Chapter 1: Fallen on the Battlefield

  The arrow struck with a wet thud.

  Adrian Felton tasted copper as he crumpled to his knees, watching purple poison snake through the veins of his wrist like lightning claiming the sky. Funny—he'd always imagined death would hurt more.

  "Adrian! NO!" Thomas's scream seemed to come from underwater.

  Only moments before, Adrian had been deputy captain of the Seventh Legion's Third Squad, a prodigy of the Royal Sword Academy with fifteen warriors under his command. Now, as the poisoned arrow pulsed near his heart, he was simply another dying man on the blood-soaked Red Hawk Plains.

  At least I saved Thomas, he thought, a strange calm settling over him as the battlefield dimmed.

  Dawn had broken reluctantly that morning, as if the sun itself dreaded illuminating what the night had hidden. Adrian had stood at the eastern hillside—Astor Kingdom's final defensive line—watching mist coil around corpses strewn across the trampled grassland. His "Wind Howl" sword hung heavy at his side, its academy-gifted blade inscribed with runes that seemed to drink the weak light.

  "Third day of war," Captain Marcus muttered, his voice sandpaper-rough from shouting commands. The older man's face was a map of exhaustion, deep lines etched beneath eyes that had seen too many last stands. "Enemy still numbers at least five hundred. Reinforcements won't arrive until tomorrow evening at the earliest."

  Adrian nodded, unconsciously tracing the jagged scar above his left ear—a permanent reminder of his first day at the academy. At twenty-three, he was the youngest deputy captain in the legion's history, a position earned through talent rather than birthright.

  "The timing is wrong," Adrian said, eyes narrowing as he studied the barbarian camp. "Northern tribes never attack in this season. They wait for winter when the passes freeze and our supply lines fail."

  "You suggesting they have help?" Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  The question hung between them, unanswered but understood. Rumors had circulated for months about dark forces gathering beyond the northern mountains—whispers of ancient magic awakening after centuries of slumber.

  "We'll hold until tomorrow night," Adrian said finally, changing the subject. "The hill terrain favors us. As long as they can't flank us."

  As long as it's only barbarians we're fighting, he added silently.

  Adrian felt the weight of his father's legacy in the leather grip of Wind Howl, the family crest embossed beneath his fingers. The royal swordsmith had crafted weapons for kings, but had wanted something different for his son—a scholar, perhaps, or a diplomat. Instead, the academy had claimed Adrian at sixteen, recognizing in him a rare talent that couldn't be taught.

  The memory of his father's disappointment still stung sharper than any training blade.

  "The barbarians are assembling!" The lookout's shout shattered Adrian's thoughts.

  In the distance, war drums thundered like approaching storm clouds. The barbarian vanguard emerged from morning mist—hulking warriors draped in wolfskins and bear pelts, battle axes gleaming dully in the half-light.

  Adrian drew Wind Howl, the blade singing as it cut air. "Everyone on alert!" His voice carried across the hillside, years of command training allowing it to pierce the pounding drums. "Archers ready! Sword-and-shield bearers form the front line! Standard diamond defense formation!"

  The soldiers moved with practiced precision, but Adrian saw the fear in their eyes—raw and honest. These weren't academy graduates with years of training. They were farmers' sons, blacksmiths' daughters, ordinary people defending their homes.

  Adrian walked the line, making eye contact with each soldier. "Remember, they're stronger but slower. Wait for openings. Maintain formation. We don't need to win—we just need to survive until tomorrow."

  He stopped at a young soldier whose hands trembled around his spear. "What's your name?"

  "Erik, sir. From Meadowvale."

  "I know it. Good apples." Adrian clasped the boy's shoulder. "My mother's from Riverford, just west of you. When this is over, you'll have to tell me if Meadowvale's harvest festivals are as wild as they say."

  The boy's grip steadied, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "They are, sir. You'll see."

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  The drumbeats suddenly accelerated to a frenzied tempo. The barbarian horde surged forward with earth-shaking howls, a human avalanche racing toward the hill.

  "Release arrows!" Marcus commanded.

  The first volley arced gracefully through mist, disappearing momentarily before finding flesh. Screams erupted as barbarians fell, but the charge barely slowed.

  Adrian centered himself, breath slowing as he recalled Instructor Leon's lessons: "Fear exists in the future, pain in the past. Combat exists only in the present moment."

  When the barbarians slammed into their line, Adrian was already moving. Wind Howl became an extension of his body, each stroke deliberate yet fluid. Where others hacked and stabbed, Adrian danced—the academy's "Wind Sword Third Form: Sweeping Army" cutting through three warriors with a single horizontal slash.

  "Maintain formation!" Adrian called, his body remembering drills practiced thousands of times while his mind remained alert for patterns and weaknesses. "Don't scatter!"

  For every barbarian that fell, another took their place. Blood slicked the hillside, making footing treacherous. A massive barbarian with a bear skull helmet crashed through their left flank, scattering soldiers with sweeping axe strokes.

