Only the worthy ones can manage to survive. And the peasants are left to suffer. In a world where carnage meets wiseness, who will win? - Frederick, the Lord of the Blade

  Faint sounds muffled in the man's ears. As ruthless men murdered off the last of the calvary. Ash covered the air as flames danced nearby, faint shouting and screams were in the distance. A faint trickle of blood split down the man's brow, sinking into the mud beneath him.

  The man's eyes slowly opened, blurry as ever. A sharp pain was in his shoulder, stinging through his whole body. Blood started to spit out. An arrow was stuck in his arm, and his legs were crushed underneath three men. He could only look forward and hear the distance cries, and the faint outlines of figures murdering one another.

  The man tried to lift his upper body up off the ground. A faint grunt escape his mouth as the arrow digger deeper the more he tried, his eyes slowly started to blur once more. His mind was racing with thoughts: How do I survive such injuries? A tear escaped his eye, as he fell back face first on the ground, his faith slowly slipping away.

  His eyes snapped back open quickly as he heard another cry, but this one was a few meters away, close by. He slowly turned his head to the direction of the source of noise, his head also aching with pain. But he ignored it, and pushed through the never stopping pain. He now saw his best ally, on his knees, bowing down to a ruthless Mongol. Memories flooded the man's mind, that was his partner.

  He tried to push up again, even harder, but the bodies were too heavy and his shoulder was about to give out. The Mongol raised his axe, a glint shined off the axe from the moon, and he slashed down. A splash of blood spat through the air, everything slowed down as the man gurgled on his blood and fell off his knees to the ground. Gurgling even harder.

  "Worhless scum." The Mongol said in a gruff voice, as he leaned down and spat on the dying man.

  The man felt a surge of rage, Who did this Mongol think he was? The man lifted his body up even harder, ignoring the arrow digging in his shoulder. He reached out for his dirty, and bloodied sword in front of him. He was close. Very close. Then... his shoulder snapped and he fell back on the ground with a loud thud. A grunt escaped his mouth, loud enough to catch the Mongol's attention.

  The Mongol turned his attention to the man now, he only lay a few meters away. The man tried his best to stay still, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder and the numbness in his legs. He tried to play dead. The Mongol marched over, bloodied axe in hand. The man could hear the footsteps, and he had to figure something out fast. He had to stay as still as he could, and hope for the best.

  The Mongol now stopd by the man's side, noticing the arrow in the man's shoulder. "Old fool. You deserved worse. You sickening warrior."

  The Mongol lifted his leg and stomped down on the man's shoulder with as much strength he could muster. A large pain went up in the man's arm, and he twitched, and grunted. The Mongol chuckled, leaning over the man. "You think you could have outsmarted me, boy?" The Mongol said in a mocking tone. "You disgrace. Only a fool could try such a trick."

  The man closed his eyes, waiting for the Mongol to raise his axe. Memories flooded his mind, ones with his partner, ones with his family. They all came in at once, and the Mongol raised his axe even more. "Pathetic" He whispered out.

  The Mongol’s axe hung in the air, a deadly promise, silver glinting under the moonlight. The man’s muscles screamed with the effort of holding still, every nerve warning him to move. He could feel the arrow digging deeper with every tiny twitch, each shallow breath sending jolts of fire through his shoulder.

  “This is it,” he thought. “This is how it ends.” His mind raced. Should he roll? Should he reach for his sword? Every option seemed impossible. The mud beneath him, the bodies pinning his legs, the searing pain—they all whispered one thing: death.

  A scream erupted somewhere behind the Mongol, sharp and piercing. The man’s eyes darted to the edge of the chaos. Shadows moved—fast, silent, weaving through the flames and bodies. Two figures, cloaked and barely visible, approached, their steps careful, deliberate. For a heartbeat, the man’s panic wavered. Hope flickered.

  The Mongol frowned, hearing it too. He turned his head slightly, a low growl escaping his throat.

  “What’s this? More rats to play with?” he snarled, tightening his grip on the axe.

  The man’s chest heaved. Pain screamed through him, but he forced himself to focus. Move, just a little. Maybe they’ll help. Maybe… survive. His fingers twitched toward his sword. It was just out of reach, but if he could roll…

  Another step from the shadowed figures. A glint of metal—a sword? The man’s heart thumped wildly. They’re real. They’re here.

