Months passed. Axel had turned sixteen.
His body had changed—lean and muscular, sculpted like stone from years of labor and discipline. He had grown taller, stronger, and sharper in mind. Though the village of Catler remained peaceful, he never let himself grow soft.
His father's sword techniques—taught in childhood—had never left him. He remembered them clearly, etched into his muscles like memory carved in steel. The style was called the Sword of the Black Dragon, a brutal, precise, and overwhelming form of combat passed through generations of clan leaders.
In ten years of solitude and secret practice, Axel had mastered it.
He did not seek revenge actively—but in his heart, he waited for it.
Then came the day it found him.
Without warning, thunder erupted on the horizon—hooves pounding against dirt, banners flapping in the wind. Over a hundred armed riders broke into Catler from the northern hills. Their armor was dust-covered, faces masked, blades ready.
They struck like lightning.
Farms were set ablaze. Doors were kicked in. Screams echoed through the once-peaceful valley as homes were looted, and lives were torn apart.
Axel was at the barn, preparing to practice with his sword when he heard the first explosion—then the second. He grabbed the black steel blade from its rack. What was meant to be a training session had become a real test.
His true beginning.
The first rider that spotted him rushed forward on horseback with a savage yell, raising a curved blade. Axel stepped calmly into stance.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he delivered a downward slash—clean, fast, lethal.
The rider's body split in two, collapsing to the ground in steaming halves.
Another raider charged him from the right. Axel parried the first strike, slammed a knee into the man's gut, and twisted his wrist, disarming him. In the same breath, he slashed upward—decapitating him in a swift, brutal arc. The head flew through the air and landed several paces away.
To Axel, it was like a dance—every movement a beat, every death a step.
Three more came at once.
Axel dashed forward, slid beneath the swing of a mace, and executed a horizontal slash that cut through the riders' abdomens. They collapsed, blood pouring like spilled wine.
A lone rider tried to flee. Axel didn't hesitate. He chased him down, leapt onto his horse from behind, and drove his blade through the man's spine.
Ten dead. And more were coming.
A new group of twenty approached—shouting, furious, blades raised. They had seen the bodies, and rage had overtaken fear.
Axel stood still, his blade dripping red. He didn't flinch.
Three of them struck at once.
He twisted, turning in on them like a cyclone. With perfect timing, he delivered a spinning kick to the third attacker's chest, launching him backward into the other two. All three tumbled into the dirt.
The next wave came—he didn't waste a second.
Axel grabbed his hunting bow from the porch, notched an arrow, and let it fly.
One down. Then another. Then five more.
Each shot was precise. Each kill, clean. Within moments, ten more lay dead or dying with arrows lodged in their throats or chests.
Then came their leader.
He dismounted with a massive broadsword in hand, armor scorched from fire and blood. His strength was obvious—his rage, even more so. He charged with a war cry and brought his heavy blade crashing down.
Axel met him head-on.
The clash of steel rang out like thunder. Sparks flew as Axel twisted at the last second, redirecting the massive blade away from his body. Using his opponent's own momentum, he delivered a crushing blow to the man's gut with the hilt of his sword.
The leader coughed blood.
He roared and swung again—wild, desperate. Axel ducked, slid in close, parried low, and then headbutted him with brutal force. The man staggered, dizzy, and dropped to his knees before collapsing.
It was over.
Thirty men had fallen to Axel's blade, bow, and fists. His clothes were stained in blood, his body bruised, but his eyes were calm.
The remaining raiders—stunned and broken—were soon captured by the town militia and arriving soldiers from the outer post.
But the village was changed. Homes burned. Families wept. The peace of Catler had ended.
And the boy once sold as a slave… had become something else.