The thunderous pounding of hooves shattered the silence. A heavily armored rider atop a muscular brown horse led a small cavalry behind him. Their silhouttes cut through the sea of wheat, dance around as the wind carried by the cavalry blows. Steam seeped through the gap in his iron mask seems clearer in the cold breeze, catch up with his horse's gallop.
A ridge of a hill in front of him come closer as he and his cavalries rode faster. A red-yellow hue, dim behind it. What worse could happen?
"Your Majesty, the village should be just beyond those hills!" a rider on a black horse called out, matching his pace.
"Faster!" He commanded.
His voice was sharp, burned with fury behind the steel of his mask.
A letter came two days ago with words of threat filled it,
'Your coward reign has been a dissapointment,
You gave your people a false hope of prosperity and peace,
We can't wait any longer for you to realize your wrongdoing,
We will burn your kingdom to the ground, starting from the north.
Prepare for chaos.'
Who could be behind this? Who—in their right mind—dared to sent this letter of threat?
As he crested the hill, he pulled back slightly on the reins. His charge slowed, followed by the cavalry behind him. His eyes glared in fury, red light reflecting off them. He felt a wind of heat seep through the gaps of his armour.
Down the hill was a village, hidden in the shadows of the surrounding mountains—Kalak. It should have been shrouded in the dim light of houses. Instead, it shone up brightly—engulfed in a sea of flames.
"We're late." A knight muttered beside him, regret in his voice .
He felt a lump in his throats "Not yet..."
"They're still hoping to be saved"
"Move out!" His voice raised in anger. Warm feeling crawled behind his back, his glove wrinkled into a fist.
There must be someone who can be saved.
Crackle sound of burning wood, greeted them at the village entrance. Wooden walls colapsed here and there still glowed fiercely. Few houses have flame danced around on top of it, heated up the air around the village.
The smell of burnt flesh mixed with the smell of burning wood lingered in his nose. As sweat dripped behind his armour, he clenched his fist tightly on the reins.
His chest filled with flame everytime he glanced around. What have they done?
"AAAKKKKHHH!"
A man, engulfed in flames, stumbled past his party. He leapt from his saddle in a rush, cast magic to extinguish the fire. He felt something strange happened around, mana keep scattered every time he tried to control it. What?! The mana is acting strange.
It was too late, as the man collapsed on the ground in hard thud. The flame swallowed his motionless body, loud crack come from it.
"This is madness!" A knight behind him spat in fury,
"They burned these innocent people alive..." The knight swallowed his anger,
"With no mercy!"
"Your Majesty, what are your orders?" Another knight behind him, stepped closer—his wingman.
In silence, he tried to comprehend the horror that surrounded him. Burned bodies lay everywhere, on the ground and hanging from charred windows.
He ordered two of his men to put out the fire from the entrance towards the centre of the village. But before they could carry out the order, a loud, desperate voice came from afar. Village centre?
"PLEASE, HAVE MERCY ON US!" The scream pierced his iron helmet.
"Let's go!" He commanded the cavalry, galloping back to his saddle.
He moved as fast as he could towards the source of the scream.
A two hundred metres ahead of him, was a burning pile of bodies, as high as the roofs of the houses. Several men were throwing lifeless bodies onto it, while others were standing in a circle around what appeared to be a woman and a little girl kneeling on the ground a few paces away.
"PLEASE! LET MY DAUGHTER GO!" the mother pleaded in scream loud enough to heard by him. A sword pressed against her throat. Her body gleamed under the flickering light of the pyre.
"KHAKHAKHA" He saw a towering man laughed insanely.
He faintly heard that they will let her go as he got closer, with the towering man's hand were gripping the little girl's hair.
It didn't take long before he saw a true image of cruelty happen before himself—
"ARRGHHH! MOM!!" The little girl let out agonized scream. She thrashed violently toward her mother, her body consumed by flame.
"ARGHHH!" The mother embraced her daughter, and merge together in fiery flame.
Seeing this scene, he felt goosebumps crept up his arms. His jaw clenched, I will eat them alive!
His left-arm outstretched forward, a magic circle flared before him as he started casting sequence for Water Cannon spell. He knew the conditions is not on his favour, the hot atmosphere would lessen his spell effectiveness. But something else happen—
The magic circle flicker and vanish without effect. The mana gathered around his hand scattered. His left-arm fell into a fist, clenched in irritation. What is this? Mana jammer? How it is possible?
He pulled the reins, ordered his cavalry in sudden stop fifty metres before the cruel men group was.
