CHAPTER 7: THE DIVERGING PATHS, BIRTH OF A LEGEND
Three months after refusing their invitation, Hexia stood in his yard as Fred and Lhoralaine prepared to leave Korn Village.
He didn't go to see them off at the village gate where others had gathered. Didn't wave goodbye or wish them well. Just continued his training, going through sword forms with precision. Each movement perfect. Each strike deadly. Each step calculated.
Empty.
Lhoralaine passed by on her way out of the village. She stopped at the fence, watching him for a long moment. Her adventurer's pack sat heavy on her shoulders, her blonde hair tied back for travel.
"Hexia?"
He paused mid-swing but didn't turn around.
"I—we're leaving now. I just wanted to say goodbye. And to tell you that no matter what happens, you'll always be my friend. I hope you know that."
Hexia resumed his training. "Travel safe, Lhoralaine. I hope you find what you're looking for."
She waited, perhaps hoping for more. When nothing came, she walked away, tears streaming down her face.
Fred appeared at the fence a moment later, his expression unreadable. "You know, Hexia, I never understood you. All this power, all this talent, and you choose to waste it playing guard dog to a backwater village."
Hexia's sword stopped. He turned slowly, his crimson eyes meeting Fred's brown ones.
"But I suppose everyone needs to know their place," Fred continued, his smile sharp. "Some people are meant for greatness. Others are meant to watch from the sidelines. Thanks for making this easier."
He walked away whistling, leaving Hexia standing alone in his yard.
From the house, Marie watched her son. Watched as his hands tightened on the practice sword. Watched as his shoulders tensed. Watched as he took a breath and forced himself to relax.
And watched as something behind his eyes went cold.
Time passed.
Fifteen became sixteen. Sixteen became seventeen. Seventeen became eighteen.
Hexia lived his quiet life. He helped villagers when they needed it. He trained to maintain his skills. He ate dinner with his parents. He smiled when expected.
But he didn't live. Not really.
The villagers began to notice something different about him. When bandits attacked—and they did, drawn by the village's lack of proper defenses—Hexia dealt with them.
The first time, it was three bandits demanding tribute at the village entrance.
Hexia walked up to them, unarmed, his face expressionless.
"Leave."
The leader laughed. "Or what, boy? You'll bore us to death?"
Hexia moved.
His hand shot out, gripped the leader's throat, and squeezed. The man's laughter turned to choking gasps. His companions reached for their weapons—
Hexia's other hand blurred. He grabbed the second bandit's wrist as the knife descended, twisted it backward until bone snapped with a wet crack. The bandit screamed. Hexia silenced him with a palm strike to the throat that crushed his windpipe.
The third bandit ran.
Hexia let him. Message delivered.
The leader was turning blue now, his feet kicking uselessly. Hexia looked into his eyes and saw the moment the fight left him, replaced by pure terror.
"I said leave."
He dropped the man, who collapsed gasping and crawling away, followed by his companion clutching his broken arm.
The villagers who'd witnessed it stood in stunned silence.
Hexia walked back to his house without a word.
"Did you see his eyes?" one whispered.
"Empty. Like he felt nothing."
"Maybe we should be grateful he's on our side."
The second incident was worse.
A group of six bandits attacked a merchant caravan on the road near Korn Village. They were professional—organized, armed with steel, coordinated in their assault.
Hexia appeared from the tree line, sword drawn.
"Leave the merchants. Leave the village. Last warning."
The bandit captain sneered. "Six against one. I like our odds. Boys, kill him."
They rushed him together.
Hexia's sword moved like liquid death.
The first bandit's head left his shoulders before his brain registered the attack. It rolled across the dirt road, eyes blinking in confusion at the sudden change in perspective.
The second lost his arm at the elbow, his scream cut short as Hexia's return stroke opened his throat. Blood fountained. He collapsed, clutching uselessly at the wound.
The third managed to block—his sword met Hexia's in a shower of sparks. But Hexia was already moving, flowing around the defense. His blade traced a horizontal arc. The bandit's torso separated from his legs. He hit the ground in two pieces, still alive for three horrifying seconds before shock claimed him.
The fourth tried to run. Hexia threw his dagger without looking. It embedded between the bandit's shoulder blades, severing his spine. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
The fifth had frozen in terror. Hexia walked up to him, grabbed his head with both hands, and twisted. The crack echoed across the road. The body dropped.
The captain had backed away, sword trembling in his hand. "What—what are you?"
Hexia tilted his head.
"Someone who gave you a warning. You didn't listen."
He moved. Fast. Too fast. His sword came down in a perfect vertical strike.
The captain's head split down the middle. Brain matter and skull fragments scattered. The body stood for a moment before collapsing.
Hexia cleaned his blade on the captain's cloak. Sheathed it. Turned to the merchant and his guards, who were staring in horror.
"The road is clear. Travel safely."
He walked away, leaving six corpses behind.
That night, the merchant reached the next town.
In the tavern, he told the story. About the young man with black hair and red eyes. About the six bandits who died in less than thirty seconds. About the head that rolled, split in two.
"What was his name?" someone asked.
"I don't know. But I'll never forget those eyes. Empty. Like he'd hollowed himself out and filled the space with death."
The story spread.
At eighteen, Hexia had grown into his power. Taller, broader, more dangerous. His black hair fell past his shoulders, usually tied back in a ponytail. His crimson eyes held no warmth for strangers.
