She couldn't believe what she saw. Close to a hundred horses were charging at her. The noise alone was deafening. Fear squeezed her heart and held on tight. They weren't going to stop. As always, she realized too late.
Stop regretting the past!
Ivrea's voice rang crystal clear through her head. Her mentor had always left a mark on her.
The horde of horses was closing in faster than ever. Their hooves thundered and their riders shouted. A cloud of dust preceded them. If she wasn't still terrified, then she might have sneezed. She had no chance of escaping their charge, yet her legs moved. Terror made her stumble over her own feet. She caught herself on her hands before she could hit the ground face-first. Crawling was even slower, but she tried anyway.
A quick glance and the horde of soldiers was almost upon her. There was no strength left in her. She was going to die. She was going to be crushed to death. Here in the dirt, in a battle she had accidentally walked into. Here she was still unknown. Still searching for her purpose in life. She was going to meet her end and there was nothing she could do about it.

As the day gave way to twilight, the sky turned a deep red, signaling the night's approach. A lone figure, shrouded in a cloak, made his way down the empty road. His tall frame stood out against the fading light, a quiet guardian of the aftermath of war. His helmet, once a mark of his mercenary life, clinked against his armour with every step as it was carelessly swung over his shoulder, but its very presence told tales of many battles won. The sound of his armored boots echoed, kicking up the dust of old memories with every purposeful step.
He was known as Crux, a name that inspired both respect and fear in royal halls and the hidden nooks of pubs. His sword was known for its deadly reputation, unforgiving to anyone who crossed it. War had shaped him, tempered in blood and iron, but now he carried the weight of his own soul, a load far heavier than any suit of armor.
Driven by an inner void, he was on a search for peace, a place spared by war's destruction. Whispers of a mountain hamlet, a refuge for those abandoned and lost, had reached him. Clinging to a hope as delicate as the fading light, he pursued this sanctuary, longing for a break from his constant battle for survival.
As darkness took over, it felt as if the heavens themselves had closed for the night. Crux reached the village just as the lamplighter sparked life into the evening, casting a welcoming light on the peaceful settlement cradled by nature. The village's simple charm was a stark contrast to the turmoil within him, with its wooden homes, well-kept gardens, and the harmonious living of humans and animals.
Each villager had a unique mark, a six-pointed star tattoo that glowed with a secret unknown to the moon above. It was an unfamiliar symbol to Crux, a puzzle in a land where innocence often fell victim to the harsh play of power.
"Welcome to our village, wanderer," an elder greeted him, his voice rich with the wisdom of many years. "What's your name, hidden beneath your cloak?" "Crux," he answered shortly, his tone reflecting a life of isolation.
"Allow me to show you around," the elder offered. "A place to rest and food for your journey await you, to ease the weariness of your travels." Crux responded with a noncommittal grunt, cautious of the unexpected kindness that seemed as rare as a flower in barren lands.
As they moved through the village, the elder introduced Crux to the locals, whose smiles were as disarming as they were sincere. There were no guards on duty, no swords at their sides. It was a kind of peace Crux had never experienced, fragile yet beautiful.
"How do you protect such light from the darkness that seeks to engulf it?" Crux asked, his doubt serving as a barrier against potential letdowns.
"We don't have weapons here because there's nothing here to take or conquer," the elder answered, still smiling. "We don't harm anyone, and in return, no one wishes us harm."
The elder brought Crux to the center of the village, to an inn that stood as a testament to the community's spirit. A young woman with golden hair and blue eyes greeted him, the mysterious star adorning her wrist. Her beauty momentarily distracted him from the unease that lingered.
Inside, the inn buzzed with the joy of its guests, except for one who, like Crux, was a traveler. Zane, a name known in tales, sat among them. His presence was as enigmatic as the village itself.
"Do you recognize me?" asked Zane, his voice clear and direct.
A chill ran down Crux's back as he faced Zane the Immortal, a warrior whose fame was built on survival and victory. The hidden sai in his boot was proof of his readiness for any threat, any challenge.
Crux's hand instinctively went to his sword's hilt, sharpened by years of strife. This was no random encounter. Zane had set a trap, and Crux had entered it with eyes wide open.
"Easy now," Zane taunted, his voice rhythmic with the promise of danger. He moved with the ease of a hunter, his eyes shining with excitement. "Start something here, and this sacred place will be stained red." Crux's hold on his sword relaxed; the once reassuring steel now felt foreign. He had come seeking escape from death, only to find it waiting here, ever faithful.
"What strange fate brought you to this retreat?" Crux asked, his eyes scanning the inn's peaceful setting. Zane's laugh, sharp and cold, broke the silence.
"Retreat? It's all just a charade," Zane scoffed, echoing Crux's deepest doubts. The inn was alive, too perfect, too calm. The villagers celebrated, seemingly oblivious to the danger that hung over them. Jill, the barmaid, laughed, her joy a tune in the symphony of pretense. Yet, nothing was out of place, no sign of the deception.
"You give me too much credit," Zane mocked, the beer in front of him just another piece in their game of war.
