Chapter - 6 A new path

The black rank mercenary didn't look back as he walked away from the stunned soldiers. His heavy boots crunched through the dirt, the soft sounds of battle finally fading behind him. He moved with purpose, every step calculated, each one carrying the weight of a man who had seen and done too much to care for the politics of others. The battlefield was over for him; his part was done.

The knight, still sprawled on the ground, groaned as his soldiers rushed to help him. They gathered around, muttering in disbelief, some trying to lift him to his feet, others checking his armor for damage. The knight's face was flushed with humiliation, the slap having knocked him out cold for a moment, but his pride was what hurt the most.

"Sir, are you alright?" one of the soldiers asked, kneeling beside him, concern in his voice.

The knight groaned, his hand reaching up to rub his jaw, wincing at the force of the blow. "Damn him… damn that mercenary."

He struggled to stand, but his legs were shaky, and it took several men to support him. His eyes burned with anger. Despite his pride, he knew well enough that without the black rank's intervention, the town would have been lost. The mercenary had saved their lives, and the knight knew it, even if it stung to admit it.

The town lay in ruin, a once-bustling settlement now reduced to smoldering remnants. Buildings were crumbled, their frames splintered and charred by the fiery assault, while the scent of smoke clung to the air, thick and acrid. In the streets, the bodies of fallen soldiers and orcs alike littered the ground, their blood mingling with the dirt in a grim testament to the chaos.

Survivors moved slowly, their faces hollow with exhaustion and sorrow, tending to the wounded or collecting the dead. The sound of distant cries and clanging armor echoed, signaling the work was far from over. Amidst the destruction, a faint, eerie silence hung in the air— the once vibrant town now a quiet shell of its former self. The surviving few who still had the strength to walk did so with their heads low, as if the weight of the loss pressed down on them more heavily than the debris beneath their feet.

As the army began to regroup, the soldiers started moving through the town, assessing the damage and helping with the cleanup. Some knights went to tend to the wounded civilians, while others began organizing the rebuilding efforts. They had to make sure the survivors were cared for and the town fortified before another attack could come.

Marek watched the scene unfold, his attention divided between Dorian, who still hadn't regained consciousness, and the soldiers organizing themselves. He knew they couldn't stay here for long. They'd need to move, but Dorian's injuries were serious, and Marek wasn't a healer. He could only do so much.

As he continued to care for Dorian, Marek's thoughts drifted back to the black rank mercenary. That man was a force to be reckoned with. Marek couldn't help but feel a strange sense of awe for him, despite the arrogance and ruthlessness he had shown. If anything, the mercenary's actions spoke to his competence. The army's arrival was too little, too late.

Marek sighed, pushing those thoughts aside. He had to focus. He had to get Dorian to safety before anything else happened.

Nearby, the soldiers began to work quickly, moving debris, providing medical supplies, and clearing the streets. The town was in shambles, but at least it wasn't burning anymore. The orcs were gone, and the fighting was over, for now.

As Marek adjusted Dorian's arm, he could see the soldiers' efforts in full swing. They weren't just soldiers; they were rebuilding, putting aside their grievances to restore what had been lost.

The knight, now partially recovered, watched the scene with a hard expression. He didn't speak as he observed the soldiers. There was no pride in his face, only a grim understanding of the weight of the responsibility now on their shoulders. They had won, yes. But the price had been high.

The black rank mercenary, meanwhile, was already a distant figure, walking out of the town and disappearing into the horizon without so much as a backward glance.

The town might be saved, but the scars would remain.

*****

Dorian slowly came to, his eyelids heavy as if weighed down by lead. The soft scent of herbs and a faint, lingering bitterness filled the air. His body felt heavy, but his mind was clearer now, the fog lifting as he blinked several times. The familiar low hum of life around him—quiet murmurs, distant footsteps—told him he was in the same place as before: the herbalist's infirmary.

The flickering light of a nearby candle illuminated the room. The old woman, her wrinkled hands moving gracefully, was finishing up her work with a small bowl of herbs. She caught sight of Dorian's eyes fluttering open and smiled, though her expression remained as stoic as ever.