"Your Majesty, magic isn't working" His wingman confirmed his suspicion.
He grab sword hilt on his waist, unseathed it in swift movement. Raised his sword, and pointed forward with it "CHARGEEE!"
"RRAAAAHH!" The knights bellowed in unison, their war cry blending with the erratic thunder of hooves against scorched earth.
The men ahead snapped their attention toward the incoming cavalry. Before them, a wall of armored knights barreled forward, their metal gleaming red from the reflected flames. Their eyes burned with fury, visible through the slits of their helmets.
Without hesitation, the brutal mens raised their weapons—axes, cleavers, maces—crude instruments of death, befitting their brutish forms. Their bodies, clad in thick leather armor, matched the tone of their rugged, battle-hardened skin.
"Hold your ground!" commanded the towering man, maneuvering his forces—thirty-five men—into a tight three-layered defensive formation. The towering man face have scar on his left-eye, giving him more frightening look.
The cavalry, mounted on their warhorses, crashed into the first line with crushing force. The front ranks staggered and collapsed under the assault. Skulls shattered beneath the relentless hooves, some heads cleaved clean from their bodies by the knights' sharp swords. Others screamed in agony as their ribs caved inward, puncturing their own organs.
The second line stood ready, weapons raised, as the cavalry slowed upon breaking through the first.
With savage brutality, the second line swung their weapons at the knights armored steeds. The horses neighed in pain, their legs giving out as they tumbled forward, hurling their riders with immense force.
Even his horse reared and threw him off, along with several knights beside him. Yet, disciplined training prevailed—without hesitation, he positioned his body to roll upon impact. His sword extended along his right side as he steadied himself, only to see three men rushing at him, weapons raised high.
"Huaah!" With a swift pivot to the left, he swept his blade low, cutting toward their legs. His movement shifted him from the center to the side, and with a single clean strike, three pairs of legs were severed below the knee. Their bodies collapsed forward, screaming in horror.
"ARRRGHHH!" Their wails were swiftly silenced by the knights behind him, stabbing and hacking them apart.
He rose without looking back, his armor stained in red—whether with blood or mud, he didn't care. His gaze locked onto the scarred man. Lifting his sword high, its bloodied edge pointed directly at him, droplets trailing from its tip. I will kill him myself!
The scarred man's eyes flickered—whether from fear or a surge of adrenaline was unclear.
In front of him, the last line of five warriors stepped forward, ready to challenge him.
Unfazed by the heat, the weight of his armor, or the bodies strewn around him, he advanced.
"Die, you bastard!" The first attacker swung a massive axe in a downward arc.
Effortlessly sidestepping, the leader drove his sword upward, piercing from the attacker's chin through the top of his skull. The man froze, held upright by his firm grip. With a brutal yank, the sword tore free, leaved the lifeless body to crumple face-first onto the ground, its split visage a grotesque ruin.
The next attacker, wielding a spiked mace, lunged forward, bringing the weapon down in a crushing vertical strike. His left arm raised to shield himself. The mace struck hard, denting his armor and drawing blood from the shattered plating. But his eyes—fierce, predatory—showed no sign of pain.
With a sudden pivot to the right, he threw the attacker off balance. The man staggered backward, his mace still caught on the leader's damaged gauntlet.
Strength unmatched by mere size—pure, animalistic fury surged through him. Freed his left hand, he gripped his sword tightly and drove it forward in a ruthless thrust.
The third attacker gasped, blood spurted from his mouth as the blade buried deep in his chest, his lifeblood mingled with the fresh wounds he had just received.
The two remaining warriors from the line moved in unison. His sword before him, angling it upward in a salute—not to his enemy, but to himself and the justice he upheld.
A fierce wind howled across the battlefield, whipping his tattered cloak into the air, as if demanding the world acknowledge its master's presence. In his stance, the leader braced for the impending clash, preparing to deflect the attacks from ahead.
Then, two knights surged forward from his flanks—one from the left, the other from the right—intercepting the incoming strikes. Their intervention cleared a path, granting him an unhindered path to the scarred warrior standing at the end of the battlefield.
Without hesitation, the leader lunged. His sword cut through the air in a rapid horizontal arc, a gleam of steel slicing toward his foe.
The scarred man was ready. A massive war hammer rested at his side, and as the blade neared, he swung its iron shaft into the sword's path. The clash was violent—metal shrieked against metal, and a shower of sparks erupted from the collision. The raw force behind the blow sent tremors up their arms, muscles straining under the sheer impact.
