:
"Wherever you go, let your blade lead you to what it truly seeks. When you discover what you truly wish to protect, it will not be too late to return."
Bowing his head, Elahar understood that his journey would not be a mere adventure, but the crucible of self-discovery.
He turned his gaze toward the horizon of the northern elven kingdom, lingering one last time. Then he tightened his grip on his sword and stepped forward—not as the kingdom's champion, but as a warrior seeking his own creed, his own strength.
***
Chapter Two: The Elf's Blade Against the Black Triad
Elahar recalled the battle that had made him a famed swordsman of the northern elven kingdom—the clash that spread his name like wildfire across the realm. It was the day he faced the Black Triad, marauders whose very name made villages tremble. Murderers and plunderers, their infamy had become a shadow looming over the kingdom itself.
In a quiet stretch of forest, three figures in black cloaks stood before him. Their eyes gleamed with feral instinct, their presence chilling the air around them. Each of the Black Triad was a seasoned killer in his own right, but together—through ruthless coordination—they were dreaded as an unstoppable force.
Elahar knew there was no turning back. He tightened his grip on his sword, resolve burning in his eyes.
"You thought you could reduce the elven kingdom to ashes? This blade will break your arrogance."
He drew his sword and lowered his stance, senses open to every whisper of wind, every tremor in the forest.
The leader struck first, his blade lashing out like lightning. Elahar slipped past the blow with fluid grace, his counterattack angling for the man's exposed flank. His movements were a fusion of elven swiftness and the cold art of the sword—arcs so elegant that even the Triad struggled to read them.
Then Elahar unleashed the technique of his kind: Blink. In an instant his form blurred, leaving only a trail of light as he vanished from sight. He reappeared behind his foe, striking like a phantom. The brigands faltered, unable to keep pace with his relentless speed, their formation unraveling into chaos.
The second enemy lunged in to cover the gap, but Elahar met him blade to blade. Steel clashed, sparks flashed, and with a decisive twist his sword cut through the man's guard, leaving a deep wound. His strikes were merciless yet precise—violence rendered with the beauty of inevitability.
The third stepped back, raising a bow, seeking to trap Elahar in a crossfire of distance and timing. But the elf anticipated the ploy. With another Blink, he slipped through space, the arrow hissing harmlessly through where he had stood. By the time the shot flew, Elahar was already airborne, closing in before the archer could even recover.
Two were down. Only the leader remained, glaring with fury. Their blades clashed again and again, but by now Elahar had unraveled his rhythm. Each of the man's desperate swings was met with a shift, a sidestep, a flash of movement, until the Triad's strength ebbed away with every passing strike.
At last, the leader collapsed to his knees, breath ragged, Elahar's sword poised at his throat. The elf's gaze was cold, yet a faint calm lingered on his face.
"So this was the great Black Triad… nothing more than hunger and greed dressed in steel."
Without another word, Elahar ended the fight.
The defeat of the Black Triad at his hand spread swiftly through the kingdom. His name rose to legend, his sword hailed not merely as a weapon but as a new emblem of elven might—an art that wove nature's harmony with unyielding steel.
**
Chapter Three: Into the Mercenary's Path
Elahar had cast aside the life of a noble guardian beneath the elven crown. No longer the kingdom's proud champion, he chose instead the freedom of a mercenary's road. His first steps led him to a guild tucked away in a human village—a hall where adventurers and sellswords gathered, its walls lined with scarred weapons and battered armor, relics of battles past. The air was thick with dust and tension, the kind only those who had lived through blood and danger could exude.
The moment Elahar entered, eyes turned toward him. Mercenaries of every land and lineage studied the lone elf with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Here, reputation meant little. Only battles fought and scars earned could command respect.
A voice cut through the silence, laced with mockery.
"Well, look who it is—the great Elahar, Supreme Sword of the Elves! What brings such a famous hero to a shabby guild like this?"
The man sneered, staking his pride on turning Elahar's title into a joke. Around him, the others watched eagerly, waiting to see if the legend was truth or rumor.
Elahar's lips curved into a faint smile. He had expected nothing less. In this world, words meant nothing without proof. Without a reply, he moved.
A shimmer, a flash—his blade sang like lightning, slicing through the cup in the mocker's hand. The vessel split cleanly into two and clattered to the floor, yet the man's hand was untouched. Silence swallowed the hall.
"What… what just happened?" the mercenary stammered, staring at the ruined cup.
The onlookers now understood: this elf's fame was no empty boast. Their gazes sharpened with wariness and respect. Elahar sheathed his sword with calm precision and spoke in a voice cold as iron.
"I didn't come here to boast. I came for work. Who carries the highest bounty?"
The guild master, who had watched quietly from the corner, stepped forward. His tone was measured, respectful.
"That would be the one they call Black Claw. Five hundred silver on his head. Leader of a bandit horde, he has raided villages and vanished into the wilds. A grave threat to the region."
Elahar inclined his head. It would be his first hunt as a mercenary—not for the silver alone, but because such an opponent was worthy to test his resolve. If he was to walk this new path, he would measure himself against the strongest foes he could find.
As he turned to leave, he glanced once more at the mercenary who had mocked him. His smile was quiet, almost gentle.
"I didn't come here seeking fights. Only to see how much further my blade can take me—and where that path leads."
With those words, he strode from the guild. His calm yet unshakable bearing left the hall steeped in silence and awe. No one doubted him now.
On the road toward his first hunt, Elahar felt the shift within himself. No longer the kingdom's gilded champion, but a free warrior chasing a creed of his own. He tightened his grip on the sword, a spark of anticipation glimmering in his eyes.
"Black Claw or stronger still… the answer I seek lies only where blades meet."