"Quite a survivor, you are," she said softly, her voice calm yet lined with a knowing edge. She wiped her hands on her apron, then turned to leave the room without another word, the door creaking slightly as it closed behind her.

Dorian took in the dimly lit room. His body ached in places he didn't know could hurt, but the sharp pain from earlier was gone. The herbal remedies had worked their magic, as always.

A soft knock on the door drew his attention.

Marek stepped in, his face a bit worn but as composed as ever. His eyes softened when he saw Dorian was awake. "You're back with us, huh?" Marek said, his voice gruff yet relieved.

Dorian tried to sit up, but the movement made his arm throb, a reminder of the damage he had taken. Marek was quick to step forward, offering a steadying hand.

"Easy," Marek cautioned. "You've been unconscious for three days. Thought you were gone for good there for a minute."

Dorian's brow furrowed as the reality of his injuries hit him. His right arm—the one he had fought with, the one that had always been his strength—felt strangely distant, numb in places. He flexed his fingers, trying to move them.

Marek's expression grew more somber. "The herbalist did her best, but…" He paused, clearly trying to find the right words. "It's not good, Dorian. Your arm is healed, but you can't use it to hold a sword anymore. It's too weak. You won't have the strength in it to fight again the way you used to."

Dorian felt a tightness in his chest, a mixture of disbelief and frustration. His swordhand, the one that had carried him through so many battles, was no longer reliable. He couldn't hold the weapon with the same force.

"What does that mean for me?" Dorian's voice was rough, trying to hide the frustration building inside him.

Marek shook his head, looking almost apologetic. "It means things are going to be different now. You'll need to adjust, find another way to fight, or... you'll have to figure something else out." He turned his gaze down, the weight of those words hanging heavily between them.

Dorian stared at his arm, flexing his fingers again. He couldn't imagine life without it, without the sword that had always felt like an extension of his body. "I can't... I can't just give up," he murmured to himself.

Marek gave him a moment, before finally speaking again, his tone softer this time. "You're not the first to lose something on the battlefield. The question is what you'll do with it now. What's next for you, Dorian?"

Dorian didn't answer immediately. He could still feel the faint pulse of his arm's weakness, the sense that something essential had been taken from him. But he wasn't a man who would lie down and surrender. Not like this.

Finally, he met Marek's eyes, his gaze steady. "I don't know yet. But I'll figure it out. I always do."

Marek's lips twitched upward into a brief, understanding smirk. "Good. That's the right attitude."

They stood there in silence for a moment, Dorian contemplating what his future might look like without the strength he once had, while Marek seemed to wait for him to process everything.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Marek stepped back toward the door. "Rest for now."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Dorian lay back against the pillow, his mind racing through options, through alternatives. He wasn't sure what the future held anymore, but one thing was clear: he wasn't going to stop. Not now. Not ever.

And in that moment, despite everything, he felt a flicker of resolve take root deep inside him.

*****

Marek returned later that evening, his boots echoing softly as he stepped into the herbalist's infirmary. The faint light from a nearby lantern flickered across his face, revealing the tired lines from the battle, but there was a quiet urgency in his step. He moved toward Dorian, who was sitting up in bed, looking out the window with a faraway expression.

"Dorian," Marek said, his voice low but firm. "You're awake long enough. You need to hear what happened while you were unconscious." Then he explained the events.

Dorian was silent for a long moment, trying to absorb it all. Then, he looked at Marek, his voice tight. "Black plate armor and huge sword? I think I know who he is."

Marek nodded, his eyes darkening with thought. "Yeah. Rhygar. His reputation's built on his cold, upright attitude. He's powerful, and he doesn't care about the rules. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. No alliances, no allegiances. He's notorious for showing up, doing the job, and leaving. He's not the kind of man you can predict. But he's also the kind of man you don't want to cross."

"Just walked away, huh?" Dorian murmured, still trying to process what had happened.

