Blade of the Wargod

The hall was built to dwarf those within it.

Marble pillars soared into an arched ceiling painted with a sun that seemed alive. Light poured from the painted orb in gentle rays. Not blinding, but warm and constant, as if some divine hand held it in place. The artistry was masterful, the brushwork deep and layered, yet the painting moved. The fresco sun turned ever so slightly, its light shifting across the stone as though the hall itself breathed.

The walls blazed with color. Animated stained glass stretched high in every direction, acting as portals into some pastoral dream. Cows grazed in endless meadows, birds swooped past with faint calls, and streams flowed with crystalline laughter.

It was all too much. A counterfeit holiness laid on thick, gaudy and sickly sweet.

On the ground floor, intricate letters spiraled across the marble in archaic patterns. The summoning circle had burned itself into the stone long ago, and though its light was faded, the marks throbbed faintly. The children stood upon it, frightened and small, their sneakers squeaking against symbols older than their entire world.

They clutched backpacks and jackets—bright colors, denim, and neon that looked absurd in this temple of gilded pretense. One boy’s windbreaker had cartoon characters on the sleeves. A girl’s scrunchie glowed pink beneath the divine light. They were fragments of the 1990s torn from living rooms and schoolyards, now trembling before armored men and spears.

Among them stood one who blended in just enough to go unnoticed. His sneakers bore a logo bent the wrong way. His jacket stripes were slightly off-color. His jeans looked mall-bought but not quite right. Athena’s hand had crafted them to mimic the children’s world, but only enough to disguise. To the guards, he was just another terrified kid.

At the far end of the hall, on a golden throne raised high, the king rose. His robes were stiff with heavy embroidery, his crown oversized, his grin wider still. He spread his arms, drunk on the echo of his own voice.

“Behold, chosen ones! You have been summoned from beyond the veil, across worlds, to defend our kingdom! The Demon King rises, and only you may stand against him!”

His voice reverberated off the marble with an enchantment’s unnatural depth. The children whimpered. Some cried openly. A boy whispered for his mother. Another clenched his fists.

Behind the king, the royal family lounged in mockery of his grand speech. The queen sipped wine. The princess fidgeted with her dress. The prince smashed toy soldiers together, muttering explosion sounds.

None of them cared.

The disguised youth began to laugh.

Quiet at first, then louder, sharper, until even the painted sun seemed to turn toward the sound. The king’s grin faltered.

“What is so amusing, child?”

The youth stepped forward. His voice cut clean as a blade. “You. All of this. You’re an idiot. You’re full of crap.”

Gasps rippled through the hall.

He pulled off his hoodie, revealing a lean, scarred face and piercing green eyes burning cold with contempt.

“There is no Demon King. There hasn’t been one for centuries. You dragged these kids here to wave them like flags in your petty wars. Your magic is weak. Their gifts are weaker. They will die for you, and you will call it noble.”

The king leaned forward, his arrogance slipping into sudden, creeping dread. He stared at the scars, the cold, dead-eyed stance, and the sheer lack of fear in the boy’s posture. A sickening realization dawned on his face.

“Those eyes...” the king whispered, his voice trembling. “It can’t be. You...”

“My name is Brand.”

The king shrieked like a dying pig. “No! Not him! The Butcher of Kings! The wretch who topples thrones! Guards! Kill him!”

Steel rang.

The youth moved.

Brand fired off like a missile, launching a 540-degree spinning kick snapped the first guard’s head sideways inside his helmet with a sickening crunch. The second guard screamed in fear as he launched a spear strike at the boy’s side. He side steps, A straight punch caved the second guard’s ribs in a vicious counter attack.

The third guard slashes at Brand, causing him to bob and weave to avoid the wide attacks, finally ending with a side position as the man thrusted with his polished blade. With a glare, he dropped brutal chop that broke the arm of the third so violently that bone pierced skin.

The last didn’t move an inch, but didn’t stop Brand as he fired off again towards this guard. He tries to lift his flint-lock firearm and before he could get the boy down sights, the youth spun and launched off of the earth with incredible power, A spinning back kick sent the fourth through a stained-glass window, shattering the illusion, where cows still grazed peacefully behind his falling corpse.

The children screamed. The queen’s wineglass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the dais.

Brand stood among the bodies, his expression ice-cold. “You wanted heroes? Heroes don’t serve tyrants.”

Silence fell.

After what felt like an eternity, heavy laughter boomed over the carnage.

A massive man with hair like fire and a beard to match. Streaks of gray ran through his fire-red hair, and deep lines carved his stone face. He stepped forward from the second tier of the hall and down the steps.

THUD. CLANK. SCRAAAAAAPE. THUD. CLANK. SCRAPE.

Each step rang through the hall, armor clanking, the massive blade screaming against the stone behind him.

His armor was a patchwork of dents and cracked plates. Each step shook the marble. The dragged sword leave what looks like a bloody wound on the originally sanctified marble.

No, not a sword. A slab of rusted iron larger than most men.

Blood pits scarred it. Rust ate through it. The stone shrieked as he pulled it, and he reached the bottom with one last grinding scrape. He smiles.

