Thorenz's group moved deeper into the forest, Laura leading the way, her voice low but steady as she unraveled her world. "Where I come from," she began, "is found somewhere in the wilderness of the dead."
Jonah frowned. "But this is a forest. You're saying it's still far?"
"Not really. You'll see soon. But let me tell you about us first." She paused, gathering the weight of her words. "We're ruled by a chief—always peaceful, always choosing talk over war. My country, Welbgard, is poor. We struggle to eat. To drink. We come to the forest to find food, but even that's never enough."
"Why?" Thorenz asked.
"The water's contaminated. Drink it, and you fall sick. Die. And the medical specialists? They've all left."
"Where did they go?" Moses asked.
Laura shook her head. "Before I answer that, you need to understand—Welbgard has always fought to survive. And it's because of where we are. The wilderness of the dead."
Thorenz's eyes narrowed. "What is that?"
"It's the home of the dead. Step into it, and you don't come out. Not truly. You see things—illusions. That's why we starve. Why we thirst. But we still eat, still drink—because believe it or not, deep in the desert, there's a spring."
The boys exchanged glances, stunned.
"A spring?" Jonah whispered.
"Yes," Laura said. "It's been our lifeline for hundreds of years. But ten years ago, it all changed. When he came."
"Who?" Thorenz asked.
"Lazio. A man who wields a heavy axe and commands the earth itself. He took the spring. And with it, our peace."
The forest thinned. Ahead, the trees gave way to scorched sand—and chaos. People clashed in the distance, blades flashing under the sun.
"Those are my people," Laura said, voice tight. "Fighting Lazio's men."
Thorenz didn't hesitate. Sword drawn, he surged forward—into the fire.
Meanwhile, far to the south, Aethel's group crossed into the hill country, the air shifting the moment they passed the waterfall. Night had been behind them—cold, dark, silent—but here, it was morning. Always morning. Snow fell in soft waves under a golden sky that refused to dim, and the chill bit deep, though somehow felt gentle, like the land itself was breathing.
Aethel raised his hand, weaving magic into the air, drawing warmth from will alone. A ripple of light pulsed, and cloth formed—simple, thick, lined with heat. One by one, his people pulled the garments on, relief washing over their faces.
They were led by the archer—the same one who'd fired at them earlier. Long, smooth hair framed his sharp features, and now, instead of hostility, he wore a quiet calm. The country unfolded before them like a dream. Lush terraces carved into the slopes, homes built into the cliffs, glowing lanterns floating without strings. It was beauty so sharp it hurt to look at—something no one would believe unless they stood in it themselves. And the people? Warm. Open. They offered smiles, food, space—no questions, no fear.
"Hey… um," Aethel started as they walked.
The archer glanced back.
"You can call me Maurison," he said.
"Alright, thanks. That helps," Aethel said with a small smile. "Maurison… how does this work?"
"What do you mean?"
"We came here at night. It was dark. Cold, but not like this. Then, past the waterfall—it's like the sun just rose. If this is magic… then is all of this an illusion?"
Maurison stopped. Then burst out laughing—loud, sudden, echoing off the snow-laced trees. Even the townspeople turned, surprised.
"Ah, sorry," he said, wiping a tear. "I'm just… happy."
"Happy?" Aethel asked.
"Yeah. But never mind that. Let me say this—welcome to Dawn City."
"Dawn City?" Aethel frowned. "So it's a city? Not a country?"
"It is a country. Don't ask me why our ancestors called it a city. All I ever read in the history books was that it 'sounded cool.'" Maurison shrugged.
Aethel blinked. "Ah, I see."
Maurison grinned. "As the name says—Dawn City is a daytime country. It's always day. Literally. The sun never sets here. Never has. Never will."
"What????" Aethel's group shouted in unison, voices cracking with disbelief.
Maurison just laughed again. "Hehe. Come on. I'll show you around."
And so they walked—through gardens frozen in bloom, across bridges of ice that didn't melt, past fountains that sang in the wind. Every corner breathed peace. When the tour ended, they were told: "Go where you like. Stay as long as you please."
Maurison gave a nod, then left them—alone in the endless morning.
