Harry was a man of war, etched with the scars of countless battles. But it was his last that haunted him most, the one in which he emerged as the sole survivor, draped in the blood and sweat of both comrade and foe. From that day forward, the acrid scent of battle clung to him, an invisible shroud he could never shed.
The perilous journey through the east, the constant quaking fear through the west, the biting frost of the north, it haunted him, and not to mention the tears, too.. Tears that never flowed.
"I lost them all. What a useless warrior I am…" Harry lamented, his voice a hollow echo in the desolate landscape of his mind.
The tears stubbornly refused to come, and that was perhaps the cruelest twist of all. He felt the crushing weight of guilt for failing his people, for failing them so utterly. He should have died alongside them, sharing their fate in that final, bloody stand. But strangely, jarringly, he felt no remorse, no grief, just a hollow emptiness that seemed to swallow him whole.
He had won the battle, yes, but he had lost himself in the process, trading his soul for a victory that tasted like ash.
"I'm a lost man," he whispered to the wind, the words barely audible above the rustling leaves. "No family, no friends… the people I fought for, ambushed and slaughtered by another village before I could even return from the war. I've lost everything, save for one last purpose, one last mission that fuels my every breath."
Then a thought came to his mind
Hey Derek… Sorry. Hey Harry.
A distant voice called out into his head,
"Remember how you died a valiant warrior, the tree is most interested of that, always remember".
A voice cackled in his thoughts and reminded him of who he was, The power behind that voice was deafening
Harry nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Wait… Who's Derek?" He was Harry, a warrior forged in the crucible of war. And Derek? Probably just one of the insane dreams that haunted his lonely nights, when the cold bit deep, and the floor ran cold with the ghosts of those he failed to protect.
But the thought wouldn't cease as it haunted him and turned to madness, it never failed to mock him. Reminding him the day he died.
There was nothing 'valiant' about it. He regarded it as retribution for all his deeds and misdeeds. His life had been a symphony of bloodshed and violence, and it had finally caught up with him. And the only thing he would be forever happy about, was that he managed to kill that bastard who had ambushed his people before it was all over; he could still remember it like yesterday. It was the only thing that made his death worth something, the only flickering light in the all-consuming darkness.
The clangor of blades, the soothing song of steel kissing steel, the muffled hum of a blade finding purchase in flesh… that was his essence, his glory, the very lifeblood that coursed through his veins. It made his blood run hot, a roaring fire that reminded him of every battle he had ever fought. But this particular battle… this one was different. In this one, he was the sole aggressor, the lone wolf against an entire village.
Harry found himself surrounded by an army of warriors, their faces grim, their eyes filled with hatred and fear. But instead of cowering, he offered them a deranged smile, his lips twisting into a macabre parody of joy. Then, he moved, a machine forged from death itself, a whirlwind of steel and fury unleashed upon the unsuspecting.
The first warrior brought his sword down, driven by the fervor to defend his village, to protect the loved ones huddled behind him. Harry couldn't be allowed to enter, not at any cost, he thought. Harry saw through this desperate hope and snuffed it out in a heartbeat.
The rim of Harry's sword batted aside the clumsy blow, and in the same fluid motion, his blade drove seamlessly through the enemy's throat, severing the head in one fell swoop. Surprise was still etched on the lifeless face, a mask of disbelief that mirrored the expressions of the warriors around him. But Harry didn't linger; he didn't give them time to process the shock.
The battle raged for two days and nights, a relentless storm of violence that consumed everything in its path. He slew adults, women, children alike, the line between combatant and innocent blurred in the heat of the moment. And even though some managed to escape, he left them be, their lives deemed insignificant in the face of his overwhelming rage. Save for one person, that is.
One person whom he pursued with the very last vestiges of his strength.
Harry stood over a man whose legs had been sliced clean off during the carnage, the stumps oozing crimson onto the blood-soaked earth. Harry himself had lost the arm with which he had wielded his sword. But now, he wielded the sword with the remaining arm. Looking behind him, he saw the gruesome trail he had left behind chasing the bastard.
The fear in their leader's eyes intensified as he stared at the pale figure looming over him. How was he even still standing? What unholy force propelled him forward, even as his body crumbled beneath the weight of his wounds?
Their leader finally found his voice, the words barely a whisper, trembling in the face of death.
"Who… are you?"
Harry regarded the question for a moment, his gaze distant, unfocused. He had spent the better half of his life searching for the village that had ambushed his comrades, a quest that had consumed him utterly, stripping him of everything he once held dear. Now that he stood on the precipice of vengeance, he thought he would feel something: happiness, perhaps? A sense of fulfillment, a sense of closure? But he felt… nothing. Just the same hollow emptiness that had been his constant companion for so long.
After a long silence, he answered the question in the most perfect way he could.
"Who knows"
And then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand lost souls, he brought the blade down, ending the man's life and finally completing his purpose.
What would he do now with no purpose? It all did not matter. He crumpled to his knees, the crimson stain on his clothes spreading with each laboured breath. He'd lost too much blood. But he had won. This fight that has made him into someone far worse than he came in as He died with no sign of remorse .
In a fleeting moment of clarity, Derek felt the Tree of Oblivion gently caress his mind in acceptance whisking away the memory.
A hollow emptiness descended, then, like a tidal wave, repressed memories surged back. Smiling faces of his parents, his young, innocent brother. The blinding flash of oncoming headlights, the screech of tires, the crushing impact, the accident that took away his family from him.
Then, the haunting image of the skeleton, the piercing agony of Hunter's sword.
"Derek… I'm Derek," he gasped, clinging to that truth and then a crippling wave of vertigo crashed over him, blurring the world, and the portal opened before him, bathed in ethereal light, at the base of the giant tree.
But his body was no longer his to command. He was falling. He was done.
Suddenly, a frail-looking figure, vaguely familiar yet unidentifiable, seized him with surprising strength, dragging him toward the tree. Derek tried to resist, his limbs heavy, unresponsive. But he clung to the mace with every ounce of his fading strength. He couldn't lose it. Not now.
The figure dragged him through the shimmering portal. As the creeping vertigo finally extinguished his consciousness, the world dissolved into a blinding white void.