Marek shrugged. "That's Rhygar. He doesn't care about gratitude, doesn't care about orders. He does what he wants and leaves. If he saved the town, it's because it suited him—nothing more, nothing less. The man's a force all his own. Powerful, cold, and dangerous."

Dorian felt the weight of the words, but his mind was already racing. "So, he's gone now. Just like that."

"Just like that," Marek confirmed, his voice somber. "And we have to move forward. The orcs are gone for now, but there's still work to do. We need to figure out what to do now."

The room was quiet, the only sounds being the faint rustling of the wind outside and the occasional crackle from the candle flickering nearby. Marek and Dorian had barely exchanged more than a few words since Marek's explanation of Rhygar and the aftermath of the battle. The weight of their conversation still hung heavy in the air when, suddenly, a creaking sound interrupted the stillness.

The door swung open.

Marek's hand immediately went to the hilt of his blade, his body tensing in reflex. Dorian's eyes darted toward the entrance, confused and weary. And there, standing in the doorway, was Orin the Seeker.

Marek didn't hesitate. He lunged toward Orin, his movements sharp and swift, intent on stopping the man who had eluded them. "You!" Marek growled, his voice full of fury.

Orin, however, didn't flinch. He merely glanced at Marek, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Oh, it's you," he said casually, as if greeting an old acquaintance. "But I don't have time for this."

Before Marek could react, Orin's hand moved in a fluid motion. A burst of energy rippled through the air, and with a snap of his fingers, Marek was gone. The room was left in silence once again, save for the lingering echo of Marek's vanished form.

Dorian stared in disbelief, his mind still struggling to catch up with the events unfolding before him. He had come seeking Orin, following the cryptic words the mage had spoken to him before. And here he was, standing in front of him now, in the flesh.

Orin's gaze turned to Dorian, his eyes narrowing with quiet assessment. "Don't worry, he is safe. So," Orin began, his voice smooth and measured, "you've chosen to let me teach you."

Dorian was still processing, his mind racing with confusion and disbelief. He had found Orin, but now, faced with the man who had spoken those words to him, he was unsure of what to say or how to react. He had no time to plan, no time to prepare. Everything he thought he knew was suddenly spinning out of control.

Still, his curiosity and the strange pull of Orin's offer couldn't be ignored. Slowly, Dorian recalled Orin's words, the promise of something beyond the sword. He had been searching for something—something more than just a life of endless conflict. And now, Orin was here, offering him that very possibility.

Dorian took a slow breath, grounding himself. His mind cleared enough to meet Orin's steady gaze. "What... exactly do you want from me? What do I have to do?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended, but steady.

Orin smiled faintly, as though he had been waiting for this moment. "I don't want anything from you, Dorian Blackfrost. I simply offer you a choice: to continue down the path you know, or to seek what lies beyond it."

Orin had sensed the turmoil in Dorian's heart and wasted no time. With a swift incantation, the air around him grew heavy, the temperature dropping as the dark magic took form. It swirled in intricate patterns, filling the room with an eerie glow. The cold touch of it sent shivers down Dorian's spine, but there was no time to react before the dark magic surged.

Dorian gasped as the pain from his old injuries—the deep cuts, the bruises from the battle—began to fade, leaving him in a strange state of relief. It was as though his body was being stitched together by an unseen hand, the torn flesh and broken bone mending at an unnatural pace. But something felt wrong. A sickening pull deep within him, as though something essential was being taken from him in exchange for the healing.

He looked down at his right arm, the one he had relied on for so long—the arm that had been his strength, his means of survival.

It was gone.

Where his arm had once been, there was only a faint, smooth patch of skin, as though it had never existed. The pain that had been there just moments before was replaced with a numbness that ran deeper than mere physical injury. His heart raced as his breath quickened, panic rising like a wave threatening to drown him.

"My arm…" Dorian whispered, his voice tight with fear. His fingers, still there on the left side, trembled as they reached for the space where his right arm used to be.