"At last," the scarred man sneered, his lips curling into a repugnant grin. "I meet the King Without A War, Rudiger Dellara."
How does he know my name? The realization struck Rudiger like a cold blade, his thoughts thrown into disarray.
Sensing hesitation, the scarred warrior struck first. A sudden kick slammed into Rudiger's chest, forcing him backward. Staggering, he steadied himself, widening the gap between them—just enough to catch his breath.
"Who are you?" Rudiger demanded, lowering his sword slightly yet keeping his guard up.
Behind him, his knights fought relentlessly. Though outnumbered, they held their ground, clashing steel against the enemy with unyielding determination.
"Baldur," the man declared, slamming his war hammer into the earth. "Commander of the outlaw warriors of Tyrholm."
A cold weight settled in Rudiger's gut as Baldur's next words rang across the battlefield.
"This is a declaration of war from the Kingdom of Tyrholm!" He threaten Baldur.
A smirk played on Baldur bloodstained lips.
"KHAKHAKHA" He let his insane laughed out loud.
"You will not leave this place alive."
Rudiger's grip tightened. He raised his blade once more, its edge gleaming in the dying sunlight. "Then you will not live to see the end of this battle."
Baldur laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that carried over the battlefield. He stood tall, his imposing frame casting a dark shadow over the smoldering corpses of a mother and child, their lifeless bodies still curled in a final, desperate embrace.
"I will take great pleasure in presenting your head to the Supreme General."
And then, Baldur moved.
For a man of his stature, he was fast. His body surged forward, unhindered by his bulk. His weapon swung in a deadly horizontal arc, an unstoppable force aimed at Rudiger's ribs.
But he was ready.
CLANG!
Steel met steel in an ear-splitting collision. Sparks flared as his sword caught the head of the hammer, deflecting it off course. The force of the block sent Baldur stumbling, his footing momentarily lost.
Rudiger did not hesitate.
He countered instantly—his right hand gripping the sword's hilt, his left hand pressing against the pommel for stability. The blade thrust forward in a calculated, lethal strike.
Yet Baldur recovered swiftly. Twisting his body, he barely evaded the killing blow. The sword's tip missed his head but left a crimson gash trailing down his cheek.
Baldur's fingers curled tighter around his weapon. With a single motion, he spun the handle, switching from the axe head to the war hammer.
Then he struck.
The hammer's massive weight crashed into Rudiger's side. The force sent him flying, his body rolling across the damp battlefield. Pain flared across his ribs as he clutched his armor, feeling the deep fractures spiderwebbing beneath his palm.
Yet there was no time to falter.
A looming shadow fell over him. Baldur was already there, his war axe raised, ready to carve Rudiger in two.
Instinct took over.
BAM!
Rudiger rolled forward, the blade of the axe burying itself into the ground mere inches behind him. Without looking, he twisted and drove his sword backward, the steel biting deep into Baldur's thigh.
With a violent pull, he wrenched the blade free, tearing through muscle and tendon. Baldur roared in pain, staggering.
For the first time, exhaustion weighed on Rudiger's limbs. He took a deep breath, feeling the suffocating heat trapped within his iron helm.
"Get up, commander," he growled, his voice like the distant rumble of a storm. "Pay for your sins."
Baldur knelt before him, one hand pressing against the wound in his leg. His breath came in ragged gasps, yet his laughter did not cease.
"You miserable king," Baldur spat, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer. "You couldn't even save this village." His laughter rang hollow through the battlefield. "KHAKHAKHA!"
Despite the pain wracking his body, Baldur lifted his war axe with only his right arm showcased his immense strength, attempting a final, desperate strike. But his movements were slower now, the agony in his leg sapping his strength.
Rudiger advanced, change his holding into backhand.
He stepped inside Baldur's reach, dodging beneath the swing. Twisting to his left, he brought his sword up in a vertical arc.
The blade sliced clean through flesh and bone.
Baldur's right arm fell to the ground, severed from his body. The massive war hammer slipped from his weakening grip, crashing beside him with a dull thud. Blood poured from the open wound, pooling at his knees as he collapsed.
Rudiger loomed over him, sword poised.
"I will tear you apart, piece by piece," he vowed, his voice low, unwavering. He lowered the blade until its tip hovered before Baldur's throat.
"And I will send your head to General Cedric as a declaration of war."
"My death will not bring back the people of your village, King."
Baldur's face remained impassive, devoid of regret, as if he had already fulfilled his purpose. "Look around you—when the sun rises, all that will remain is ash."