Meanwhile, in the far north, the battle was a ceaseless, roaring torrent. Thorenz was a phantom at the eye of the storm. A heavily armored warrior lunged, his greatsword aimed for Thorenz's head, but the hero was a blur of motion. He dipped, the massive blade whistling over his helmet, and in the next heartbeat, his own sword flashed up, carving a precise, crimson line across the warrior's torso.
Before the first enemy could fall, three swordsmen closed in, their blades weaving a deadly net. Thorenz didn't try to meet the blows; he vanished from the center of their attack, his body twisting impossibly in the air. When his feet hit the ground, his own sword traced a lightning-fast arc. The three attackers stumbled, their armor offering no resistance to the clean, simultaneous cuts that dropped them instantly.
A fierce, focused light entered Thorenz's eyes. "One Sword Style," he murmured, his blade held low in a familiar stance, the very air around it seeming to shimmer. He drew a deep breath, and then a primal scream tore from his lungs: "CONTINENTAL DEVASTATION!"
The move was a spinning cyclone of destructive force. A hurricane-like wind erupted from his blade, not just pushing, but slamming ten enemies backward. They were lifted off their feet and tumbled away like dolls, their armor useless against the sheer kinetic power.
Thorenz staggered, his chest heaving. The sheer physical toll of the technique was immense. He leaned heavily on his sword, fighting to drag air back into his burning lungs.
"Thorenz! Help!"
The voice, choked with terror, was achingly familiar. His head snapped up, following the sound. A fresh wave of dread crashed over him.
Down the line of the battle, near the ruins of a collapsed fortification, his friends stood exposed. Jonah, Moses, and Laura—captured, bound with thick ropes, and flanked by gloating executioners.
"Guys!" Thorenz screamed, the exhaustion instantly forgotten, replaced by blinding panic.
A swordsman, cruel triumph in his eyes, raised his weapon high above Jonah's neck. "This is what you get for opposing us, hero."
Thorenz lunged forward, a singular, desperate goal now driving him. He was no longer dodging; he was simply eliminating. Every enemy who tried to intercept him was sliced down with ruthless speed. One swordsman charged, blade aimed true, only to find his attack blocked with a jarring CLANG and a swift counter-cut that silenced him forever.
Suddenly, fifty archers appeared on a ridge, their bows drawn. Simultaneously, they unleashed their payload: five arrows each, two hundred and fifty feathered darts darkening the sky, converging on the lone, charging hero.
Thorenz was too far to stop for a detailed defense. He slammed his sword point into the ground and roared the technique a second time: "CONTINENTAL DEVASTATION!"
The wind erupted again, a localized blast that struck the wave of incoming arrows. The two hundred and fifty projectiles were knocked wildly off course, scattered and useless.
But even as he neared them, a grim strategy formed. He halted, the distance still too great for a normal charge, and settled back into his stance, the focused calm of the One Sword Style returning.
"One Sword Style," he declared, his voice ringing across the chaos.
"CONTINENTAL DEVASTATION!"
This time, the gale was aimed precisely at the guards surrounding his friends. The enemy swordsmen were hurled away like chaff, their threats vanishing in the wind. Thorenz smiled, a flash of relief warming his chest.
The smile froze.
As the dust settled, he saw them. Moses and Laura were intact, but Jonah was crumpled on the dirt. A terrible crimson stain blossomed rapidly across his tunic, front and back, marking the spot where the executioner's sword had found its mark in that final, split-second movement before the wind hit. Jonah winced, a guttural sound of agony escaping his lips.
"Jonaaaaah!" The sound tore from Thorenz's throat, a raw bellow of pain and failure.
He sprinted the last yards and collapsed beside his friend. He gently lifted Jonah, cradling his head and torso in his arms. Moses and Laura stood over them, their faces masks of silent horror.
"Tho… re… n…z," Jonah stammered, the words wet with blood as a final, rattling breath left his body.
"Nooooo!" Thorenz roared, the sound swallowed by the noise of the ongoing battle, yet vibrating with unbearable anguish.
