Chapter 2 - The Mercenary's Baptism
The world outside the Barony of Eldoria was a far harsher place than Kaelen, the sheltered noble's son, could have ever imagined. He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached with a fire he hadn't known possible, until the familiar silhouette of the castle faded into a distant memory, replaced by the endless, indifferent expanse of the King's Road. He had no plan, no destination, only the desperate, primal urge to escape the horror he had unleashed, the guilt that gnawed at his soul.
His meager purse, filled with a few silver coins he had hoarded, quickly dwindled. Hunger became a constant companion, cold nights under the stars a brutal reality. He learned to steal, to scavenge, to fight for scraps with feral desperation. The boy who had been mocked for his lack of sword skill now found himself in alley brawls, desperate clashes with brigands, and skirmishes with other hungry, desperate souls. Each fight was a lesson, each bruise a reminder of his inadequacy, each victory a testament to his raw, unrefined will to survive.
He drifted from town to town, his brown hair and common features helping him blend in, a stark contrast to the blonde, noble-born Valerius he had once been. The name Kaelen Valerius was a burden, a reminder of the life he had ruined. He shed it, becoming simply "Kael," a name as unadorned and functional as his new existence.
His path eventually led him to the sprawling, chaotic city of Blackwater, a notorious hub for mercenaries, adventurers, and all manner of unsavory characters. It was here, in a grimy tavern reeking of stale ale and desperation, that he stumbled upon his first true opportunity. A grizzled, one-eyed veteran named Roric, leader of a small, ragtag mercenary company known as the "Iron Fists," was looking for warm bodies. Kael, barely sixteen, gaunt but with a fierce, haunted look in his eyes, caught his attention.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, boy," Roric rasped, eyeing Kael's cheap, worn clothes and the nervous twitch in his hands. "Can you hold a sword?"
Kaelen, remembering the bloody stump of Gareth's arm, swallowed hard. "I can fight," he said, his voice hoarse, devoid of the soft noble lilt it once held.
Roric grunted, a skeptical sound. "We'll see. Don't expect any special treatment, kid. This ain't no knightly order. You pull your weight, or you get left behind. Dead or alive."
And so began Kael's true baptism by fire. The Iron Fists were not heroes; they were survivors. They took on dirty contracts: clearing goblin infestations from trade routes, escorting merchant caravans through bandit-infested forests, putting down minor rebellions for petty lords, and sometimes, simply fighting other mercenary groups for territory or spoils.
The training was brutal, unforgiving. Roric and his lieutenants, hardened killers all, saw Kael's awkwardness, his lack of innate talent. But they also saw the desperate fire in his eyes, the relentless drive to improve, to atone. They didn't coddle him. They beat him, literally, into shape. If he stumbled, he was knocked down. If his block was weak, he felt the full force of a blow. There was no Aura training here, no gentle guidance on spiritual energy. It was all about steel, sweat, and survival.
"You ain't got the aura, kid," Roric would bark, watching Kael struggle with a heavy broadsword. "So you gotta be faster. Stronger. Meaner. You gotta make up for what you ain't got with what you can get."
Kael took every word to heart. He trained relentlessly, long after the others had collapsed, pushing his body to its absolute limits. He learned to compensate for his lack of natural grace with sheer brute force and an unyielding defense. He became a wall, just as he had been in the duel, but now a wall of iron, capable of absorbing blows and delivering crushing counter-attacks. He learned to read opponents, to anticipate their moves, to exploit their weaknesses with a cold, analytical precision born of countless life-or-death situations.
His humor, once an unintentional quirk, became a dark, sardonic wit, a coping mechanism for the horrors he witnessed. He saw men die, heard their screams, felt their blood splatter on his face. He killed, not with joy, but with a grim necessity. Goblins, orcs, bandits, rival mercenaries – they all fell before his blade. Hundreds of them. Each kill was a notch in his soul, a step further away from the naive boy who had severed his brother's arm. He never forgot Gareth, never forgot the look on his father's face, never forgot Lyra's scream. That guilt, that burning shame, was the fuel that drove him.
Years blurred into a cycle of bloodshed, travel, and fleeting moments of camaraderie with his fellow mercenaries. He saw the world, not through the gilded windows of a noble's estate, but from the muddy trenches of battlefields, the smoky interiors of taverns, and the desolate paths between forgotten villages. He learned about the political machinations of kingdoms, the desperate plight of common folk, the brutal realities of magic and monsters beyond the sanitized tales of bards.
By the time he was twenty-six, Kael was no longer the lanky, awkward boy. He was a man forged in fire and tempered by steel. His body was lean, corded with muscle, his movements efficient and deadly. His brown hair, once a symbol of his difference, was now just part of his hardened appearance. His eyes, once haunted, now held a cold, unwavering focus, the eyes of a predator. He was a commander of the Iron Fists, Roric having recognized his grim competence and leadership qualities. He led his men with a quiet authority, earning their respect through his unwavering courage and his ability to always, always, get the job done.
