The banners of the Kingdom of Thalmyr snapped violently in the wind.
Across the open terrain, steel and resolve gathered as one. Twenty thousand soldiers stood ready beneath a sky heavy with unease. Knights in cloaked armor rode in disciplined formation, their horses stamping the earth as if sensing what approached. Pike-bearing infantry advanced in measured lines, long shafts angled forward like a forest of spears. Behind them, archers took position on raised ground while cavalry units formed near freshly carved trenches meant to slow whatever crossed them.
At the heart of it all rode King Baldrick.
He sat tall on his warhorse, his presence commanding silence even without words. Though he had lived more than one hundred and twenty years, his posture was straight, his grip firm, his gaze sharp. His cloak flowed behind him, dark and heavy, bearing the sigil of Thalmyr stitched in silver thread. To those who did not know better, he appeared no older than a man in his forties.
That was because of the fusion.
Long ago, Baldrick had bound himself to an ancient force known as Vireon Binding, a rare convergence of soul and essence that slowed decay without halting time entirely. It did not grant immortality. It merely held age at bay, preserving strength while allowing wisdom to grow heavier with every year.
He had paid dearly for it.
No queen rode beside him. No heirs waited behind castle walls. His life had been traded for endurance, and Baldrick accepted that price without regret.
He raised his hand, and the movement rippled through the ranks.
"Prepare," he commanded.
Generals rode close, listening as he spoke with precision. Scouts had returned hours earlier with confirmation. Demon forces were on the move. Not scattered incursions. Not wandering remnants. This was organized. Purposeful.
Baldrick issued orders calmly.
Divide the army. Lock the valleys. Reinforce the trenches. Pike units forward. Shield bearers staggered. Archers conserve arrows. Cavalry wait for the signal.
The kingdom had fought demons before. Every nation in Vastyrion had. But something about this movement felt different. The red moon still burned faintly in memory, and Baldrick trusted signs older than kingdoms.
He rode forward alongside his generals, lifting his voice so it carried across the field.
"We will protect the realm of Vastyrion," he shouted. "We will defeat the demons. Our ancestors fought them for billions, for trillions of years. They endured. They survived. And because of that, we stand here today."
Steel struck shields in response. A thunder of belief answered him.
"So now," Baldrick continued, voice unwavering, "we will keep winning."
What the king did not know, what none of them truly understood, was that it had never been armies that decided those ancient victories.
It had always been the Sentinels.
They were the ones who struck down demon lords. The ones who ended wars before nations even realized they had begun. The mortals remembered triumphs. They never saw the hand that delivered them.
Baldrick tightened the reins of his horse, unaware that something far greater than marching demons had already stirred.
Far from Thalmyr's prepared fields, beyond forests and rivers, Michael climbed.
The mountain rose sharply, jagged stone biting into his palms as he ascended. Cold wind cut against his body, but he pressed on, using nothing but cloth bindings around his hands and feet for grip. No rope. No blade. No armor.
Only will.
His body was dirty, scraped, marked by effort, yet strong and balanced. Every movement was deliberate. His height made the climb harder, but his strength compensated without conscious thought. He did not question why he could endure this. He rarely questioned what his body could do.
Halfway near the summit, exhaustion finally caught him.
Michael paused, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he leaned against the rock face. Rain from earlier clung coldly to the stone, soaking his sleeves. His arms trembled, not from weakness, but from effort unrelieved.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," he muttered to himself.
The words vanished into the wind.
He only knew that something had drawn him here. Not a voice. Not a vision. A pull he could not explain. He climbed because stopping felt wrong, as if the mountain itself expected him.
After a moment, he moved again.
The summit came suddenly. One final pull, one final step, and Michael stood at the peak.
The world stretched endlessly below him.
Clouds drifted beneath the mountaintop, vast lands fading into distance, the sheer scale of Vastyrion pressing against his senses. And at the center of the summit, embedded deep into the stone, stood something that did not belong to the mountain.
A sword.
It was enormous, its blade wide and long, driven straight into the rock as if the mountain itself had been pierced. Lightning traced faint patterns along its surface, crawling silently like living veins. The blade glowed white, not blinding, but pure. Small white motes drifted slowly around it, floating like falling stars frozen in time.
Michael stepped closer.
The air felt heavier here, charged, vibrating faintly against his skin.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the sword flared brighter. Light surged outward, the ground shuddering beneath his feet. A shock rippled through the summit, racing beyond the mountain.
No.
The word escaped him instinctively.
Far away, across Vastyrion, the realm trembled.
Mountains quivered. Rivers rippled unnaturally. Nations felt it without knowing why. Soldiers in Thalmyr stiffened as the earth beneath them shuddered, horses snorting in panic.
King Baldrick felt it through his bones.
"No way," he whispered, gripping his reins. "How could this be now?"
He did not know the source. He only knew the sensation felt ancient. Awakening.
Back on the mountain, Michael withdrew his hand, heart pounding. He stared at the sword, uncertainty flickering across his face.
He touched it again.
The light intensified, then steadied. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped both hands around the hilt and pulled.
The blade resisted, then loosened. Stone cracked as the sword came free, rising inch by inch. It should have been impossibly heavy, yet as it cleared the rock, the weight vanished from his grasp.
Michael nearly dropped it as a surge of white light rushed into his palm, flooding his arm, his chest, his breath. The sword slipped from his fingers and struck the ground, embedding itself shallowly.
He stared at his hand.
The glow faded, leaving warmth behind.
When he reached for the sword again, it felt different. Light. Balanced. As if it belonged there.
He lifted it with one hand.
It felt no heavier than a stick.
Yet power radiated from it, restrained, patient.
"There's no way," Michael said quietly.
He looked at the blade, then at the horizon beyond.
"This isn't just a weapon," he murmured. "Someone from a higher plane made this."
Understanding settled slowly.
"Someone is testing me."
His expression hardened, curiosity sharpening into resolve. He raised the sword in one hand, white light reflecting in his blue eyes.
And he spoke a single word, his voice steady.
"Awaken."