Orin stood motionless, unfazed by Dorian's panic. "Dark magic requires sacrifice. Your right arm was useless anyway," Orin said calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "It was already weak. Now, it's gone. But what you gain in return will be far greater than what you lost."

Dorian's mind swirled with disbelief. His sword arm—the arm he had relied on his entire life—was gone. In an instant.

He panicked for a moment longer, his thoughts racing with the devastating reality of what had just happened. How would he fight now? How could he survive without the strength that had defined him for so long? His breath came in shallow bursts, but slowly, he forced himself to focus. To refocus.

His gaze met Orin's, and in that moment, Dorian made a choice. He had to. There was no going back now.

"I…" His voice cracked, but he pushed past the panic, the desperation, the fear. He had to do this, even if he didn't understand all of it. "I choose it. I'll follow a new path."

Orin's expression softened slightly, and a flicker of something like approval passed through his eyes. "Good. You'll see that this choice—this path—is the only one that truly leads to something more. The world of the sword, of mere survival, is behind you. But this…" Orin gestured toward the space around them, the energy still hanging in the air like a dark veil. "This is what comes next."

Before Dorian could speak again, Orin's hands moved, weaving another incantation in the air. The magic seemed to shimmer, distorting the space around them. Dorian's stomach tightened as the world seemed to stretch and distort, and the familiar room began to blur and fade.

"Hold on," Orin's voice said, distant now, as though coming from across an immense void. "We are going somewhere else."

And then, with a crackling of air and a pulse of dark energy, everything around Dorian vanished.

The world was no longer the broken town, no longer the battlefield where he had bled and fought for survival. Dorian felt the familiar pull of teleportation magic, but this was different.

The moment the teleportation magic faded, Dorian found himself standing in a serene and otherworldly landscape. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the sounds of the world felt different—calmer, yet alive with the subtle whispers of nature.

Before him, nestled against the backdrop of towering, ancient trees, stood a modest forest house. It was crafted from rough-hewn timber, its roof thick with moss, blending perfectly into the forest as if it had always been there, a part of the natural world. The house had an aura of peaceful solitude, with its small windows darkened by the shade of overhanging branches. A stone path led to the entrance, winding through the lush undergrowth that flourished in the shaded clearing.

Beside the house, the steady roar of water caught Dorian's attention. To his right, a breathtaking waterfall cascaded down a series of jagged rocks, its waters glistening in the faint light that filtered through the dense canopy above. The waterfall tumbled into a clear, wide pool below, the surface shimmering with the reflection of the sky and the surrounding trees. The sound was constant—a soothing, rhythmic flow that added a sense of tranquility to the otherwise still forest.

The forest around them seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Tall trees with thick trunks and sprawling roots created a dense canopy, casting the clearing in a soft twilight glow. The ground beneath their feet was soft with a thick carpet of moss, making each step feel muted, as though the forest itself was inviting them to move without disturbing its ancient peace.

The entire place felt timeless, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. It was a place that seemed to exist outside of reality, far removed from the battles and strife Dorian had known. Yet it also held an eerie sense of isolation, as though this place was a threshold between what was, and what might yet be.

Orin stood beside Dorian, his expression unchanged, as though the tranquility of the forest was nothing new to him. He glanced at the waterfall, then back at Dorian, his voice calm and knowing.

"This is a place of peace, ancient forest, a place where the noise of the world doesn't reach. But don't let its serenity fool you—it holds lessons, challenges, and transformations that are far from gentle. This is where you will learn what lies beyond the sword."

Dorian took a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the reality of his new surroundings. The air felt different here, lighter, more pure. It was as if he had stepped into a different world entirely—one where his past struggles and the weight of his lost arm were a distant memory. But the silence and the peace also reminded him of the uncertainty that lay ahead.

He turned his gaze back to the waterfall, the crashing water a constant reminder that even in this tranquil place, change was inevitable. Just like the waters that carved through the stone, Dorian would have to carve his own path forward.

The young man left his past.

The young man accepted his new reality.

The journey had begun.