Rudiger's blade cut through the air in a swift, merciless arc. Baldur's left arm separated cleanly from his massive frame, blood spurting from the severed limb.
"Argh!!!" Baldur's scream tore through the battlefield—then turned into laughter. "Khakha... KHAKHAKHAKHA!" His voice grew hoarse, his head tilting back toward the sky. He welcomed his fate, the inevitable reckoning for all his sins.
Without hesitation, Rudiger drove his sword through Baldur's chest, piercing his heart. The battle was over. Baldur's body slumped backward, crashing into the blood-soaked earth, which had turned to mud beneath him.
Rudiger removed his helmet and let it fall to the ground with a hollow thud. His breath came in ragged gasps as he surveyed the destruction. The village still burned. Not far from him, the charred remains of a mother and child smoldered, smoke curling from their lifeless forms—monuments to his failure.
He dropped to his knees across from Baldur's lifeless body, watching as the dying warlord's breath rasped unevenly through his blood-filled lungs.
"Your Majesty, are you hurt?"
His wingman, kneeled before him.
"I'm fine, Ashton. Order the others to put out the fires—"
Rudiger's voice faltered. A hot, bitter taste surged up his throat. He coughed, crimson spilling from his lips.
"Your Majesty!" Ashton stepped forward, alarmed.
Rudiger raised a hand, stopping him. "Gather the wounded and the dead. They must be returned to their families."
Then, after a brief pause, he added coldly, "And take his head."
A gurgling, choked laugh bubbled from Baldur's throat. "How tragic... a king who has never known war..." He drew a shuddering breath, his final words barely above a whisper. "...will become the very catalyst for it."
And with that, Baldur's story ended at the hands of King Rudiger.
The king rose, inhaling the thick stench of blood and charred flesh. He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on his Mana Vessel.
Then—a disturbance.
A strange current of mana pulsed through the air. his gaze snapped toward a man lying motionless on the ground. Clutched in his trembling hand was a black sphere etched with crimson markings. A thin, silken thread of white light extended from the man's fingertips, feeding into the orb.
Rudiger took a step forward.
Then—blinding light erupted.
Birds from the distant peaks scattered in terror. A shockwave tore through the valley, flattening trees and sending dust and debris spiraling skyward.
A towering mushroom cloud rose from the heart of the land, swallowing the morning sun.
And then—silence.
***
The half-moon hung at its peak, casting a soft glow over the palace. Stars flickered, scattered across the night sky beside it. Rielle leaned toward the stone railing, her face looming as her eyes glanced toward the night sky.
"My Lady, your meals is ready" Her maid stood behind her.
"Thank you, Maria! I will have it later" She replied with empty smile.
"Does Geralt has arrived?"
"Yes, My Lady. Do you require his presence here?" The maid said in a bowing manner.
"Yes, please Maria. You may take your leave" she replied in her soft tone.
After the maid left her, she remain stood in silence behind the railing of her balcony. Her hand rest on the handle. She tapped her fingers against her arms, shifting her weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still. Where did he go? is he alright?
A knock came from behind her back,
"Come in"
The door swung open with soft creack, a man with warrior build stood there. He walked closer towards Rielle, his armour created clanking sound against the marble floor. Eventhough he bowed in front of Rielle, she still need to tilted her head up to look him in the eye.
"Good evening, My Lady" His deep growling voice filled the silence.
"Good evening, Geralt. Is there any news from him?"
"I'm sorry, My Lady. But there were no news from the outpost"
"How come?" Her tone raised slightly. She took one step closer toward Geralt.
"It's probably they took a route that didn't pass through any outpost" He looked down deeper, avoiding Rielle gaze.
"Are you sure you didn't know where he went?" Her crossed arms loosen up a bit.
"No, My Lady. He said that it is a secret matter"
"You dare lie to me?" She pointed Geralt's face while screamed her lungs out.
"No, My Lady. My apologize" Geralt eyes nailed to the floor.
"Hufft." She let out a deep sigh, looked towards the balcony ceiling, tried to calm down herself.
A silence stood between them, Geralt dare to spoke nothing. A cold breeze blew Rielle's hair, she turn around and leave Geralt behind. Leaned herself back to the railing, "Get out of my sight, Geralt"
"I need a time"
Geralt stepped back, leaving Rielle alone. The door behind her closed with soft thud, her hair dancing in cold breeze. She rested her hand on the handle, her eyes stared blank toward the stars.
Please come back safely, father.
*****