  The Mongol raised the axe higher, preparing to strike. The world seemed to shrink to the two of them: him and this looming figure of death. He could hear every heartbeat, every ragged breath. The firelight flickered across the Mongol’s face, twisted in malice and anticipation.

  “I won’t die like this,” the man thought, teeth gritted, blood dripping into the mud. A spark of rage mixed with fear. “I will not.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The axe descended, slow, glinting, unstoppable—or so it seemed. The man squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the pain, the end…

  And then—a rustle, a shout, the sudden clash of metal somewhere behind the Mongol. He faltered, eyes snapping toward the source of the sound.

  The man risked a glance. The two cloaked figures were here, swords drawn, moving with precision. The Mongol turned fully now, startled, but the man’s mind refused to focus on relief yet—his body ached, every limb screaming.

  “Not yet,” he thought. “I survive first.”

  One of the cloaked figures rushed forward, shouting. The Mongol stumbled backward, as he lifted his axe off his shoulder. He swung his axe with force, whipping the wind out of the air. The cloaked figure was skilled, too skilled. She ducked, twisted, and slashed at the Mongol's thigh. A roar escaped the Mongol's mouth, the Mongol whipped around and swung his axe again. The woman dodged, rolling on the dirt. The axe hit the ground with a thud, and the other woman rushed up behind the Mongol and lunged her sword into his spine.

  Blood spat out fiercely. The Mongol yelped out in agony as he fell to his knees, eyes tearing up. The other woman raised her sword, and in one quick move, she slashed the sword into his neck. He gurgled on his blood, falling to the ground face first. The man was still under the bodies, watching the women with shock and terror. "They... they just saved me." He thought.

  Only one thing was for sure, he had no idea who these 2 women were.

  ---

  The man lay on the muddy ground, chest heaving, blood mixing with dirt, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The Mongol’s body twitched once, twice, and then stillness fell. Silence replaced the chaos for a heartbeat—but not for long. The smell of smoke, blood, and death lingered, thick in the night air.

  One of the cloaked women crouched beside him, voice sharp and urgent.

  “Move, quickly,” she hissed, gripping his shoulders. “We don’t have much time.”

  The man tried to speak, but the arrow in his shoulder and the crushed weight of bodies pinned him. Pain lanced through his chest, but adrenaline surged. He nodded as best he could.

  The second woman appeared behind the Mongol’s corpse, scanning the darkness. “Patrols will be here soon. If we linger, we die.”

  The man’s mind raced. “Patrols? How many?” he thought. His vision blurred, every movement sending stabbing agony up his arm. He tried to roll, to free his legs from the wreckage, but the bodies pressed too tightly against him.

  The first woman lifted his torso, her grip iron-strong. “Lean on me. We’ll get you out,” she said, almost gently despite the urgency in her tone.

  Pain shot through him as they lifted him onto a small wagon hidden behind a fallen tree. The man’s hands clutched the shaft of his sword out of habit, even though he could barely move it. Every jolt from the wheels pressed the arrow deeper into his shoulder, yet he forced himself to breathe.

  The second woman climbed up beside him, taking the reins of a battered horse tied to the wagon. She urged it forward with a sharp command. The animal reared slightly, hooves striking mud and ash, but the woman’s voice was firm and precise.

  As the wagon lurched into motion, the man’s vision caught glimpses of the battlefield: flickering fires, the bodies of his fallen comrades, and the Mongol’s lifeless form. Rage mixed with grief and pain. “Why did this happen?” he thought, teeth gritted. “Why me? Why now?”

  The first woman leaned close, her face partially obscured by a dark hood. “You’re alive, but not safe yet. We move fast, or they’ll be on us in minutes.”

  The man tried to speak, but only a rasp escaped. She nodded, understanding without words, then pressed a small cloth to the arrow wound in his shoulder. Pain exploded, and he gasped, but the bleeding slowed.

  The second woman glanced back, eyes sharp, scanning the trees. “Patrols,” she muttered. “Three or four will be on our trail soon. We need to take the northern path. Faster, now.”

  The man tried to sit upright, but his injuries wouldn’t allow it. Still, he forced himself to look around, studying the women. They were skilled, disciplined, dangerous, and he had no idea who they were. His chest tightened—not from fear, but confusion.

