Aron woke up with an unwavering, dreadful feeling in his chest. It lingered like a shadow over his soul, causing him to sit upright in a silent panic. The room was dim, and the soft hiss of boiling water filled the air. A teapot sat over a small flame, and Bart was nearby, calmly grinding dried leaves against a flat stone with a rounded rock. He moved with precision, gently crushing the leaves into a fine powder. As the water began to steam, he poured it over the mixture and let it steep.
Bart: "Oh, you're awake," he said, glancing at Aron. "Your face doesn't look too good, kid. Did you have a dream?"
Aron: "No… just a feeling. A bad one."
Night had fallen. Outside, heavy rain poured down in sheets, and the sky roared with thunder. Aron's body was covered in bandages, his wounds still fresh, but he was awake. Bart approached and handed him a cup.
Bart: "Here. Drink this. It's Erjin tea, mixed with healing herbs. It'll fix you up faster than weeks of bedrest."
Aron sipped the tea. It had a strange but pleasant taste. As he drank, his mind wandered—his thoughts drifting to his family. Were they safe? What had happened to them?
Bart: "Now that you're going to wield a blade," he asked, "what do you plan to do with it?"
Aron looked up at him, eyes heavy with uncertainty.
Aron: "I don't know. Maybe… what my father did. Fight for justice. Honesty."
Bart: (nodding) "That would be good. But remember—in this world, even when you win, you don't always get what you deserve."
Aron lowered his gaze.
Aron: "I don't even have the skills. It'll take me months—maybe even years—to learn swordsmanship."
Bart stood up and started searching around the room.
Bart: "I know. But wait. I have something—an old book. Real old." He paused, trying to recall. "Yes… I remember now."
He walked over to a wooden hatch in the floor. Opening it, he descended into a storage space filled with dust and mud. After rummaging around, he returned with a thick, ancient book. Its leather cover was worn, and dust coated every edge.
Bart: "This has been passed down to me. Written by a nameless warrior. No one remembers him, but his teachings are real."
Aron took the book gently, wiped off the dust, and opened it. The first two pages were blank. Confused, he flipped to the third—and stopped. His eyes widened. There, in the center of the page, was a single letter—N—the same symbol he had seen on the boulder in the cave.
He turned the next page. The first chapter was titled Blacksmithing. The book declared that the first step of swordsmanship was to forge your own blade—to polish it, shape it, sharpen it with your own hands.
The pages were filled with dense instructions, diagrams, and ancient texts. Aron was overwhelmed.
Aron: "Thank you, Bart. I guess this is where I'll begin—true swordsmanship and martial arts."
He placed the book gently to his right.
Bart: "Maybe so. But remember—this book alone won't make you a warrior. A true warrior is shaped by his will. His choices. His courage. His hope."
Aron looked into the fire and thought: Is fighting really what makes a man a warrior? Can't someone be strong just by choosing to forgive? He didn't know the answer. He was still a child, after all.
But far from that quiet home… something terrible was happening.
The Kingdom of Thoms had fallen.
The Army of Death swept across the land like a black tide. Villages burned. Men were slain or taken as slaves. It was a massacre beyond description.
Lyoth, cloaked in dark shadows, stood over the ruins.
Lyoth: "I sense the blade…"
He felt its presence—Aron's blade. That awareness sent a ripple of killing intent across the land.
The Army of Death began to march again, this time toward Oakville, and after that—Norm's Valley.
Meanwhile, Vince rode on horseback, the wind howling around him. A child sat in front of him—the child Agarth spoke of. Vince's face was pale, panicked. He had seen the outcome of war—its hopelessness, its devastation.
At the stables near Norm's Valley, Milda tended to the horses alongside Kyle and Maria when she heard hooves thundering in the distance. She looked up and saw Vince approaching, soaked in rain and fear.
Milda: "Vince! What happened? Who is this child… in the black coat?"
Vince didn't respond at first. He dismounted slowly, eyes wide and filled with despair.
Vince: "We've… lost. The Queen… Agarth… everyone's dead."
Silence.
Milda froze. Her hands trembled. Tears welled up in her eyes—her husband was gone.
Milda: "What about Aron?!" she cried.
Vince: "I don't know… I don't know if he's alive."
He broke down. So did she. The air was heavy with grief and dread.
Vince: "They're coming. Six thousand strong… We have barely fifteen hundred left. No weapons. No hope. Everything's been destroyed."
Milda stepped back in shock, her heart racing.
Even if they ran, the army would find them. There was no escape.
Milda: "Then take my son. Take Kyle, Maria… and this child. Head west, to the sea. No one will find you there. I'll stay and fight with whoever's left."
She made her decision. She would lead what remained of their army and hold the line.
By the next dawn, Oakville was in ruins—smoke, ash, and blood painting the land. The skies roared with thunder, yet no rain came. Only fire fell from above.
Vince, clutching the children, prepared to flee.
Milda: "Take them far from here. If Aron's alive… he'll find you."
But then the earth rumbled.
A deep, trembling quake.
Milda's face hardened.
Milda: "Go. Now!"
Vince mounted the horse. One child clung to his chest, another behind him.
Kyle: "No! Ma! Take him too!" he cried.
Vince didn't answer. He turned the horse and rode—fast and far.
Milda stood in the storm, her fists clenched, her heart heavy.
She ran into the burning city. Everything was chaos—homes collapsing, screams echoing, flames dancing through the streets.
And then… she saw it.
A monstrous shadow above the flames.
A beast unlike anything she'd imagined.
A dragon-like creature with wings of smoke and eyes like burning coals.
Her breath caught.
It was the one they spoke of only in legends.
The Death Grim.
Also known as…
The Black Reaper.