Brand was frozen. Rust General Ulric. The ‘slayer of ten thousand’. Last time he saw him was back as a child soldier. He isn’t sure Ulric would remember him, but he definitely remembered the man cleaving the earth as if it was sheets of candy glass.

The giant moved forward again when Brand didn’t approach him. Ulric stopped before the boy. “Forgive me, lad. Orders are orders.”

“Kill him, Ulric!” the king screamed from behind his throne. “Tear him apart!”

Ulric raised his slab of iron. The hilt creaked under decades of abuse and its own weight.

Brand didn’t flinch. Instead, he locked eyes with the giant, deliberately drawing every ounce of the General’s killing intent onto himself. It was the distraction they needed. In the shadows of the pillars, Athena’s hidden agents detached themselves from the dark. Moving like smoke, they grabbed the terrified children, pulling them seamlessly into shimmering portals while the monsters prepared to clash.

Ulric swung. The atmosphere split ahead of the blade, displaced faster than sound a feat that should have been impossible given the weapon’s size and weight. A feat that shouldn’t be possible with the size and weight of the slab.

Brand dodged by inches. Magic-hardened marble shattered behind him, throwing shrapnel into the air. Brand used his internal energy to disperse the shockwave that fired towards him and used his hands to deflect stray marble that followed with it.

Brand counterattacked, every strike a blur of lethal precision. His fists hammered dents into Ulric’s heavy armor. His kicks should have cracked ribs through even a solid plate, but he knew better with Ulric’s relaxed face. Sparks danced violently each time flesh met rusted metal leaving the plate armor cratered with dents, Brand’s knuckles splitting against the reinforced steel plates.

Ulric, tired of the abuse roared and swung a sweeping arc, backing Brand against a crumbling pillar when Ulric releases his sword and it spins in place. Ulric catches the blade mid-air and slaps one side to start what can only be described in a massive, rusty sword drill pointed towards the boy.

There was nowhere left to run but during Ulric’s ‘performance’, Brand’s stance shifted. He rooted his feet into the cracked marble. His eyes narrowed, glowing with a fierce, concentrated light.

“Wargod Art…”

The air behind him warped and bent under immense pressure. A phantom cannon materialized—black, intricate, and massive, its heavy muzzle aligning perfectly with Brand’s pulled-back fist.

“…M102 Howitzer!”

The punch detonated like thunder.

Air screamed as the concussive blast tore through the hall, blew a massive hole completely through Ulric’s armor and vaporizing his arm into mist. The projectile continued and exploded into the thick stone wall behind him, shaking the massive hall and causing the king and his family to fall over in fear.

Real, unfiltered sunlight erupted into the chamber, washing away the painted illusion above.

Ulric dropped to his knees, blood pouring from the catastrophic wound.

Brand stepped close, his fists still smoking. “Why did you hold back at the end? You could have killed me.”

Ulric exhaled wet and rattling. He looked up, a faint smile touching his scarred lips.

“I knew of a boy with green eyes during the war... I saw your fire then.” Ulric coughed, blood staining his beard. “I held back today... because my war ended a long time ago. Yours is just beginning. Do not waste it.”

He collapsed forward, dying with a soldier’s quiet dignity.

Brand closed his eyes. Taking a slow breath, he turned toward the dais. With calm ice in his voice, he looked at the trembling monarch.

“Your subjects will deal with you.”

The king’s screams echoed off the broken walls as Athena’s agents descended upon the throne.

One of the agents, wiping blood from his blade, approached Brand. “The children are safe. Come drink with us. Celebrate.”

Brand shook his head. “I have other missions.”

As he turned to walk into the genuine sunlight, Athena’s voice brushed against his thoughts, soft and sorrowful.

I remember the old you, when Tyr was still here. You were hopeful. Kind. I will not give up on finding that boy again.

Brand said nothing. His silence was his answer.

The dazzling, broken sunlight of the throne room faded, melting into the dim, flickering glow of a hearth fire. The sharp scent of blood and ozone gave way to the heavy aroma of roasted meat, stale ale, and sweet pipe smoke.

Thwack.

A heavy wooden tankard slammed onto a scratched table.

“Hold on,” a bearded patron grunted, wiping foam from his mouth as he glared at the corner of the room. “You cannot just start a story there. Who is that boy supposed to be?”

A groan of agreement moved through the crowded tavern.

In the corner, obscured by the shadows and the haze of smoke, the storyteller simply brushed his fingers across his lute. A single, resonant note hummed through the room, its perfect clarity silencing the grumbling patrons.

“That would explain the confusion,” Freud said. His voice was smooth, carrying a strange, timeless weight. “Some places trade in grain and quiet lives. Others trade in stories.”

He adjusted the lute, a wry smile visible beneath the cowl of his deep hood.

“But you are right about one thing. I did begin in the middle.”

The lute hummed again, a darker, melancholic chord this time that seemed to make the very shadows of the tavern lean in to listen.

“If you wish to understand the Butcher of Kings... then we must go to the beginning. Let me tell you of a child once called Blade Seven.”