The Last Knight

Chapter 2: The Enemy

The sun burned mercilessly above the Kingdom of Durkenheim, its light not warm, but punishing, bleaching the land beneath it into a dry, lifeless stretch. Even the wind carried no comfort, only heat and the faint scent of iron.

A flock of birds cut through the sky, their formation precise, almost elegant, until the first arrow struck. It pierced a wing mid-flight. The bird didn’t even cry. Then came the rain.

Arrows tore through the air in ruthless succession, splitting the sky apart as feathers scattered like ash. One by one, the birds dropped, lifeless, broken, until nothing remained but silence and falling bodies.

They never had a chance. Below, a group of knights stood unmoving, their armor stained not only with dirt, but with dried, darkened blood that had long since lost its shine. Without a word, they gathered the fallen creatures, their movements mechanical, devoid of hesitation… or mercy.

Moments later, they sat around a crude campfire. Fish skewered on sticks crackled over the flames, the scent of burning flesh mixing with something far less natural, the lingering rot clinging to their armor. No one spoke. No one laughed.

Peace existed. But it did not belong here.

The wind shifted. And with it, footsteps. Fast. Uneven. Desperate. The knights froze.

Not out of fear, but irritation. Heads turned slowly, almost unwillingly, as if the mere act of being disturbed was an insult. A figure emerged from the distance, breath ragged, armor clattering with every step. He barely managed to stop himself before collapsing, his body trembling under the weight of whatever he had witnessed. Silence stretched.

Then...

“What is this commotion…?” The voice was low. Controlled. But beneath it, something unhinged.

The one who spoke rose to his feet, his presence alone warping the air around him. His armor was darker than the rest, soaked deeper, as if the blood had never dried… only settled.

“Weakling knights.”

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. The man who arrived flinched as if struck, his mouth opening, then closing, before he forced the words out, knowing hesitation would cost him his life.

“We… we found him.” A pause. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

“He’s at the eastern lake of Durkenheim… near one of the prosperous villages.” The bloody knight tilted his head slightly. Amused.

“He moved…” the soldier continued, voice cracking, “as if he hadn’t been wounded at all. As if the last battle meant nothing.” A step forward. Heavy. Measured.

“And his blade—” The knight swallowed. “In a single swing… we were cut down. Not struck… not fought…” His hands trembled.

“…slashed.” A silence followed. Then, a laugh. Soft at first. Then breaking, twisting, into something far more unstable. The bloody knight began to giggle.

“Sorcery? Wounds?”

The bloody knight let out a slow breath, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of something pathetic.

“Do you hear yourselves?” He turned away from them, dropping the lifeless bird at his feet with a dull thud.

“He is dying.” A pause.

“It is impossible that he has already received aid from another nation.”

His voice lowered, not calmer, but colder.

“Or… perhaps the truth is far simpler.” He glanced back.

“You are weak.” The words landed heavier than a blade.

“We saw him move, he vanished, he was still fas—”

“Enough.”

The interruption was quiet. But absolute.

“Speak another word…” the bloody knight said, turning fully now, his presence pressing down on them, “and you will not leave here with a tongue to use it.”

Silence crushed the space between them.

“You are dismissed.”

A single step forward.

“Show your faces before me again—”

Another.

“—and I will crush your skulls with my bare hands.”

His gaze burned into them.

“Remember what you are.” A beat.

“You are knights.” His voice twisted.

“And yet… you were broken by a lone… old… wounded man.” Each word cut deeper than the last.

“Pathetic.”

The wounded knights didn’t dare respond. They turned, quickly, quietly, and vanished into the distance, as if fleeing something far worse than the enemy they had just faced.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then... laughter. It started low. Then spread.

The bloody knights laughed, not with joy, but with something hollow, something wrong, as if cruelty itself amused them. One of them crouched, tearing into the fallen birds with practiced ease, while the others returned to the fire, chewing through the cooked flesh without appetite, only habit.

“Six of them…” a voice spoke. Calm. Amused.