The attacks came more frequently now. Ten bandits. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
Each time, Hexia ended them. Efficiently. Brutally. Without mercy.
The villagers respected him. Feared him a little. But didn't really know him.
How could they? He didn't know himself anymore.
One evening, he stood on a hill overlooking Korn Village, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of amber and crimson.
"Is this what peace looks like?" he whispered to the empty air. "This emptiness? This nothing?"
The wind offered no answers.
"I got what I wanted. No more pain. No more heartbreak. No more disappointment. So why does it feel like I'm still dying?"
He looked at his hands—hands that could conjure fire, that could wield a sword with lethal grace, that could kill without hesitation.
"I wanted to be strong so nobody could hurt me again. I became so strong that I can't feel anything anymore."
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Congratulations, universe. You win. You always win."
The incident that birthed the legend happened on a cold autumn morning.
A villager came running, gasping for breath.
"Hexia! Bandits! Fifty of them! They've set up camp on the north road! They're demanding tribute from everyone who passes! And they have monsters—captured goblins and dire wolves!"
Fifty. The largest group yet.
Hexia stood, grabbed his sword—real steel now, not practice wood—and walked toward the north road.
His father caught his arm. "Son, fifty is too many. Even for you. Let me come with you."
"No, Dad. Stay here. Protect the village if any get past me."
"Hexia—"
"I'll be fine."
He walked alone.
The bandit camp sprawled across the road like a festering wound. Fifty men, most armed with swords and axes. A dozen captured monsters in cages—goblins snarling and spitting, three massive dire wolves that could tear a man apart.
Their leader sat on a makeshift throne of crates, a scarred brute with a greatsword across his knees.
"Well, well. What do we have here? A boy come to play hero?"
Hexia stopped thirty feet away. "Leave. Now. Final warning."
The leader laughed. The entire camp joined in—fifty voices mocking, jeering.
"You hear that, boys? He's warning us! Fifty of us, and he's giving warnings!" The leader stood, hefting his greatsword. "I'll mount your head on a spike as an example. Release the wolves!"
Three dire wolves burst from their opened cages. Each stood five feet at the shoulder, fangs like daggers, eyes gleaming with hunger.
They charged.
Hexia drew his sword.
The first wolf leaped, jaws wide. Hexia sidestepped, his blade flashing. The wolf's head separated from its body mid-leap. Both pieces hit the ground separately, the head still snapping its jaws reflexively.
The second wolf learned nothing from its companion's fate. It lunged low, going for his legs. Hexia jumped, brought his sword down in a perfect vertical strike. The blade split the wolf's skull down to its chest. Brain and bone scattered. The body collapsed, twitching.
The third wolf was smarter. It circled, looking for an opening. Hexia didn't give it one. He moved toward it deliberately, forcing it back. When it finally lunged, he was ready. His sword entered through its open mouth and exited through the back of its skull. He ripped the blade free. The wolf dropped, dead before it hit the ground.
Three seconds. Three dead dire wolves.
The bandit camp went silent.
"Release the goblins!" the leader roared. "All of them!"
Twelve goblins scrambled from their cages, chittering and snarling. Small but vicious, armed with crude blades and poison claws.
They swarmed.
Hexia became a storm of steel.
His sword moved in arcs of death. The first goblin's head flew. The second got bisected at the waist. The third lost both arms before Hexia's boot caved in its skull.
Four, five, six—they fell so fast it looked like a dance. Hexia flowed between them, each movement economical, no wasted motion. His blade found throats, hearts, major arteries.
A goblin clawed at his leg. He stomped on its head until it popped like a grape.
Two tried to attack from opposite sides. He spun, his sword tracing a perfect circle. Both heads flew in different directions.
The last three tried to run. He threw his dagger into one's back. Caught up to the second and drove his sword through its spine. Grabbed the third by the throat and slammed it into a tree with enough force that bark splintered. The goblin's skull shattered. He dropped the corpse.
Fifteen seconds. Twelve dead goblins.
"CHARGE!" the leader screamed. "ALL OF YOU! FIFTY GOLD TO THE MAN WHO BRINGS ME HIS HEAD!"
Forty-nine men rushed forward, a wall of steel and desperation.
Hexia didn't move. He didn't brace for impact. He simply adjusted his grip, his thumb finding the hilt-guard with practiced ease. To the bandits, he was a boy about to be buried. To Hexia, they were just forty-seven points of failure in a world that refused to let him rest.
He stepped into the first line of steel. He didn't shout. He didn't roar. He simply began the Harvest.
THE OVERTURE OF THE RED HORIZON
A childhood bled, a fence-line crossed,
A boy is found, a soul is lost.
They seek the crown, they seek the gold,
In stories yet to be unrolled.
But here, beneath the autumn sky,
The math of death begins to ply.
Three wolves are hushed in sudden sleep,
Twelve shadows fall in silence deep.
And now the tide of iron nears,
To feed upon a hollowed fear.
Fifty hearts, a rhythmic beat,
Marching toward their own defeat.
He does not roar, he does not hate,
He simply opens wide the gate.
For what is life but noise and breath,
To one who's made a pact with death?
The blade is raised, the grip is sure,
The surgeon seeks the final cure.
So count the seconds, watch the sky,
Before the silver flashes by.
For forty-nine have drawn their breath,
To dance within the arc of death.
The field is ripe, the sun is low...
The Harvest starts...
With one clean blow.
To be continued...