He had become strong. Strong enough, he often thought, to make up for what he had done. Strong enough to face his family, if he ever dared. But he never did. He cut all ties, not daring to send a letter, not daring to ask. The thought of their faces, of the pain he had caused, was a wound that never truly healed. He convinced himself it was better this way, that they were better off without the stain of his presence.
Then, the news came.
It was a cold, rainy evening in the bustling trade city of Veridia, miles from Eldoria. Kael and his company were celebrating a hard-won contract, the tavern loud with boisterous laughter and the clinking of mugs. A traveling merchant, his face pale and drawn, stumbled in, seeking refuge from the storm and a place to share his grim tidings.
"Terrible news, terrible!" the merchant cried, slumping onto a bench, his voice trembling. "The Kingdom of Vorlag... they attacked! They swept through the borderlands, like a plague! The Barony of Eldoria... it's gone! Demolished! Razed to the ground!"
The noise in the tavern died. Kael, who had been laughing at a crude joke, froze. Eldoria. His home.
"What… what happened?" Kaelen asked, his voice a low growl, barely recognizable to himself.
The merchant shuddered. "They say it was a surprise attack. No warning. The Valerius family... they fought bravely, but they were overwhelmed. Baron Theron, his sons, his daughter... all dead. Strung up, they say. A warning to the other border lords."
The words hit Kaelen like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. Dead. All dead. His father, Elara, Lyra… Gareth. The brother he had maimed. He hadn't kept in touch. He hadn't known. He hadn't even known there was a pending attack. The guilt, which had been a dull ache for years, now flared into an agonizing, searing pain. He had left them. He had abandoned them. And now they were gone.
He didn't remember leaving the tavern. He just remembered the cold rain on his face, the frantic pounding of his heart, the roaring in his ears. He had to see. He had to know.
He rode for days, pushing his horse to its limits, barely stopping for food or rest. The landscape grew increasingly familiar, yet terrifyingly alien. Smoke stained the horizon. The air grew heavy with the stench of death and ash.
When he finally reached the ruins of Eldoria, it was worse than any nightmare. The once proud castle was a skeletal ruin, its stone walls blackened and crumbling. The town, once bustling with life, was a graveyard of burnt-out homes and scattered debris. Silence, a profound and horrifying silence, hung over everything, broken only by the mournful whisper of the wind through the charred remains.
He dismounted, his legs trembling, and walked through the devastation, his eyes scanning, searching, dreading what he would find. He found them near the remains of the main gate, where the fiercest fighting must have occurred.
His family.
They were strung up by ropes, naked, their bodies desecrated with countless cuts, a grotesque display of the enemy's cruelty. Elara, his noble, stern brother, hung limply, his strong form defiled. Gareth, his arrogant, talented brother, was there too, his body mangled, the stump of his arm a stark, painful reminder of Kaelen's own past. And Lyra. His sweet, intelligent sister, her small, fragile form brutalized.
But it was his father, Baron Theron, that broke him. His powerful, imposing father, the legendary Aura Knight, whose gaze could send shivers down spines, was headless. His head, impaled on a crude spike, stared out with vacant eyes, a final, chilling act of defiance and desecration.
Kaelen fell to his knees in the mud and ash, the world spinning around him. The cold, hardened shell he had built around his heart shattered. Tears, hot and raw, streamed down his face, blurring the horrific sight. He missed them. He missed his father's stern approval, Elara's quiet guidance, Gareth's irritating taunts, and Lyra's gentle smile. He loved his mother, his sister, his entire family. It had been years since they last spoke, since he had last seen their faces, alive and whole. The guilt was no longer just a weight; it was a living, screaming entity tearing him apart from the inside. He had left them. He had abandoned them. And they had died, alone, without him.
Months later, the Kingdom of Eldoria, spurred by the brutal attack on its border baronies, declared war on the Kingdom of Vorlag. Kaelen, driven by a cold, consuming need for vengeance, volunteered the Iron Fists for the front lines. He didn't care about strategy, about politics, about anything but killing. He was put on the front lines as a commander of mercenaries, a grim reaper in human form.
He killed hundreds of people a day, for months. Vorlag soldiers, knights, mages, anyone who stood in his path. His blade became an extension of his rage, a blur of steel fueled by grief and guilt. He fought with a reckless abandon that terrified his own men, but his skill, honed over a decade of brutal survival, was undeniable. He was a force of nature, a one-man army carving a path of destruction through the enemy ranks.
One day, they reached the capital castle of Vorlag, a massive, imposing fortress that seemed to mock their efforts. The war had been long, bloody, and costly, but they were winning. The Vorlag forces were pushed back, cornered, their morale shattered.
"This is it!" the King's general roared, his voice hoarse with triumph. "The final push! Breach the walls! Take the castle!"
Their forces, five thousand strong, surged forward, a wave of steel and fury. Kaelen was at the forefront, his eyes fixed on the castle walls, his heart pounding with a grim anticipation. This was it. The culmination of his vengeance.
