The black stallion gave a low neigh, hot breath streaming from its nostrils in pale clouds that hung in the morning air. The middle-aged man astride its saddle sat tall, his black hair tousled from the road, his sharp green eyes sweeping across the ruined city before him. Dust clung to the light armor on his frame, yet the weight of his presence pressed heavier than steel.

On either side of the street, townsfolk stood in uneasy silence. Some whispered among themselves, daring only the faintest glance. Some looked on with fragile hope, while others turned away in fear. None dared to step forward.

The fortress ahead lay nearly broken. Rubble and dried blood littered the streets. Several homes were reduced to ruins, yet the worst devastation scarred the heart of the city. Signs of a recent battle remained fresh, as though the echoes of violence still lingered in the air.

The man drew a long breath and pulled sharply on the reins. His horse turned, hooves striking the cobblestones with a sound that thundered through the hushed streets.

Behind him, hundreds of mounted soldiers reined in their steeds. They sat in silence, tall and rigid in their saddles, every eye fixed ahead in taut anticipation. Morning light gleamed off their armor, and upon each breastplate shone the sigil of their kingdom—a holy chalice crowned with a crimson sun.

The man raised his hand. His voice carried across the square, steady and unyielding. It was not loud, yet it cut cleanly through the suffocating stillness.

“Find Queen Iskandrite.”

He swept his gaze over the faces of the men before him, making certain each one understood.

“Search every house. Every alley. Every cave or hollow near this city. Leave no corner unchecked.”

He paused. His breath was heavy, his eyes cold and unmoving.

“Anyone suspicious, seize them. Bind them and bring them before me.”

The air grew taut, the very wind seeming to falter. His voice dropped lower, sharpening into a blade’s edge, each word forced through clenched teeth.

“If they resist, crush them. Force the truth out. Cut them apart until there’s nothing left to hide. And if they still won’t speak… then bring me whatever’s left.”

No cheer followed.

No one dared to salute.

The soldiers only nodded, grim and expressionless, before scattering into the ruined streets with cold determination.

.

.

.

By the time Riven opened his eyes, the sun was already high. Golden light streamed through the gaps in the trees above, scattering across his face like shards of glittering glass. His body felt heavy, muscles stiff from the night’s long strain. He drew a deep breath, then lowered his gaze.

The woman still lay asleep in his lap. Her face was pale, yet far more serene than it had been hours before. Her chest rose and fell in calm rhythm, as though the nightmare and poison that had nearly stolen her life had at last faded away. The bleeding from her lips and nose had stopped, leaving only faint marks behind.

Riven frowned. ‘Strange… last night she looked as if she were at death’s door, even struggling to breathe.’ He murmured under his breath, a whisper meant only for himself. ‘Or… perhaps it was never poison at all. Could it be an illness?’

He was far from certain. All he could do was guess.

His eyes lingered on her features once more. Her face was delicate, but the fragile body spoke of burdens hidden deep. With a slow exhale, he carefully shifted her head from his lap onto a folded pile of cloth, letting her sleep undisturbed.

The river nearby murmured in a steady flow. Birds darted through the branches above, their calls weaving through the quiet, marking the rise of day. Riven stood and reached for the white sword that had become the savior of his life—Riftmaker.

Under the sunlight, its blade shone with a pale brilliance, as though carved from ice that would never melt. Faint golden etchings along its length shimmered with reflected light. He stared at the weapon with conflicted eyes, filled with awe and yet also with reluctance. A blade like this seemed far too precious to belong in the hands of a boy like him.

He drew a long breath and set his stance. Right foot forward, knee bent, right hand gripping the hilt tightly, left hand steadying the pommel. It was a posture he had seen long ago, watching the village knights from behind fences as a curious child.

He swung. Once. Twice. A diagonal cut from right to left. The air whispered in protest, dry branches trembling at the force. Yet his form was clumsy. Sometimes too high, sometimes off-balance. Each strike lacked flow, the movements stiff and unpracticed, like a puppet forced through a dance.

Sweat dampened his brow. His breathing grew harsh, his arms ached with strain, but he refused to stop.

Memories of the previous night flooded back. The clash of steel, the sparks of weapons, the earth soaked in blood. Most of all, the white-haired man who had nearly killed him. Riven gritted his teeth. If not for Riftmaker… if not for the man’s grave wound… he would already be dead.

His weakness had been laid bare. Too slow. Too feeble.

And yet, that was why he kept swinging.

In a world where strength measured worth, he could not falter. He had to grow stronger, if only to protect Melly.

Strike after strike. Movement after movement. Breath steadying despite the tremors in his limbs. And with each cleaner swing, each firmer step, a quiet satisfaction stirred within him.

He found that he liked the feeling.

Time slipped past unnoticed. The sun climbed higher before at last he relented, his shirt clinging with sweat. Gasping, he dropped to the ground, back resting against a broad stone by the riverbank.

Riftmaker lay across his lap, its pale blade glimmering faintly, the golden runes along its surface pulsing as if alive. Riven reached into his pocket and drew out a curious object—round-lensed spectacles once worn by Jacky. It still struck him as absurd, the thought of that bald man wearing such a thing. Yet when Riven had tried them, he finally understood.

Jacky’s gift had not been a natural sense. It was the spectacles. They revealed the rank of weapons. He was glad he had taken them from the man’s corpse, if only out of curiosity.

Sliding them on, Riven’s vision shifted. Riftmaker flared with golden light, brighter than any weapon he had examined from the wagon. Those blades had glowed faintly, some not at all. But this one… this was on another level entirely.

“If this really is a Masterwork weapon…” Riven muttered, “selling it could keep me fed for years.”

Yet even as he spoke, unease gripped his chest. The sword had saved his life. Its power was overwhelming, piercing through matter itself, rendering armor and shields meaningless.

How many lives could be claimed by a weapon such as this… in the hands of a true warrior?

He stared long at the blade. But when he tried to call forth its strange ability again, nothing happened. Just as in his battle with the white-haired man, its power refused to heed him freely.

“Why…?” he whispered. Was it only awakened when crossing blades with another weapon? Or was there some hidden condition he had yet to learn?

He breathed deep, pushing the question aside for now.

After several minutes of rest, Riven rose again. His muscles protested, but he forced his body to move, resuming his training.

Yet he did not notice. Beyond the trees, hidden within the shadows, a pair of blood-red eyes fixed upon him without blinking.

Leaves stirred faintly. A shadow moved.

And the figure began to draw closer.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep