The banners of the Orthodox Sect did not flutter tonight, they shivered. The high mountain wind bit through the cliff pass, tugging at torn silk until the crimson dye bled into shadow. Each gust carried the sharp iron tang of blood, the cloying sweetness of corpses left too long unburied, the bitter smoke of torches burning damp pine.
He stood his post anyway. Sword heavy, breath shallow, armor cracked where the ceramic plates had split across his ribs. Sweat cooled beneath the rents in his mail, sticking his undershirt to his skin, and the cold gnawed at him like teeth.
But his back was straight. His grip firm. His eyes steady.
He was no genius of the sword, no heir to a great technique, no favored child of fortune. But he was loyal.
And loyalty was worth more than any heaven-defying talent. He believed that with every fiber of his being.
He had seen the proud ones sneer, the geniuses strut about with their noses in the air. They treated service as chains, missions as burdens, command as insult. But not him. He never envied their gifts. He pitied them. They would never know the true strength of bowing one's head and obeying. Of devoting every heartbeat to the Sect. Of being a blade honed by duty, not ego.
That was why he endured when others faltered. That was why he never complained, never hesitated, never questioned. He was the dog who guarded his master's gate, rain or shine, day or night.
And he was proud of it.
A memory stirred, warming him against the night wind. Years ago, when he was still a trembling new recruit, he had stumbled during a long march. His legs had buckled under the weight of his armor, his vision swimming from thirst. The others had jeered, muttering that he was useless. But the captain—the very same captain who now commanded this pass—had wordlessly offered his waterskin.
"Drink," the man had said. No rebuke, no scorn. Just a firm hand on his shoulder and a moment of recognition.
That drop of water had tasted sweeter than wine.
From that day, loyalty had not been duty. It had been love. A bond forged by gratitude. The Sect was his family, his brothers his blood, his captain the pillar of his world.
And now that pillar had ordered him to stand here, alone, to hold this broken pass against the tide.
He did not falter.
The shadows moved first. Armor glinted, horns caught the moonlight, blades whispered as they left sheaths. The heretics surged forward, and he met them with steel.
Pain blossomed with every clash. His left arm was numb now, each parry a shuddering guess. His ribs ground against broken ceramic when he twisted. His thigh burned where a pike had grazed him. His mouth was copper and dust.
Still, he roared. His sword cut down one foe, then another. The smell of their blood, hot and metallic, filled his nostrils. He stumbled through smoke, through screams, through the pounding of his own heart, and still he fought.
One against many.
Until the many withdrew, leaving corpses in their wake.
His breath rattled. His knees shook. But he had done it. He had held the pass.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Familiar. Disciplined.
Relief nearly made him collapse. His captain had returned. His comrades, his brothers, alive.
"You did well," the captain said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
The loyal dog lifted his head, blood matting his hair, and managed a faint smile. "Captain, I-"
Steel slid between his ribs.
The cold of the blade spread faster than the mountain wind ever could. He gasped, blood spilling over his lips, soaking into the cracked crest of his sect.
He did not cry out. He told himself this was a test. It had to be. The captain was testing him one final time. If he endured, if he proved his loyalty even now, he would be acknowledged.
I will not fail. I will not cry out. I am loyal. I am loyal.
But then the captain spoke.
"You held the pass. You served the Sect. Your service is recorded and will be honored." His tone was neither cruel nor kind—only factual, as if reciting doctrine. "But a tool that has broken, even in worthy service, is not repaired. It is replaced. Your qi is shattered, your meridians torn. To carry you back would risk two more men for a corpse. Sentiment is a luxury for the strong. We are not strong today. Die knowing your service was complete."
The words struck harder than the blade.
This was not cruelty. This was the Sect's truth, spoken in the voice of the man he had trusted most.
His fractured thoughts scrabbled for purchase. No… no, he doesn't mean it. He gave me water once. He told me to drink. He saw me. He…
But the captain was already pulling the blade free.
He toppled to the ground, his cheek pressed to the cold stone, tasting iron and dust. His comrades stood behind the captain, their gazes empty, not a flicker of doubt among them.
The dog had served. The dog had broken. The dog was discarded.
His vision swam. The stars above blurred. His chest shuddered.
And then...
The darkness moved.
"Do you wish to live?"
The voice coiled around his fading soul, deep as the abyss, cold as eternity. It did not echo in his ears but reverberated in his bones, in his marrow, in the shreds of his spirit.
At first, he almost said no. To sink into the void, to let go.
But then he remembered the blade sliding into his chest. The Sect's doctrine in the captain's voice. The cold eyes of his brothers.
His breath burned, though he no longer had lungs. His heart seared, though it no longer beat.
"I want…" His voice rasped in the void. "I want… revenge."
The darkness trembled. A crimson sigil flared before him, burning with shadow and flame.
"Then serve me."
The brand lashed forward, searing into the core of his being. Pain unlike any he had ever known tore through him. He screamed, though there was no air.
And then.. light.