The Ninth Throne

The smell of blood and wet earth reached him before he even opened his eyes.

"You there, boy! Get up! What do you think you're doing?!"

Tai Hong lay there, listening to the voice of a man in his late forties, clad in red armor marked with a cross, his face so caked in the dust of battle that his wrinkles looked like black ravines.

"Stand up, boy! Take your sword and fight!"

Tai Hong gripped his sword — and only then realized he was no longer where he'd been a moment ago. The ground beneath him wasn't ground he recognized; mud churned by horses' hooves and blood that hadn't yet dried, and the ring of steel on steel filling the air from every direction.

He was standing in the middle of a battle inside an old castle, somewhere along the borders of the Holy Roman Empire. Its towering stone walls swallowed the gray sky above, and the screams of men — some in fury, some in their final breaths — bounced between the ramparts as though the castle itself were screaming with them.

Where the hell am I? Swords... castles... I can feel everything. This isn't a dream.

He froze for a moment, then his eyes went wide.

And I can hear them speaking English. Why do I understand what they're saying?

A sharp whistle cut through the air above his head, followed by another, then dozens more. Arrows rained down from the castle walls like a swarm of metal insects, forcing Tai Hong to raise his sword and defend himself, his body moving on an instinct he didn't recognize as his own. Beside him, the man in the red armor fought fiercely, deflecting arrows with quick, circular motions of his shield without giving up a single step. He raised his black sword and called out:

"Illuminate!"

The blade flared with light, casting a strange glow across the terrified faces around them for a brief instant.

His sword is glowing... and that outfit — I know it. I've seen it before, in some history book.

Suddenly the man grabbed Tai Hong's shoulder and yanked him down hard enough to nearly dislocate it, then raised his shield above both their heads to shield them from the arrows. Three of them struck the metal at once, the impact shuddering through his arm.

"What are you doing, Alexander?! Defend yourself! We're breaking through the eastern side of the castle! Not much left now! Don't lose focus, son!"

Tai Hong said nothing. He was staring up at the towering castle before him, its turrets cutting into the horizon like stone teeth. It looked strangely recent, as though it hadn't stood for very long — nothing like the crumbling ancient ruins he'd only ever seen in textbooks. Its design was entirely Western, exactly like the medieval castles he'd seen in pictures.

Damn it... is my name Alexander now? And I'm a boy? And this man is my father?

I don't understand what's happening, but I have to fight. These people won't stop firing arrows at us.

The father took hold of Alexander's sword, ran his hand along the blade in an almost ritual gesture, and said loudly:

"Illuminate!"

The sword flared to life. William handed the sword back to his son, and its weight in his hand felt suddenly different — as if some new metal had replaced the old.

"Here. Your sword is stronger now."

Then he looked at him, concern flickering across his face.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, but you need to hold your ground. We're winning!"

Alexander — or rather, Tai Hong — took hold of the glowing sword and felt an odd shift in how it sat in his grip; a strange lightness, as though the blade were breathing between his fingers. Everything around him was happening at a dizzying pace; bodies falling from the castle walls like broken dolls, men fighting everywhere amid smoke and broken screams.

Then he noticed figures dressed like the man beside him, but in white, black crosses emblazoned across their chests, moving in disciplined ranks through the chaos.

He heard one of the men from his own army shouting, as if commanding everyone at once:

"Templars! Regroup!"

Templars? I knew I'd seen these uniforms before, but none of this makes any real sense to me.

And then he noticed something strange: the sword in his hand was defending him from every incoming arrow entirely on its own, without him guiding it, as if some unseen hand were moving it in his place. It reacted automatically, as if whatever his father had done to it earlier had given it a standing order to protect him.

It's like playing a game on easy mode... how is this even possible?

"Alexander! Didn't you hear the commander? Fall in!"

Alexander ran toward the Templars, stumbling once over a body on the ground, then fell in among them and began mimicking every movement they made like a shadow.

"Knights! Swords to the sky!"

The knights raised their swords in one synchronized motion, as if a single body moved them all.

"William, advance!"

Alexander's father stepped forward, gripping his black sword, his steps heavy and steady, cutting a path through the corpses as though he didn't see them at all.

So... my father's name is William.

