Chapter 3 : The Devil's Blade

  They left the village, Guarder a bit sad, but Stavir’s words remained with him. They set off for the country of Dynamis, from where all masters belonged.

  The village sank behind them, silent and empty. Guarder’s steps were slower, shoulders heavy, but his eyes were distant, fixed on a horizon only he could see.

  Stavir walked beside him. “Let this sorrow remind you, not destroy you. You carry it, yes—but do not let it weigh you down.”

  Guarder swallowed, voice soft. “I… I will try.”

  Veiron glanced at him. “Do not look back. The past is gone. Forward is all that matters.”

  Veyo folded the map neatly. “The road to Dynamis is long. You lead.”

  They crossed mountains, plains, seasons, and oceans. A war flared in lands they passed, armies clashing like thunder, but they pressed on.

  Two years passed before the ragged horizon finally gave way to the borders of Dynamis—the great country from which all their masters hailed.

  Stavir, Veiron, and Veyo draped heavy cloaks over themselves and Guarder.

  “Why… why like this?” Guarder whispered, glancing at them.

  No answer came immediately. The cloaks swallowed the three old men, hiding their familiar forms. Guarder’s mind raced—this was not like them. Not even a little.

  At the border, they were checked. Guards prodded, questioned, scrutinized—but the cloaks kept them hidden. Finally, the passage was granted.

  Veiron’s voice broke the silence. “Finally… to our home. Those old days.”

  Stavir laughed, a sound Guarder had never heard from him before. “Old days,” he repeated, laughter spilling over like wine.

  “You shouldn’t… at least not laugh,” Veyo chided, shaking his head with a faint smile.

  Guarder froze, eyes wide. Shock, confusion, disbelief—what was happening to these old, serious men who had spent years shaping him with iron and fire?

  They moved through the roads leading to the capital, silent but alive with a strange energy Guarder could not yet name.

  At the city gates, as they passed through the final checks, the old men pulled back their cloaks. Light fell across them. The familiar faces were there—but something had shifted.

  The moment the old guards caught sight of Stavir, Veiron, and Veyo, the entire capital seemed to awaken. Citizens poured into the streets, forming a wide circle around them. Shouts, laughter, and cheers rose like a storm, echoing off the marble walls and narrow alleys.

  Faces lit up at the sight of the three masters. Children ran alongside, pointing, adults bowed, merchants dropped what they were carrying. The air vibrated with joy, reverence, and disbelief.

  Guarder’s jaw tightened. He stayed close to the three old men, his fists clenched. His heart pounded—not from awe, but from confusion.

  After the commotion settled, they made their way through winding streets to a modest, familiar house—a friend’s home, long awaited and long remembered.

  Inside, Guarder could no longer hold it. His voice shook with a mixture of anger and curiosity. “Why… why is all this happening? Why is everyone acting like… like this? What is going on with you three?”

  Stavir leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Veiron simply looked at him, calm, steady, as if weighing whether to answer.

  Veyo let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head slowly. “Patience, Guarder. You’ll see. Soon enough, all will be revealed.”

  Guarder’s eyes darted between them. Shock, confusion, and a growing frustration made his chest tight. He had trained, endured, and followed them through years of hardship—and now, in the heart of Dynamis, he felt like he was the one being left behind.

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  Their friend spoke then, voice low, reverent. “You don’t understand, boy. In our time… those three were the finest fighters our country has ever known. A trio unmatched, feared and respected. No one could stand where they stood in the army. Not generals, not champions—no one.”

  Guarder blinked, his mind struggling to process. “The… the best? All three? Together?”

  “Yes,” the friend said, nodding slowly. “They were legends, even before you came along. They shaped wars, armies, and our country itself. Few even dared to challenge them—and those who did… vanished.”

  Guarder’s fists clenched tighter. Shock mingled with awe. Years of training under them, of following their orders, suddenly felt different—he was no longer just learning from masters; he was learning from legends.

  “They… they were soldiers?” Guarder asked, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder would make the words unreal.

  “More than soldiers,” the friend replied. “They were a force of nature. The army needed them, the country needed them… and yet, even among the greatest, none could match them together. They were unstoppable.”

  The night passed in sleep for Guarder and the three legends.

  Next morning, those three sat at a low wooden table, breakfast before them. Guarder approached.

  “I… I need to know,” he said, voice firm but edged with urgency. “All this… everything I’ve seen—the way people look at you, the king’s summons… I need to understand. Tell me! Tell me what it means to be like you!”