A knight removed her helmet, revealing a woman whose face was carved with scars, each one a story long since forgotten. Her eyes, however, were far worse. They held not just experience… but calculation. The kind built from years of war, strategy, and survival.

“And they still fell.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching the flames.

“How troublesome… is this knight, really?”

“Dread…”

One of the bloody knights spoke the name as if it carried weight on its own.

“He is no mere knight.” A pause settled among them.

“He is a menace… worse than the legions of the North and the East combined.”

No one laughed this time.

“Our King himself declared it—”

His voice lowered, almost reverent.

“—that man is worth more than a thousand soldiers.” Silence followed. Not out of doubt, but agreement.

“We saw him fight,” another added, his tone quieter now. “He didn’t battle… he erased them. Hundreds of soldiers, cut down as if they were nothing.”

He exhaled slowly.

“And that horse of his…”

A faint smirk crossed his lips.

“…a beast like that would have been useful.”

“It would never serve us.” The voice that interrupted was darker. Sharper. It cut through the air like steel.

The knights turned. Their captain stood behind them. No one had heard him arrive.

His armor was drenched in blood, yet he stood with unnatural composure, as if untouched by the violence that clung to him. A crimson cape flowed behind him, dancing with the wind, calm, almost serene, in contrast to everything else about him.

“If its master still lives…” he continued, stepping forward, “then its loyalty will not waver.”

A faint pause.

“And if it does…”

His gaze hardened.

“…then it will die with him.”

“Captain…?” the female knight spoke, disbelief slipping through her voice. “We didn’t even—”

“—notice me?”

He stopped beside the fire. A faint, almost amused breath left him.

“You weren’t meant to.”

At once, the knights straightened.

“Captain!”

Their voices struck in unison, sharp and disciplined. He raised a hand slightly.

“At ease.”

Calm. Controlled. Absolute. He removed his helmet, revealing a face marked not just by battle, but by certainty. The kind that didn’t question victory.

“As you feast…” he began, stepping closer to the fire, “your brothers have already secured the border of Durkenheim.”

A pause.

“Taraxheim’s resistance…”

His eyes flickered with something cold.

“…has fallen.”

The flames crackled.

“The so-called impenetrable force of Durkenheim…”

He reached down, grabbing a strip of cooked meat without hesitation.

“…is broken.”

He bit into it in a single motion.

“By our King.”

Another bite.

“By our legions.”

He looked at them.

“And by us.”

Zartorious IV did not move. His gaze remained fixed on the campfire, yet what lingered within his eyes was not the reflection of flame, but something far darker.

Death. And anger. Not for the battle. Not for the blood already spilled. But for one truth that refused to fade...Dread had survived.

That alone… was enough to stain victory. Far from the scorched remains of Durkenheim, a lone figure walked. His steps were steady, unnaturally so for a man who had just endured a battle meant to kill him. His armor bore the marks of it, yet his posture remained unbroken.

At his side, a snap blade slid back into its sheath with a quiet click. Ahead, the land opened into a cliffside. Beyond it, a prosperous village.

Untouched. Alive. For a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze fixed upon it. Not in awe… but in silence.

Then he moved. By the time he reached the gates, the guards had already seen him.

They froze. Shock spread across their faces as if they were staring at something that should not exist. Four soldiers stepped forward, their movements disciplined, but hesitant.

“I am Lethrax,” one of them spoke, standing firm despite the unease in his eyes. “Second in command of the Southern Soil.” His gaze lingered, searching.

“You must be… Dread. The Knight of Durkenheim.”

A pause.

“We heard of your kingdom’s fall, and we—” The man shook his head. A small motion. Enough to silence him.

“No need, friend.”

His voice was calm... too calm.

“I did not come for sympathy.” His eyes moved past them, scanning.

“I’m here to see your captain.” A faint smile touched his lips, but it carried no warmth.

“Is he here?” The soldiers exchanged glances, their unease deepening.