William took his place at the head of the group of knights and stood alone before the castle's massive gate. The commander addressed him with clear respect, but Alexander couldn't make out the words over the roar filling the battlefield.

William stood, then raised his sword high and spoke in a voice that thundered across the field — a voice that seemed to silence the battle itself for a moment:

"By the power of the King's Blessing... I shall cut down this gate!"

All the knights raised their swords, blades beginning to glow with a warm golden light. But William's black sword was different; it grew darker and darker by the moment, drinking in every bit of light radiating from the swords around it, as if feeding on it with silent hunger. Even Alexander's sword wasn't spared — the glow vanished from its blade, drawn toward William's sword as if pulled by an invisible thread.

Silence fell over everyone watching. The arrows stopped flying, even the cries of the dying seemed to pause for a moment, as if the whole battlefield were holding its breath before that black sword — a blade that didn't just swallow the light of other swords, but seemed to be drinking in the sunlight itself from above the castle walls. Darkness began creeping in around them, spreading from beneath William's feet like a pool of ink widening across the ground.

William raised his sword, closed his eyes, and bowed slightly, aiming the blade at the massive castle gate. He murmured a few words Alexander couldn't make out, but he could see a strange glow surrounding his father — or the man who was now his father — as if the darkness itself were coiling obediently around him.

Then, in the span of seconds, William swung his sword.

Everything plunged into absolute darkness. No one could see even their own hand. For a moment, there was nothing but silence — the kind of silence that presses on the ears harder than any noise ever could.

Then a blinding light burst through the darkness, sudden as a lightning strike. But it wasn't a light of salvation — it came with a sound so massive it shook the ground beneath their feet:

CRACK!

The castle gate shattered into fragments of wood and stone, flying in every direction. Screams rose from the soldiers inside. Unable to see anything in the lingering darkness, some of the castle's own defenders began striking each other, convinced the Templars had already breached their ranks. The screaming and chaos continued for a few horrifying moments before everything gradually began to settle.

William lowered his sword, and the glow surrounding him began to fade, returning him to his ordinary form — a tired man leaning heavily on his blade for a moment.

"By the King's Blessing... let there be light once more."

The darkness slowly receded, drawing back like a wave returning to the sea, and light returned to the battlefield.

Alexander looked down at his hand, then at William.

Who is this man?! He wields power like a god...

Then he looked down at the black sword in his hand.

I don't belong in this place.

Sunlight returned to the battlefield, revealing the full scale of the destruction. The soldiers began to realize the gate had been shattered, and that in the chaos and darkness, they had killed each other. Their weapons slipped from their hands in stunned silence. As for the Templars, they did nothing but gather behind William in quiet, orderly ranks, then began channeling light from their swords toward him, as if silently thanking him.

The Templar commander stepped forward, his pace slow and measured, like a man who understood exactly the weight of every word he was about to speak, and said in a voice that cut through what remained of the stunned silence:

"Surrender! It's over! Anyone who surrenders will receive the Church's mercy — anyone who resists will live in darkness forever!"

The soldiers inside the castle hesitated, their eyes darting between their broken swords and William's black blade, but they understood they were no match for him. Surrender spread through them like a plague — one weapon falling, then another. The first soldier stepped out, trembling hands raised, then a second, then a third, and within moments dozens of them emerged and bowed before the Templar commander in a long line of lowered heads.

The commander wore black, a large cross at the center of his chest, an iron white helmet marking him apart from the rest of the knights, as if carved from an entirely different material. He looked at them with cold eyes and said:

"You heathens... you've fought against the Church for years. Now you will answer for every crime you've committed."

One soldier cried out, his face pale, his voice breaking:

"But you promised us mercy!"

The commander took one calm step toward him and said:

"Mercy is dying with honor... and being buried instead of having your body burned."

The soldier screamed again, stepping back even though there was nowhere to run:

"You lied to us, you bastard!"

The commander stared at him for a long moment, without anger, without pity, then turned to his knights and said coldly, a tone utterly unfit for what he was about to order:

"Cut off their heads... mercifully."

Alexander's hand trembled on the hilt of his sword.

This commander deceived them. There is no mercy in killing.

Am I living with these people now? When do I get back to my own body?

Then the answer came to him in a dry, almost cruel tone: what body? He'd killed himself. That was his last memory from back there — just a failed Chinese boxer who couldn't even manage to win his fights.