Something fundamental snapped inside him. The calculating warrior was gone, replaced by a vessel of pure, destructive fury. He dropped Jonah's body and stood, his sword finding the first nearby enemy. He didn't use techniques; he simply slaughtered. Every block was a strike, every opening a death sentence. He became a berserker, his vision red, his movements driven by searing pain. The enemies, no matter how numerous, could not withstand the sudden, volcanic eruption of his rage.
"Thorenz!" Laura screamed his name, desperate to pull him back from the precipice of madness. But the cry was lost. Thorenz had ceased to hear. He was only the weapon of his grief, and the killing continued.
Meanwhile, miles away in the radiant, sun-drenched Dawn City, a different kind of experience unfolded. Aethel and the fifty people who were traveling with him on this journey—the individuals who had agreed to accompany him to help in the coming test—were lost in a haze of indulgent luxury.
Each person was granted a private, opulent room, and around them swirled a coterie of stunningly beautiful companions. The women accompanying Aethel's group were waited upon themselves. Female maids meticulously bathed them, washing their hair and bodies, before moving on to the precise work of cleaning and polishing their fingernails. Simultaneously, male attendants worked over their shoulders and backs, their hands kneading away every speck of tension.
Aethel's room was the most lavish of all, and like every other man in the group, only female maids were permitted to tend to his personal needs. They knelt, washing and drying his feet with fragrant oils, and then patiently combed and dried his long hair. It was a life beyond mortal toil, a genuine, golden paradise. In every suite, a cool earthenware jar of fine wine stood ready with a silver cup, next to a bowl overflowing with exotic, chilled fruits.
A soft knock came at the door, followed immediately by the entrance of Emirys, a young man and one of the fifty people who accompanied Aethel.
"Hey, Emirys. What brings you away from your own comfortable spot?" Aethel asked, gesturing lazily from the silken cushions where he reclined.
Emirys walked closer, a dreamy, slightly dazed look on his face. "You know, Aethel," he breathed, sinking onto a nearby stool, "this place is incredible. I'm so glad I came along."
"Oh? I see you're certainly enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Aethel's tone was one of easy amusement.
"Yeah, I am! Dawn City is a miracle. Aethel, listen," Emirys leaned forward, his voice earnest, "let's not leave. Let's just stay. The women here are peerless, the weather is perfect year-round, the land is generous. Brother, this isn't just a place—it's paradise on earth itself."
Aethel sighed, the sound carrying a note of duty that was out of place in the luxurious room. "Sorry, brother, but we are leaving soon."
As the words left his mouth, the opulent room dissolved.
Aethel suddenly found himself standing in his family's ancestral home. He was surrounded by smiling, familiar faces—the entire clan gathered together, full of warmth and joy. His mother, Roxanne, was laughing softly, her eyes full of pride.
His gaze snapped toward the center of the gathering. His younger twin brother, Thorenz, was kneeling before their father, Fredericko. With solemn ceremony, Fredericko took his legendary black blade, the sword known as Oathkeeper's Shadow, and placed it carefully into Thorenz's waiting hands.
"With this sword, Thorenz," Fredericko's voice resonated with power, "do you swear to keep the humans safe?"
"Yes, Father, I will," Thorenz replied, his voice strong and clear, the black blade gleaming menacingly in his grasp.
Thorenz rose, holding the Oathkeeper's Shadow high above his head in a declaration. The crowd erupted in a triumphant cheer, their cries of adoration filling the hall.
Aethel jolted. The image shattered like glass, plunging him back into the reality of the silk-draped room in Dawn City.
"No!" he yelled, sitting bolt upright, sweat beading on his forehead.
"What is it? What happened?" Emirys asked, startled by the sudden outburst.
Aethel gasped, fighting for breath, the phantom cheers of the crowd still ringing in his ears. His eyes were wide with a terror that had nothing to do with the war raging far away. "We have to leave. Tell everyone. We are going back home, now!"
"What? Aethel, we just got here!" Emirys protested, baffled.
Aethel ignored him. Without another word, he scrambled off the cushions and began furiously donning his clothes. His sudden, desperate urgency was infectious, forcing Emirys and the remaining forty-nine companions to shed their comforts, their smiles fading into confusion and hasty compliance. The pleasures of Dawn City were abandoned, the paradise instantly rendered a prison. Within the hour, Aethel marched his company out of the city gates, turning their backs on the golden cage and beginning the hard journey home.