Then... “DREAD!”

The voice broke through the air, followed by laughter.

“Or should I say… Dead?” A man approached, his steps light, almost careless.

“Just kidding,” he added, grinning. “How long has it been, old friend?” He wore a hollowed hat and thin glasses, his appearance almost relaxed... too relaxed. A dueling blade rested behind his back, its presence quiet but undeniable. His red kimono swayed with the wind, marked by a strange, unsettling pattern.

Across his forehead, a symbol, resembling a crawling thing. Unnatural.

“Can’t believe your kingdom is gone,” he continued, his tone casual, almost mocking.

“Tell me… were you followed?” The soldiers stepped aside without hesitation, clearing a path for him.

Authority didn’t need to be spoken. It was already understood. The man met his gaze. Unmoved.

“I asked for aid.” His voice remained steady, but something beneath it tightened.

“My kingdom asked for it.” A step forward.

“Why did none of the villages come?”

Another.

“We needed only a hundred men.” His jaw set slightly.

“And yet… no one answered.” Silence followed. Heavy.

Then the man exhaled, shaking his head.

“Why would we?”

No hesitation.

“The bridges were destroyed. The forests were filled with traps set by your enemy.”

His tone sharpened, not defensive, but grounded in harsh reality.

“How do you expect anyone to pass through that?”

He stepped closer.

“Even if we tried, what then?”

“Ten men from each village?” A faint scoff.

“You think that would have changed anything? Enough to even scratch the surface?”

His eyes locked onto Dread’s.

“Would that have saved your kingdom?”

A pause.

Cold.

“No.”

“YES!”

Dread’s voice broke through the air, not wild, but restrained in a way that made it more dangerous.

“We were outnumbered, yes.” A step forward.

“But we were not outmatched.” His eyes locked onto the captain.

“Only a fraction of them could truly fight. The rest, numbers. Nothing more.” His jaw tightened.

“And yet… we fell.”

A pause. Heavy.

“The people of my kingdom are now slaves.”

His voice dropped.

“Others… turned traitor just to survive.”

Another step.

“We aided this land. Gave resources. Protected your borders. Answered when you called.” His gaze sharpened.

“And this… is how you repay us?” Silence followed. Not empty, but suffocating.

“Look at me, Dread.”

The captain’s voice came quieter, but firm. Not defensive. Tired.

“We didn’t want this.” His eyes held something unfamiliar, something close to regret.

“None of us wanted the deaths. The slavery. The collapse.” He exhaled slowly.

“But you have to understand what you’re asking of us.”

A step forward.

“We are outmatched.” Not loud. Certain.

“If they have hundreds, no… thousands, who can fight…” He shook his head faintly.

“I barely have forty men who can even raise a sword.”

The words weren’t an excuse. They were a confession.

“If you can’t see that…” His voice lowered.

“…then I don’t know what will make you understand.”

The tension between them stretched, unresolved. Dangerous.

“Captain… Dread…”

Lethrax stepped in, careful, measuring every word.

“The night is falling.” Both men turned slightly toward him.

“We should tend to his wounds. Keep his presence hidden before word spreads.” A glance toward the village.

“For his safety… and for ours.” A brief silence.

Then...

“…Yeah.”

The captain nodded once.

“That would be wise.”

His tone shifted, back to command.

“Escort him. Get him new clothes. Armor from the blacksmith.”

A pause.

“And keep him there until I return.” He turned away, already moving.

“I’ll make sure he left no trail behind.”

His figure disappeared into the dark, swallowed by the forest. Dread followed Lethrax. At first, the path beneath his feet was nothing more than dirt. Simple. Clean. But as he walked, it changed.

Not in truth, but in memory. The ground darkened. Stained. Blood. The same path he had walked in Durkenheim… during the war.

The same scent lingered in the air.

Iron. Death. He stopped for a moment. Then shook his head and continued forward.

Four days passed. The captain never returned.

Only a bird arrived... its wings cutting through the quiet sky. A message tied to its leg. Short. Cold. He would not be coming back. Not yet.