But as they approached the massive stone walls, a chilling realization dawned. The ground before them, seemingly innocuous, shimmered with a faint, almost invisible light. Magic circles. They were walking into a trap.
"Fall back!" Kaelen roared, his voice tearing through the din of battle, but it was too late.
The ground erupted. Massive, ancient magic circles, hidden beneath the earth, flared to life, unleashing torrents of elemental energy. Fire, ice, lightning, and raw arcane force tore through their ranks. Three thousand troops, caught in the blast, were instantly incinerated, frozen solid, or ripped apart by unseen forces. The ground became a charnel house, filled with screams and the smell of burnt flesh.
Before they could recover, the trap sprung fully. From the flanks, hidden cavalry knights, thousands strong, burst from concealed positions, their hooves thundering, their lances poised. They had been ambushed, surrounded. They were screwed.
Panic erupted. The remaining two thousand troops, decimated and demoralized, were caught between the magical onslaught and the charging cavalry. Kaelen fought like a demon, a whirlwind of steel, cutting down Vorlag knights, deflecting spells, trying to create an opening, to save anyone he could. He killed dozens, then scores, his body moving on instinct, his mind a cold, calculating machine of death.
But then, he felt it. A gaze. A presence. Something terrifying, far beyond the power of any normal knight or mage. It was like being stared at by a primordial beast, a being of pure, unadulterated malice. He looked up, his eyes scanning the chaos, and saw him.
The enemy commander.
He stood atop a rise, a towering figure clad in dark, ornate armor, a long, wickedly curved sword held casually in one hand. His aura, a swirling vortex of dark, oppressive energy, radiated power that made the very air crackle. This was no ordinary warrior. This was the one. The architect of Eldoria's destruction. The one who had ordered his family's desecration.
Their eyes met across the battlefield. A silent challenge. A primal hatred.
Kaelen, abandoning the desperate fight against the common soldiers, charged. He moved with a speed and ferocity that shocked even his own remaining men. The enemy commander met him, his dark sword singing through the air.
Their fight was a maelstrom of steel and raw power. The ground beneath them cracked, the air shrieked with the clash of their blades. Aura flared, not the vibrant, pure light of the Valerius family, but a dark, consuming energy from the commander, and Kaelen's own grim, unmanifested strength. All around them, the remaining troops, both friend and foe, paused, their eyes wide with awe and terror, watching the titans clash.
Kaelen fought with every fiber of his being, fueled by a decade of guilt and a burning desire for vengeance. His defense was impeccable, a testament to his years of absorbing blows and learning to survive. He parried, dodged, and blocked, his movements precise, his body a fortress of muscle and will. But he wasn't winning. The enemy commander was simply too powerful, too fast, too overwhelming. Each block sent a jarring shockwave up his arm, each parry strained his muscles. He was getting tired. His movements, once fluid, became heavier, slower.
The commander, seeing his opening, pressed the attack. His dark sword became a blur, a relentless storm of steel. Kaelen tried to block, but his guard was slipping. A powerful overhead strike forced him to stumble, exposing his side.
The commander didn't hesitate. His long sword, dark and gleaming, plunged into Kaelen's gut.
A searing pain, hot and agonizing, exploded through him. He gasped, a choked sound, his eyes wide with shock. The commander twisted the blade, a cruel, deliberate motion. Kaelen felt his lifeblood gush, felt his strength drain away.
He fell to his knees, clutching the hilt of the sword protruding from his stomach, his vision blurring. The commander stood over him, his face a mask of cold triumph.
"We won!" the commander bellowed, his voice echoing across the battlefield, a declaration of absolute victory.
Kaelen lay dying, the screams of his family, the image of his father's severed head, flashing before his eyes. So much regret. So much guilt. He had failed. He had failed them again.
If only… if only I could redo it.
The thought, a desperate, burning plea, was the last thing in his mind. Save my family. Murder the enemy commander.
Then, darkness.
He woke up with a gasp, his eyes snapping open. The air was cool, fresh, and smelled faintly of lavender and polished wood. He was lying on a soft, familiar bed. Sunlight streamed through a window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
He sat up abruptly, his hand flying to his gut. No wound. No pain. His body felt… smaller. Lighter. He looked down at his hands. They were unscarred, smooth, the hands of a boy, not a hardened killer. He stumbled out of bed, catching his reflection in a polished mirror on the wall.
A young face stared back. Unlined. Unburdened by years of war and death. His brown hair, a familiar sight, fell across his forehead. He looked fifteen.
He was fifteen.
The date on the calendar, hanging near his desk, confirmed it. The day before the duel with Gareth.
A cold certainty settled in his chest, chasing away the remnants of sleep. He was back. He had regressed.
A grim, determined smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to the terror that still lingered from his last moments.
"I will redo this life better," Kaelen whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, but firm with resolve. "This time, I will save them all. And that bastard commander will pay."