Chapter 1
PROLOGUE:
The world once saved a thousand years ago by the great hero Jack Farrow had fallen back into darkness. Dark clouds gathered over the lands, and the silent, despairing cries for salvation echoed in the hearts of every living thing. The ancient castle built in honor of that very hero lay in ruins. Elder beings circled the shattered stronghold of the hero.
In the center of the chaos, amid ash, fear, and devastation, stood the descendant of the legendary savior — an heir of heroic blood who was otherwise an unremarkable mage. He watched the destruction he himself had wrought with greedy delight. Confusion, fear and pain around him provoked neither pity nor remorse — on the contrary, they brought him a grim satisfaction. Everything happening seemed to him a triumph of his power and wrath over all living things, proof that he was far stronger than the insignificant insects beneath his feet.
Yet even in that gloom a shaft of light could be seen: a light that came from the hero’s snow-white hair as he fought against the darkness. Tall and proud, twin heavy swords at his sides, he battled; his white hair and golden-yellow eyes called to mind the great hero and the mage alike. Seeing his fierce struggle, the soldiers found hope. For the mage himself, however, it was repulsive to see the descendant of the hero — the steadfast warrior of the people — alive and fighting. His very presence filled the mage with hatred. The mage kept calling dark creatures through portals, trying to overwhelm the proud warrior with numbers, but it was not enough; the mage shifted to darker, more potent magic. Before he could finish a third attack, the silhouette of the hero appeared right before the mage’s face. The hero’s expression was not rage but sorrow when he saw the mage’s face. Before his great sword could pierce the hero’s head, the mage, stunned, threw up a powerful barrier that shoved the hero back from him. But even that was not enough to stop the hero — the hero’s second sword had already pierced the mage’s belly. Red blood ran through the black robes; a slow, numbing pain stole over the mage. The agony was unbearable; the mage fell to his knees but made no move to close the portal. His arms stood there, holding back his power, while a deep wound remained open and magnified the pain, yet he held on with all his strength. The hero, however, gave him no second’s respite.
His blows grew ever faster and more powerful — sharp, ringing, as if steel were striking the very air. Each time the blade sought to break through the mage’s defenses, to pierce that invisible shield. And then the ringing of steel turned into a crack, like breaking glass — the defense could not hold.
The hero immediately raised his sword and made another slash. The blade flashed — and the mage, stunned, saw his own severed hands fall to the ground before his eyes.
He screamed; he tried to recoil, but the hero kicked him over onto his back and struck directly into his bloodied belly. Air tore from the mage’s chest — short, ragged, like a final breath.
He looked at the fallen man with an expression that was neither malice nor triumph — in his gaze there was only deep, bitter pity. No smile, no spark of schadenfreude. Only a silent disappointment.
“This is all you hungered for?” he said, his voice heavy like a sentence. “You have destroyed not only the honor of our line… you have turned the lives of innocent people in our kingdom to ash.”
He paused, struggling to keep a tremor from his voice.
“I only regret one thing: that you were ever born of our blood.”
The villain, barely alive and unable even to move, merely twisted his lips into a bloody smirk. His voice was weak, but a poisonous anger still threaded through it:
“And I only regret one thing… that I did not have time to reduce your haughty face to ash — like the rest of the worthless members of our wretched line.”
The hero did not answer. His face remained cold, as if carved from stone. He slowly raised his sword; the blade gleamed in the smoke, reflecting the crimson glow of the burning battlefield.
He leveled his blade at the chest of the vanquished man. A last chance. A final question.
“Speak your last word,” he said hoarsely, as if through anger. “And I will end this vile story.”
Bleeding and contorted with pain, the mage laughed hoarsely, as though he knew something the hero had not yet perceived. Then he began to whisper — at first barely audible, but with each passing second his voice grew surer, thicker, as if it were merging with the very echoes of the space.
Strange, alien sounds, filled with primal darkness, carried an ancient power. The air trembled. The ground beneath them shook, and the blood spreading under the villain’s body began to shimmer. The blood seemed to come alive — thin scarlet threads stretched toward one another, weaving into a complex pattern. In an instant a magic circle appeared on the ground, inscribed with ominous glyphs, pulsing with a bloody light.
The warrior had not managed to finish him when the aura around the mage overturned him backward and everything seemed to stop for a moment, as if frozen in time. The mage continued to speak his spell; signs of time were clearly visible in the air and a portal opened. The portal quickly drew in the mage’s aura. And before the last drop of it was gone, he spoke.
“This time I will make sure I finish you all.”
The continues..