The forest was silent. Not peaceful, but watching. Night had swallowed the land whole, leaving only fragments of moonlight slipping through the branches above. Owls perched high among the trees, their eyes wide, unblinking… waiting.

Hunting. One of them took flight. Its wings made no sound as it cut through the darkness, gliding from branch to branch before finally landing, on a man’s wrist.

The captain of the Southern Soil stood beneath the trees, unmoving, as if he had been expecting it.

“This fourth night…” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the wind, “feels wrong.”

His fingers brushed lightly against the owl.

“She’s been sensing them.” A pause.

“They’re getting closer.”

“Who is?” The whisper came from behind him. Right at his ear.

His body reacted before thought could catch up. Steel flashed. He turned sharply, drawing his blade in a single motion and swinging behind him, but it never landed.

A force struck his side. Violent. Unseen. His body was sent crashing into a tree, the impact ripping the air from his lungs.

A grunt escaped him as he dropped to one knee, then forced himself up, back pressing against the rough bark. His breath came uneven, his eyes wide, not with fear… but realization.

“So,” a voice spoke. Calm. Amused.

“That owl is yours.” A figure stepped forward from the shadows. A woman.

“Quite the trick.” She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“I am from Zartorious.” A faint smile formed.

“A scout.” Another presence emerged beside her.

He was larger, far larger, his frame wrapped in iron, each step heavy yet controlled. In one hand, he carried a massive blade. In the other, a lantern.

Its glow was unnatural. Blue. And within it… something moved. Something that did not belong.

“Do you mind telling me…” she continued, her voice soft, almost playful, “where Dread is?”

The captain steadied his breathing, tightening his grip on his sword.

“Zartorious…?” he muttered, forcing a scoff.

“Never heard of it.”

He straightened slightly, masking the pain in his side.

“And Dread?” His eyes hardened.

“He’s dead.” A beat.

“The kingdom fell.” His grip tightened.

“He died with his king.” Silence lingered.

The forest seemed to hold its breath. The captain’s gaze flickered between them. They were knights, but not like any he had faced.

The woman moved like a shadow, her stance too light, too precise. A dagger rested at her waist, another blade at her back, her entire presence built for killing before a fight could even begin.

The man beside her was the opposite. A wall of iron. Unmoving. Unstoppable.

“Is that so…?” The woman’s smile widened.

Slowly, she drew her dagger, the faint sound of steel cutting through the silence.

“Then you must know him.” The captain’s jaw tightened.

“He was a close friend.” A pause.

Then his expression shifted, harder… darker.

“But after their defeat…” His grip on the blade steadied.

“I suppose that no longer matters.”

The armored giant took a step forward. Then another. Each movement carried weight, final, deliberate, as if the outcome had already been decided. The captain tightened his grip on his sword.

This was it. Then... whistle. Sharp. Distant. The sound cut through the forest like a signal. Both figures stopped. The woman’s expression shifted, not fear, but recognition.

“…The Lieutenant.”

Her tone lost its playfulness. It became serious. Cold. She glanced back at the captain, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“I suppose you live… for now.” A faint pause.

“Soldier.”

No more words followed. She turned. The armored man followed without question, his massive frame disappearing into the shadows as if swallowed by the forest itself.

Step by step, they vanished. Silence returned. The captain remained still for a moment longer, as if unsure whether it was truly over.

Then, he exhaled. A long, heavy breath. His sword lowered before he finally sheathed it, the sound of steel sliding home echoing faintly in the quiet.

“…Good grief.” Relief crept in, brief.

Fragile. His gaze lifted… following the direction they had gone.

And then, it froze. His eyes widened.

“…That’s where the village is.”

Morning came. But not peace. Dread sat upright on the bed, unmoving.

He hadn’t slept. Not even for a moment. His eyes remained fixed on the wall ahead, empty, distant, as if his body had returned… but his mind had not.