Meanwhile, in the vast, scorching expanse of the desert, the battle still raged on. He was a whirlwind of rage, his black blade an extension of his sorrow, carving a path of destruction through the illusory enemy horde. He had already, single-handedly, tallied over a hundred fallen swordsmen in his phantom war, but the fury burning in his chest was insatiable. He needed more blood to quench the searing agony of loss.
Suddenly, a sensation of warmth, gentle and unfamiliar, brushed against his shoulder. It was a stark contrast to the grit and violence he was wrapped in. His training was absolute; he didn't pause to look, but simply reacted, swinging his sword back in a deadly, low arc.
To his shock, three figures moved with impossible speed, ducking or jumping over his attack.
He staggered, his frantic, battle-worn gaze focusing on the trio. And then, he saw him. Jonah, standing whole and unhurt, rubbing his shoulder where the sword had nearly passed. Moses and Laura stood beside him. The air was still, silent. The countless bodies, the roar of the fighting, the distant screams—all gone. The desert was empty save for the four of them.
"Jonah," Thorenz breathed, the name a ragged whisper as he fought to catch his breath. The exhaustion of his supposed hundred kills suddenly crashed down on him. "You're… alive?"
"He was never dead, Thorenz," Moses said quietly, his expression serious.
"Huh?" Thorenz could barely process the simple statement.
"That's right," Laura confirmed, stepping forward. "What you experienced was a complete illusion. The endless war you were fighting, the capture, the attack on Jonah—it was all a fabrication. This happened because you wandered into the Wilderness of the Dead. It happens to everyone who crosses its borders. I was only able to anchor you and pull you back because I am from Welbgard."
"Ah, thank goodness," Thorenz murmured, the relief so profound it buckled his knees. He sank onto the hot sand, the weight of his grief and fury instantly lifting. He pushed himself back up, his focus returning. "Laura, let's continue. We have wasted enough time."
"As you listen, please, follow my exact path," Laura instructed, leading them carefully away from the desolate, shimmering heat distortion. "You do not want to stumble back into the Wilderness of the Dead."
"Alright," Thorenz agreed, finally sheathing his sword in its scabbard.
"Like you just witnessed, that is the curse of this place," Laura continued as they walked. "Whoever enters that space becomes trapped in their worst nightmare until they die of thirst or despair."
"Can't we do something about it?" Jonah asked, glancing nervously back at the empty, shimmering sands.
"No one has ever tried," Laura sighed. "And even if we wanted to, what could we do? Anyone who steps in there might not live to tell the story. Because of this deadly Wilderness, the spring became our only reliable source of life. We became comfortable, sheltered by the danger around us. But ten years ago, a group of violent, thug-looking men arrived at the spring, claiming the land belonged to their ancestors."
Laura's voice grew hard. "They claimed our ancestors had cheated theirs out of the territory. Our ever-peaceful Chief tried to negotiate, offering peaceful communication, but Lazio, their leader, refused every term laid down. He even physically attacked our Chief. At that point, our young and middle-aged men felt they had to fight back. But with Lazio's skill, we couldn't win. They took the spring."
She pointed ahead, where a faint plume of oily black smoke stained the horizon. "They built a massive factory close to the spring. In that factory, they forge weapons of war. But the after-effect has poisoned us all: the gas vented from the stacks has polluted the air, and, worse still, the factory's waste drains directly into the spring. This is our problem. Please, we need your help."
The group stood silent for a moment, standing before the large, carved gate of Welbgard. Thorenz, Moses, and Jonah exchanged sharp, serious glances.
"Hah!" Thorenz finally broke the silence, a predatory grin replacing his earlier confusion. "Leave it to us. This is getting very interesting."
As the heavy gate groaned open, revealing the settlement beyond, the trio straightened, their faces alight with focused intent.
"Men! Let's go!" Thorenz ordered, his voice ringing with renewed purpose.
"Right!" Moses, Jonah, and Laura chorused, stepping through the gate and into the besieged community.