I have watched wars be remembered as banners and songs, but the truth of them is always quieter and far more terrible. Wars are decided not by numbers alone, but by the moment a single will refuses to break.
Erias still lived as Sereth.
Not by choice. Not by memory.
By necessity.
The world of the gateway pressed him into the shape of the past, and he wore it because the blade demanded it.
Smoke hung low over the field, drifting like wounded spirits across churned earth. The clash of steel and screams had slowed into a ragged rhythm as both armies drew breath. Bodies lay where they had fallen, Arathen and Vraethal alike, armor cracked, banners torn, blood soaking into soil that would never forget this day.
Sereth raised his hand.
The signal rippled outward.
"Hold!" he commanded.
The word carried farther than it should have, cutting through chaos like a blade through cloth. His soldiers obeyed instantly. Shields lowered. Swords stilled. Even the wounded dragged themselves back into line, eyes fixed on the man at the front.
Sereth turned slowly.
Before him stood the Vraethal forces, ranks tight, disciplined, banners snapping in the wind. They did not retreat. They did not advance. They waited, confident in their numbers, in their training, in the knowledge that this war should already have broken the defenders.
Sereth studied them with the eyes of a Blade.
Then he looked back at his own army.
They were exhausted. Bloodied. Hungry. Many bore bandages torn from cloaks and banners. Some leaned on spears to remain standing. Yet in their eyes burned something fierce and dangerous.
Eagerness.
They wanted this fight finished.
Sereth lifted his sword.
The motion was slow, deliberate. Every soldier watched the arc of the blade as if it were the axis of the world itself.
For a heartbeat, everything held still.
Then Sereth dropped the blade, pointing it straight at the heart of the Vraethal lines.
"Advance."
The army roared.
They surged forward as one, shields locking, boots hammering the earth. Sereth charged with them, not behind, not above, but beside. The wind tore at his cloak as he ran, the weight of the sword familiar and absolute in his hands.
The two forces collided.
Steel screamed against steel. Shields shattered. Men fell. The world reduced itself to impact and instinct.
Sereth did not slow.
He cut his way forward with terrifying precision, every strike placed with purpose. He did not waste motion. He did not overextend. He moved like a force of nature, slipping between blades, turning enemy momentum against them, driving deeper into the Vraethal ranks with relentless calm.
The enemy noticed.
They always did.
Shouts rippled through the Vraethal lines as soldiers fell faster than expected. Eyes widened. Formation wavered.
At the rear, mounted upon a war-steed draped in black iron, the Vraethal general watched grimly.
"There," he said, pointing with his gauntlet. "The Blade."
One of his attendants bowed. "Shall we engage him, lord?"
The general's jaw tightened.
"No," he said. "Send him."
From among the elite guard stepped a warrior clad in layered plate etched with crescent runes. His helmet bore no plume, no ornament. His sword was plain, its edge honed to a killing perfection.
He bowed once.
"I will end him."
The elite fighter advanced alone, cutting through the chaos with lethal efficiency until he stood directly before Sereth.
Their armies seemed to pull away instinctively, forming a ring of death around them.
The elite raised his sword and called out, voice ringing across the field.
"Sereth. Blade of Torvas. Prepare to die."
The name struck like a hammer.
Sereth did not recognize the man.
But the blade did.
He lunged.
Their swords met in a storm of motion. Sereth struck fast and clean, probing defenses, testing timing. The elite fighter dodged and blocked with equal mastery, his movements sharp, disciplined, honed by years of war.
They circled.
Steel rang again and again, sparks bursting between them.
Then the elite stepped inside Sereth's guard and drove a fist into his chest.
The impact hurled Sereth backward.
A cry rose from the Arathen lines.
"Blade!"
Sereth slid across the ground, breath torn from his lungs. Pain flared, sharp and immediate.
He forced himself upright.
Planted his sword point-first into the earth.
Gripped the hilt with both hands.
The elite smiled beneath his helm.
"Is that all the church has left?"
Sereth looked up slowly.
"I have always held back," he said, voice steady despite the pain. "Because I believed even my enemies deserved a chance."
He straightened.
"But this war," he continued, eyes burning, "rests on my blade."
A sudden gust tore through the field, snapping his cloak upward like a banner of judgment.
"I will not hold back again."
The elite snarled and charged.
He attacked with terrifying speed, his sword a blur of advanced technique, angles precise, intent murderous. Strike after strike crashed toward Sereth's throat.
Sereth blocked them all.
Steel met steel inches from his neck, his mastery absolute. He flowed with the attacks, turning them aside, absorbing force, redirecting momentum.
The elite roared in fury.
"Fight me!" he bellowed, suddenly shifting his aim.
He pointed his sword toward the Arathen line.
Toward a young soldier cheering over a fallen enemy.
Sereth's eyes widened.
The elite moved.
The soldier turned just in time to see death rushing toward him. He froze. Closed his eyes.
A clang rang out.
He opened them.
Sereth stood between him and the blow.
His sword was buried in the elite's neck.
The elite froze, eyes wide with disbelief.
Sereth twisted the blade.
The body collapsed.
Silence rippled outward.
The young soldier stared.
"Th-thank you," he whispered.
Sereth turned his head slightly.
"Keep fighting," he said. "Honor the fallen."
The soldier straightened, pride flooding his face.
"Yes, Lord Sereth!"
Then the boy's expression changed.
"Oh no…"
Sereth felt it then.
The pain.
A blade protruded from his arm, buried deep.
He clamped a hand over the soldier's mouth before the cry could escape.
"Say nothing," Sereth murmured. "Not yet."
Across the field, a Vraethal soldier ran to the general.
"My lord! The Blade has slain the elite vanguard!"
The general's face darkened with rage.
He raised a horn.
Blew.
The sound rolled across the battlefield, deep and commanding. Both armies slowed, then halted, confusion rippling through their ranks.
Then the earth trembled.
Sereth tore a strip from his cloak and bound his wounded arm, jaw clenched. He turned toward the source of the sound.
From the hill beside the field rose a banner.
A great crescent.
Another.
One of the Five.
Sereth tightened his grip on the sword.
The war was not over.
And the gateway had not yet finished testing him.
I watched, as I always do.
Because this was not just a memory.
It was a question.
And the blade was waiting for the answer.