There lived an old man in the world. He had known everything a person could possibly wish for — and yet he was one of the few fortunate enough to live a truly happy life. Despite everything. Despite all that fate had rained down upon him.
War.
Death.
A threat looming over the entire world.
The summoning of a hero.
He was a warrior who walked the Path of the Sword.
He was called — "The Rusty Sword."
His mastery of the blade seemed mediocre. There was no elegance of knights in it. Nor was there a single drop of magic — the very magic that so generously filled everyone who had devoted themselves to the sword. In an era when anyone who took up a weapon commanded magic, he couldn't use it at all.
And so he turned to the records of the old schools — those that taught mastery of the sword without a single spark of magic.
Thus he forged his sword.
A sword that was forever covered in rust from the rivers of blood spilled by his hand.
Those who mocked him fell silent. Those who despised him grew to hate him.
And then a hero was summoned into this world — to save everyone.
And everything collapsed.
The hero killed the king. Killed everyone who was in the capital. Before his might, bestowed by the goddess herself, not a single swordsman, not a single mage, not a single commander could stand.
And then "The Rusty Sword" did the unthinkable.
He joined forces with the demons. With the despised race, from whom the entire world had turned away in the hour of great need. With a people that had been enslaved by others.
He freed them.
Led them.
Gave them a reason to fight.
And they won.
He forced others to acknowledge their people. Forced them to answer for their betrayal.
And then the whole world united against a common enemy. An enemy they all together managed to drive away.
Thus ended the story of "The Rusty Sword."
He married. Raised children. Raised grandchildren. And now he was quietly and peacefully living out his final moments.
For unlike his wife, born of the demon race, he was only human — and could no longer walk alongside her through this life.
And so he sat down on a chair on the porch, took up his worn sword together with its sheath, and lifted his gaze to the cloudless sky.
He could feel it: not much was left.
Drifting off to sleep, he opened his eyes — and to his amazement found himself sitting on a small clearing. The very same chair. The very same him. But the place — completely unfamiliar.
Raising his head, he froze, looking at a foreign moon hanging in the sky.
A Blood Moon.
Suddenly a human silhouette tumbled out of the bushes. Focusing his gaze, the old man saw a boy covered in blood. His eyes burned with a bright acid light, and in his hands was a bloodied sword.
Seeing the old man, he charged at him with a crazed expression on his face.
A moment. And the boy's head calmly rolled across the clearing.
The old man was still — "The Rusty Sword."
To his surprise, the body crumbled to dust and vanished.
Nothing else happened that night. Out of old habit, the old man set up a small camp from whatever was at hand, using the gifts of the forest.
And in the morning he looked in surprise at the very same person. But now there was only guilt on his face. He stood in the shade of a large tree, placed his right hand over his heart, and gave the old man a slight nod.
And from that day on, this strange boy started coming to the old man. He couldn't understand his speech — just as the boy couldn't understand the old man's words.
But that didn't stop him. He constantly said something, trying to convey his feelings with his hands.
And when the Blood Moon rose — a bloodthirsty monster came in the boy's place.
And every time the boy came to him for his own death.
And the next day that very same boy thanked him. He didn't understand the words — but he understood the emotions. What kind of beast was he fighting inside his own soul every time, if he was forced to thank the old man for his own death?
So flowed the days.
The old man began teaching the boy what it meant — the Path of the Sword. Not through words, but through his blade. For a sword fight is also a kind of conversation. In it, one cannot lie.
With each day the old man's body grew weaker and weaker. Both the old man himself and the boy could see it.
But the boy dared not go against his will. He saw how much strength the old man was giving for his sake.
And so one night it wasn't the boy who came to him.
Four men, whose eyes blazed red. Anticipatory smiles on their faces. They themselves reeked of human blood.
The fight was hard for the old man, but he won. Only it was his last fight. He had received too many wounds.
When dawn was already breaking, the old man lay watching the clouds, clinging to the last moments of life. And then a body tumbled out of the forest — the boy's body.
He was missing an arm. Half of his head was burned to such a degree that in places the skull was visible.
Seeing the wounded old man, he rushed to him. Panic on his face, frantic movements — but the old man stopped him.
He could feel that his time had come. The old man tried to rise, but couldn't. He was already ready to collapse back to the ground, when the boy's single arm caught him. The boy helped the old man sit up.
When he was lifted, the old man smiled and began to speak. The boy didn't understand a single word. And when the old man finished and raised his gaze to him — tears were streaming down the boy's face, and he kept repeating something, and his face twisted with guilt.
The old man understood. He was apologizing. Apologizing for not understanding him.
The boy, whose body was in worse condition than the old man's, was apologizing to him.
Gathering his last strength, the old man raised his blade with its sheath and pressed them to the boy's chest.
At this, the boy broke down sobbing and tightly embraced the old man with his one arm.
The old man hugged him for the first and last time.
And then closed his eyes forever.
The boy kept weeping, not noticing the rays of the sun that were burning him alive. And after a while, tears gave way to a scream — a scream of uncontrollable rage.
Rage, because of which vampires ceased to exist in that world.
Afterwords by the author .
Oh, that was unexpected, wasn't it? I didn't expect it myself. I wanted to reveal a few details about GG's past and created such a colorful character. It wasn't planned at all. He was born today. Spontaneously. How much the main character needed him! Haha, I even shed a tear when I wrote the last lines. It's been a while since I've felt this way. I hope you enjoy this chapter.