"You're blind to reality, you're no match for me. I've roamed far and wide, looking for a fight that's worth my time. No one has beaten me yet, but I'm still searching for the taste of defeat. Rumors of a legendary swordsman brought me here, to this dull backdrop, waiting for a showdown," Zane's gaze, filled with a fiery intensity, locked onto Crux. The Immortal, a title soaked in blood—most who faced him didn't live to tell the tale. Crux wouldn't be just another victory for him, but he couldn't ignore the battle's call.
"Pick the time, pick the place. We'll see who's truly immortal," Crux threw down the gauntlet, his words heavy with challenge. Zane's smile grew, his delight a sign of the conflict to come.
"Your spirit's strong, I'll give you that. But passion alone won't make you a winner. Let's meet in the cornfield, under the moon's gaze. Ready to light up the night?"
The cornfield, a whispering sea of green, was the first thing Crux had seen when he arrived at the village. The young, sturdy stalks stood witness to the coming chaos. The thought of the villagers' anger crossed his mind but vanished just as fast—they had no swords to chase him off.
"Go ahead, finish your drink. It might give you some courage," Crux quipped, a rare grin on his face. Zane's laughter rang out again, the sound of someone without a care, as he emptied his glass.
"Your jokes have been soothing, Swordsman. Too bad they'll end soon," Zane announced, standing up to lead the way to their destined battleground.
The villagers continued in their own little world, unaware or uncaring of the brewing conflict. No calls for peace, no worried looks as the fighters left. Crux felt a tremor, a sense of hidden truths behind the villagers' smiles. What secrets did this place hide? What price would he pay for being here?
But as Crux stepped out into the night, his heart raced with the thrill of an upcoming duel like no other.
The cornfield was ready, a natural arena for a clash of legends. The stalks rustled softly, as if cautioning the two figures who stood ready in the night's embrace. The moon above, a silent judge, bathed them in a ghostly light, casting long shadows that mirrored their tense stances. They faced each other, giants of resolve and strength, their swords mere extensions of their determined wills.
Without a word, as if heeding an ancient call, they charged. Metal clashed with metal, igniting a storm of sparks that lit up the darkness. Zane moved with a ghostly swiftness, while Crux countered with unyielding might. Each strike, each parry, was a stroke in their deadly dance, each searching for the one flaw to exploit.
"Your strength is impressive, Swordsman!" Zane bellowed, his voice booming over the ring of their swords. Crux said nothing, his concentration an impenetrable shield against Zane's fierce onslaught.
The duel seemed to stretch on forever, a timeless battle where sweat and determination hung thick in the air. Neither gave ground to the shadow of defeat.
Then, the battle's rhythm changed—Zane's steps became a series of dodges, a ballet meant to mislead. Crux felt the shift; the Immortal's nimbleness was his advantage. Pretending fatigue, Crux aimed to lure Zane into a false sense of superiority.
Their fight tore through the cornfield, indifferent to the damage done to land or limb. Zane's sword chipped away at Crux's, while Crux's own blows met nothing but empty air, Zane's figure remaining unscathed.
"Thrilling! The joy of facing a formidable opponent fuels me. Keep it up! I want to relish this fight!" Zane's laugh was like thunder, his attacks unceasing.
In a flash of insight, Zane spotted an opening in Crux's defense. His blade, a flash of light, thrust forward for the decisive blow. Crux, on pure reflex, lifted his sword to meet the challenge. The collision of their blades was explosive, a sound that shattered the night's calm.
Then, the unexpected—both swords broke, their pieces scattered by the wind. The shock knocked them back, the ground claiming them both in a draw.
Zane's laughter pierced the quiet, filled with the exhilaration of the fight. "Well fought!" he exclaimed, rising with the poise of one who cannot die. "Crux, your name will be remembered," he said, standing proud.
Crux would never shake the memory of what happened next. Zane, with arms wide and head tilted back in sheer bliss, became a vessel for wild, unchecked power. Crux couldn't look away as the Immortal reveled in his metamorphosis, ascending beyond mere mortality.
Zane's leather outfit groaned under the pressure, stretching as he grew larger, his bones shifting in a chilling crescendo. The quiet of the night was shattered by the sound of rending fabric as spectral wings erupted, snapping open with a resonance that filled the air like a battle cry. The laughter that had once reached for the skies cut off suddenly as Zane looked down at Crux, his face now a mask of terror. Twisting from his forehead, two spiraled horns reached for the stars, sharp as destiny's edge.
A wave of fear washed over Crux, his skin prickling with a cold sweat. The figure before him was no longer human, but something out of a nightmare. His heart pounded in his chest, racing as Zane's transformed eyes met his.
"It's been ages since I've felt this alive!" Zane's voice, now a deep rumble from some dark place, vibrated with raw power. His majestic wings moved gently, stirring the air and sending waves through Crux's hair. Rising higher, the creature spoke with the weight of eons behind him.
"Our paths are bound to cross in battle again, Swordsman. And when they do, you'll awaken this incredible rush of combat in me once more. That's what I live for!" Zane's bellow was a triumph, not over Crux, but over the ordinary limits of life.
As Zane's imposing form faded into the shadows, Crux was left swirling in a storm of emotions. Fear mingled with a sense of relief, anger with exasperation. Yet, amid the chaos, a deep respect and awe for his foe took hold. Zane had controlled his monstrous power with remarkable restraint, a sign of his unyielding spirit. This control, this ability to tame the inner beast, was something Crux couldn't help but respect.