  Stavir looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. “Everything? You think the night will hold all our stories, boy?”

  Veiron remained silent, hands clasped behind his back, calm as ever.

  Veyo shook his head. “Not everything, Guarder. Some things… are meant to be witnessed, not just heard. And some… are too heavy to carry without understanding.”

  Guarder’s fists clenched, frustration coiling like a spring. “I’ve trained, endured, survived! Yet I still don’t understand why the world bows before you!”

  Stavir’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement there. “You think survival is the same as mastery, boy? You think endurance alone earns reverence?”

  Guarder’s heart pounded, words catching in his throat. “Then… then show me. At least tell me what it means to be like you. What makes you… them?”

  Veiron finally spoke, low and deliberate. “Patience, Guarder. One day, you will understand. But first… you must learn what it truly means to see, to endure, and to act.”

  Veyo finally added softly, “You press too hard. Curiosity is good, but impatience… impatience can blind a man before he learns to see.”

  Guarder realized—he was standing on the edge of a world far greater than the one he had ever known.

  Guarder knelt. “Please… teach me everything you know. I want to learn it all.”

  Stavir looked at Veiron and Veyo. Veiron nodded. Veyo folded his hands.

  Stavir finally said, “Very well. If our knowledge dies with us, it will be wasted. You will learn.”

  And so Guarder trained under all three for twelve years.

  From Stavir, he learned close combat and raw strength.

  From Veyo, he learned medicine, politics, pottery, writing—almost everything there was to know.

  From Veiron, he mastered absolute swordplay.

  Years passed. Sweat, blood, endless repetition, discipline, endurance.

  And now… today was the day of the test.

  Guarder had grown.

  Tall as half a full-grown tree.

  Lean, perfect bear build.

  Calm as water.

  Cunning like a fox.

  Unpredictable like the ocean.

  Fast as the wind.

  They faced each other.

  Guarder ran. Stavir responded with a low kick. Guarder leapt, aiming at his head.

  Stavir dodged, spinning, kicking Guarder’s face. Guarder crashed into a tree.

  He stood immediately. Stavir ran. Guarder ran.

  They punched at each other. Strikes clashed. Both dodged.

  Guarder kicked Stavir’s abdomen. Stavir elbowed Guarder’s ribs.

  Guarder struck with his knee on Stavir’s chest.

  Countless punches and kicks followed.

  Exhausted, unbeaten, they stood.

  Veyo stepped forward. “Enough.”

  Stavir laughed. “You have passed. Only the second man who could withstand my full power attacks.”

  Veiron nodded. “Even half-power… exhausting. What you endured is no small feat.”

  Stavir said, “Your techniques… they may seem common, but once one lands… no one wakes the next day.”

  They left the capital for the next test.

  Veyo said, “The next test is sword fighting. Veiron will use his special cursed sword.”

  Guarder’s eyes widened.

  Veyo continued, “He only used it once—to slay the Devil of Hell during his test for his master. He inherited it from his grandfather, the greatest swordsman in history. Capable of slaying a whole country in one day alone.”

  Guarder grew nervous. I’ve only used normal swords. I’ve never heard of devils or cursed swords.

  They reached the cliff outside the capital. Full of greenery, empty.

  Veiron spoke softly.

  Suddenly, a sword appeared, half Guarder’s height, massive, like it could crush him.

  Veiron held it out. “If you defeat me with this sword, it could be yours. Be careful. This is Hell’s Devil’s sword. I took it by defeating him. Its power could wipe out an entire nation—but no one can use it to full extent.”

  Guarder gripped it. He unsheathed it.

  Grass withered. Trees bent. The air shrank.

  A voice spoke in Guarder’s mind.

  “If you use me, you could win any fight… but I want something from you.”

  Guarder whispered, “What?”

  The sword said, “What I want… I will take when the time comes. For now… make a deal. I grant power, you grant me the thing I ask.”

  Guarder said, “Yes.”

  Power surged—10% of the sword’s strength. Devil-like aura surrounded him.

  He charged Veiron.

  Veiron dodged.

  Guarder attacked—one, two, three, four, five… countless strikes. Above, below, side, jump—but none landed.

  Dusk fell.

  Veiron said, “You have failed the test.”

  He took back the cursed sword.

  Guarder stood, chest heaving, aura fading, the weight of what he had wielded pressing down on him.