  “Who… are you?” he rasped, voice hoarse, barely audible over the clatter of wheels and pounding hooves.

  The first woman’s eyes met his, glinting in the firelight. “Someone who doesn’t ask questions. Not yet,” she said cryptically. “Survive first, then answers may come.”

  The wagon rattled along the uneven forest path. Trees scraped against the sides, mud splashed upward, and every jolt reminded him of the arrow and the bodies pressing beneath him. Each breath was agony, yet he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the women, trying to memorize their movements, their skill, their determination.

  Through the haze of pain, he overheard snippets of their conversation. “Prophecy… he must live… Lord of the Blade…” The words were fragmented, almost whispers carried away by the wind, but they stirred something deep in his mind. A name? A warning? He didn’t know yet, but the sense of importance weighed heavier than his wounds.

  Ahead, the northern path narrowed. The shadows of the forest seemed darker here, the trees pressing close, the ground uneven and treacherous. The man gritted his teeth and clung to the wagon’s edge. He could feel life clawing back into his body with every jolt.

  “Hold on,” the second woman said, voice low but firm. “We’re not safe yet. Patrols are close.”

  He swallowed, nodding. Fear and pain mingled, but for the first time since the battlefield, he felt a flicker of hope. Alive. Moving. Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.

  - - -

  The wagon rattled along the narrow forest path, the man clinging to its edge, every jolt shooting pain through his shoulder and legs. The women moved with deadly precision, one guiding the horse, the other scanning the shadows for danger. The man’s breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. He could barely keep his eyes open, the wounds burning through every nerve.

  “We’re close,” the first woman whispered, glancing toward a faint clearing ahead. “Camp is just beyond those trees.”

  Hope flickered. Even weak, even broken, he forced himself to focus. A camp… food, shelter… maybe allies. The thought was fleeting, fragile, but it was enough to keep him upright.

  The man was finally settled inside a small tent, the canvas smelling faintly of smoke and wet earth. He lay on a crude bed of blankets, the arrow still lodged in his shoulder, throbbing with every shallow breath. Mud and blood coated his arms and legs, and his body ached as if the battlefield itself had imprinted pain into his bones.

  The two women moved quietly, tending to minor injuries and preparing the small camp. One crouched near a fire, her hands skillful as she cleaned her blade. The other checked the perimeter, eyes sharp in the flickering firelight, listening to every rustle of the nearby forest.

  “It’s not safe to stay here long,” the first woman muttered, though her voice was softer now, more measured than it had been in battle.

  The man tried to speak, to ask who they were, or what the prophecy he had overheard might mean, but his throat was dry, and every word brought searing pain. He swallowed, forcing himself to relax as best he could, and let his eyes drift toward the canvas ceiling of the tent.

  The firelight outside cast moving shadows across the walls, dancing with the wind. For the first time that night, the man allowed himself to breathe, to feel a fleeting sense of safety. His muscles twitched from exhaustion, every nerve screaming in protest, yet he couldn’t stop the slight shiver of relief.

  “Sleep if you can,” the second woman said, crouched beside him, eyes scanning the forest. “Tomorrow will be… difficult.”

  The man’s chest heaved. Sleep sounded impossible, but exhaustion clawed at him relentlessly. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on something other than pain. Thoughts of his partner, of the battlefield, of the Mongol… all swirled in his mind. He would survive, he had to.

  Outside, the wind whispered through the trees. Somewhere, a distant owl cried. The man’s breathing slowed, and for a moment, the chaos of the world seemed paused. But deep down, he felt it—the uneasy sense of impending danger, the shadow of a threat that was still coming.

  He didn’t know it yet, but the Mongols were moving again, their patrols closing in. The night was silent now, but the firelight flickered like a warning. The man’s heart thudded, uneasy and tense.

  “Rest,” the first woman said softly. “You’ll need all your strength.”

  He nodded weakly, letting the blankets rise and fall with his shallow breaths. Darkness enveloped him, and for the first time in hours, he felt almost… safe.

  Almost.

  Screams filled the air, burning tents could be heard. Shouting. And crying. The man awoke and threw himself off the tent floor, the camp was being attacked.

  What will he do...