  "Adrian, the left flank is collapsing!" Thomas shouted, struggling to pull a wounded comrade to safety.

  Adrian pivoted instantly, cutting a path toward the breach. An axe glanced off his pauldron, the impact numbing his shoulder. He ignored the pain, focusing on the bear-skulled leader who now bellowed victory.

  "Wind Sword Fifth Form: Mountain Return Willow Sweep!"

  The technique was meant for practice yards, not battlefields—too complex, too demanding. But Adrian executed it perfectly, his body flowing through eight precise cuts that left the bear-skulled warrior and his followers collapsed like puppets with severed strings.

  Hours bled together. Adrian's right arm took a deep gash that sent lightning bolts of pain through him with each stroke. His lungs burned. His vision narrowed. Still, he fought—became a fixed point around which the battle seemed to orbit.

  "Fall back to the second defense line!" Marcus ordered, blood matting his gray beard. "We need to regroup!"

  The unit began an orderly retreat. Adrian covered their rear, ensuring wounded soldiers could withdraw safely. Then, at the edge of his vision—something impossible.

  A figure in black robes stood motionless amid the chaos, untouched by the battle surrounding them. No barbarian approached this stranger, as if repelled by an invisible barrier. In their hands gleamed a bow unlike any Adrian had seen, its limbs carved with symbols that hurt his eyes to look upon directly.

  An arrow nocked—its tip pulsing with sickly purple light.

  Time slowed. Adrian traced the arrow's trajectory to its target: Thomas, supporting a wounded soldier, his back exposed.

  "Beware the black robe!" Adrian's warning came too late.

  His body moved before his mind could catch up, lunging into the arrow's path. Impact. A curious coldness spreading from his chest rather than the expected pain. Adrian looked down to see the shaft protruding from his breastplate, purple tendrils already spreading beneath his skin.

  So this is how I die, he thought with strange clarity. Not from a barbarian axe, but from protecting a friend.

  Adrian collapsed, the world tilting sideways. Battlefield sounds receded like an outgoing tide. The poisoned veins spread rapidly across his chest, each heartbeat pumping the toxin deeper.

  "Re...treat..." he managed, blood bubbling past his lips.

  The sky wheeled above him—first gray, then blindingly bright. Adrian thought of his father's workshop, of his mother's garden, of the advanced studies he'd never complete. But no fear came—only acceptance.

  "A true swordsman doesn't fear death," Instructor Leon had said. "But understands it, embraces it, like embracing the inevitable shadow within life."

  As darkness crept into the edges of his vision, a ripple passed through the air—as if reality itself had shuddered. The sounds of battle vanished. The ground beneath Adrian no longer felt solid.

  A woman approached.

  She walked through the frozen chaos of the battlefield, her silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight, her white dress unstained by the mud and blood surrounding her. Her eyes glowed an impossible shade of purple—not the sickly hue of the poison, but something ancient and knowing.

  "How... is this... possible..." Adrian whispered, his voice thin.

  The woman knelt beside him, her beauty cold and terrible as a winter midnight. "Brave soul," she said, her voice resonating with harmonics no human throat could produce. "Your sacrifice shall not be forgotten."

  Her fingertips—cold as mountain streams—touched his forehead. Power surged through Adrian, a silver rune flowing from her skin to his, burning bright before sinking beneath the surface.

  Pain vanished. The poison retreated. Adrian floated in sudden weightlessness.

  "What I give you is neither curse nor blessing," the silver-haired woman whispered, compassion flickering behind her otherworldly eyes. "It is a contract, a responsibility, and your soul's new journey."

  Questions formed in Adrian's mind, but his lips couldn't shape them. The woman's form began to dissolve, reality collapsing inward like a scroll being rolled shut.

  "The kingdoms of men face darkness they cannot comprehend," her voice followed him into the void. "Death has released you from one oath, Adrian Felton, but bound you to another."

  Then, nothing.

  Adrian drifted through absolute darkness, unbound by flesh, untethered by time. Memory fragmented—his name, the academy, his death remained, but other details blurred like ink in water. Only the silver rune on his arm remained constant, pulsing occasionally with power that both called and commanded.

  In this timeless void, Adrian sensed changes occurring within whatever remained of his essence. Power infused him, reshaped him, prepared him.

  For what, he couldn't say.

  Occasionally, images flickered through the darkness—ancient citadels, forgotten rituals, civilizations rising and falling like ocean waves. Voices whispered secrets in languages never meant for human ears. Knowledge seeped into him like rainwater into parched soil.

  Then, after what might have been moments or millennia, a distant light appeared—small at first, but growing steadily brighter. The rune on his arm burned with renewed intensity, pulling him toward the radiance.

  Adrian Felton—once a brilliant student, once a loyal soldier, once dead on a forgotten battlefield—was being summoned back to the world of the living.

  But the world awaiting him was not the one he had left behind.