The room was silent. Until, a sudden gust of wind pushed through the open window.

His sword shifted. Fell. The weight of it struck his shoulder. A small impact, but enough. His eyes blinked.

Reality returned. Slowly. He exhaled. Then the light came. The rising sun poured through the window, blinding him for a brief moment. He turned his head slightly, shielding his eyes, and caught something outside.

A flag. Only for a second. He looked away.

Then, something pulled him back. His gaze snapped toward it again.

This time, his eyes widened.

“…That’s—” A sudden crash interrupted him. The door burst open.

“THEY’RE HERE!” Lethrax stood at the entrance, breath ragged, sweat covering his face.

“They don’t know you’re here, but they will!”

His voice trembled, not with fear for himself, but for what was coming.

“You need to leave. Now. Or they’ll slaughter everyone in this village!”

Dread was already moving.

“Lead the way.” No hesitation. No questions. He stood, grabbing his armor in one motion before following Lethrax out into the hall.

Their footsteps echoed as they rushed down the stairs, fast. Urgent. Then, a knock. At the door.

They both froze at the base of the room.

Dread’s senses stretched outward. Beyond the door, presence.

Heavy. Oppressive.

“…Two,” he thought. “Both… carrying a purple aura.”

Zartorious Scouts. His breathing slowed as he suppressed his presence, letting it sink, vanish, into nothing.

Lethrax turned in panic.

“…Dread?”

Gone. No footsteps. No sound. Just… gone. For a brief moment, relief washed over him.

Then... knock. Louder this time. More demanding. His throat tightened.

“I’ll open it… and pray he made it out,” he thought, forcing himself forward. “I’ll buy him time.”

His hand reached for the knob... The door suddenly exploded inward. Wood shattered.

Lethrax didn’t even see it coming. The force slammed into his face, sending him flying across the room before crashing hard against the wall. Air fled his lungs.

The broken door collapsed over him. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. He forced his arms to move, pushing the debris aside as he gasped, dragging air back into his chest.

Blood ran down the side of his forehead. His vision steadied. And then, he saw them. A towering man. Muscular. Still.

And beside him, a woman. Watching.

“…Strange,” she thought, tilting her head slightly. “There was another presence here a moment ago…”

Then she smiled. Warm. Almost kind.

“Apologies for the door,” she said, her voice light, almost playful. “You didn’t open it.” A soft giggle escaped her lips.

“It seems what we’re looking for isn’t here.” She bowed slightly.

“Be grateful.” A pause.

“That in the name of Zartorious has granted you mercy.” They turned. And left. Just like that.

As if nothing had happened. Lethrax stayed frozen. Then, movement behind them. More footsteps. Many.

His eyes shifted past the two figures, and widened. An army. Marching. Silent. Disciplined. And above them, raised high, were banners.

His breath caught... No, not banners.

Heads. The severed heads of his soldiers…mounted like symbols. Displayed. Mocked.

“…What the hell…” The words barely left his mouth. His stomach twisted violently. He dropped to his side, and vomited onto the floor.

Again. And again. His body rejected what his eyes refused to deny. He clutched the ground, gasping for air. Shaking. The truth settled in. Cold. Final.

“…The village…” His voice broke.

“…It’s already under siege.” Above them, unseen, Dread watched.

His body melded into the shadows atop a tower, barely existing against the light. His vision blurred. Fatigue clawed at him. But his senses remained sharp. Too sharp.

He could feel them. Every presence below, twisted. Violent. Drenched in malice.

His eyes traced the movement of the army. The blood. The heads they carried, like trophies. Like warnings. His jaw tightened.

Anger burned within him. But it didn’t move him. Not yet. He couldn’t. Not like this. Outnumbered. Weakened. Unprepared.

“…A duo. Zartorious Scouts,” he thought. Silence. Then...

“…What comes next?” A breath.

“…A sweep team?” His hand tightened around his broken blade, the metal biting into his palm. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, he exhaled. And let it go. His form dissolved into shadow. Gone.