He looked around, at the heads falling silently behind him now.

And here I am, watching a massacre and a victory in a battle I never even took part in. Even in this new world, I have no role to play. I'm just a spectator.

The Templar commander turned and left without a glance at the bodies behind him, taking William with him as they walked past rows of bowing knights. The commander said to William:

"William, you've given much tonight. I'm grateful you chose to return."

William walked in silence, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead, then turned to his son.

"Alexander, come here."

Alexander approached with slow steps, trying to appear steadier than he felt. He had no idea how to speak, or how this body had behaved before he woke up inside it.

Did I steal this boy's body? No... maybe he died in the battle.

Alexander reached his father and stopped between William and the Templar commander, trying not to look too small standing between the two of them. The commander looked at him with a faint smile that never reached his eyes and said:

"Thank you for fighting for our cause, boy. We'll need boys like you in the future."

William sheathed his sword with a decisive motion and said coldly:

"Alexander will not become a Templar."

The commander looked at him for a moment, then nodded with an understanding that carried its own silent calculation.

"I understand... then, as agreed, one hundred gold coins for your services."

"Yes."

The commander produced a small pouch from his pocket and placed the coins in William's hand, their metallic clink the only sound to break the silence.

"I imagine this castle will make trade with the city easier. Seems like it'll be an easy winter this year."

William looked at the coins in his hand with an expression that held little joy.

"Let's hope so."

Then he took Alexander by the shoulder and began walking south, away from the broken castle, the bodies, and the heavy silence, leaving behind a victory that seemed to have been won by one man alone — and carrying with him far less gold than that kind of power was worth.

After a long stretch of silence broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the dirt road, William looked at his son's face and said:

"Did you forget how to use your magic, or what?"

Alexander froze where he stood. What magic was he talking about? Could he do the same thing that man had just done? He looked closely at his sword. No — it looked like a perfectly ordinary blade.

William said, without turning to look at him:

"I know you haven't received your Blessing yet, but you're skilled with magic. I trained you myself."

Alexander said nothing. How could he even answer, when he didn't know what his father was talking about in the first place?

William continued:

"You need to train harder before the knights' competition you've decided to enter. Your opponents won't go easy on you."

Alexander's eyes went wide. A competition? And magic, on top of everything else? How in the world was he supposed to compete in that? His mind raced for any way out, any escape from all of this. Should he run from this father? Then he remembered the real problem: no internet, no phone, no way of contacting the world that he knew of. Even if he wanted to run, he didn't even know where he was — let alone which direction the world stretched beyond this road.

The two of them kept walking in a silence heavier than the one on the battlefield. Pine trees lined the road, green amid the creeping cold of winter settling into their bones. Between the trees, wooden houses began to appear, thin trails of smoke rising from their chimneys into the gray sky.

William said, his tone softening for the first time since the battlefield:

"We should hurry. Your mother is waiting for us... and your brother might have become a father by now."

Then he smiled — a faint smile, the first genuine one Alexander had seen on his face.

"Maybe you're an uncle now, Alexander. And maybe I'm a grandfather... in my late forties."

Alexander looked at William, at his huge hands, cracked from cold and sword alike. This man seemed decent enough, but he was dangerous; he could split a man in half if he wanted to.

Then he felt something strange. Memories that weren't his own began slipping into his mind like thin threads of smoke — a woman's face, her hair, her warm features.

I can see his mother's face... she's really beautiful.

And suddenly the words left his mouth without him thinking, as though the real boy inside him were the one speaking:

"Is home far?"

William stopped dead in his tracks, as if the ground beneath him had stopped turning. Alexander didn't understand why he'd stopped, but he saw something shift in his father's face — a look of deep confusion replacing his usual calm.

Did I say something wrong? He swallowed hard. I don't like that look... why did I even speak?

William turned toward him very slowly, then stepped closer and placed his heavy hand on his son's shoulder. He stood silent for a long moment, his eyes searching Alexander's face as if trying to confirm what he'd just heard.

Then he said:

"Alexander..."

Alexander lifted his eyes to him warily.

William spoke, his voice carrying unmistakable shock, trembling slightly despite his usual roughness:

"You're talking—"