Echoes of a God Slayer

The ground quaked and quivered as swords clashed like thunder in a storm. At the heart of the chaos stood the lone warrior—driven, deadly, divine. His every move was a dance on the edge of mortality, his blade slicing through the fog of battle with ghostlike precision. Muscles strained. Breath labored. But his resolve remained unbroken.

Blood soaked the scorched soil beneath his feet, evaporating into steam under the heat of twin suns that hung high above, bathing the battlefield in a crimson-gold glow.

"Why?"

A whisper.

"Why?"

Another.

"Why…?" the lone warrior muttered, the question tearing its way from a place deeper than pain.

These were not strangers. These were his brothers. His comrades. His kin.

Now, they were traitors.

A flash of steel. A vertical slash. He sidestepped, parried, and responded in a single breath, his blade hilt crashing into his attacker's skull. The impact was apocalyptic—a thunderous boom ripped through the field as the ground caved beneath the enemy, forming a crater nearly a hundred meters wide.

Dust engulfed the field.

Then, from beyond the veil of smoke, a figure emerged. Calm. Cold. Familiar.

Golden irises cut through the haze like twin suns reborn.

Dravonir.

Clad in gold armor etched with runes that pulsed faintly with energy, he moved with the confidence of a predator. The air around him bent slightly under the weight of his aura.

"Still as strong as ever," he said smoothly, as if greeting an old friend across a chessboard.

The warrior's grip on his dragon-hilted sword tightened.

"I thought you'd know better, Dravonir."

"I had hoped you'd be weaker," Dravonir replied, spreading his arms. The clouds twisted above, spiraling into unnatural formations. Lightning cracked along the horizon.

"I see now… even after killing four demi-gods… you are still able to fight."

The warrior said nothing, only lowering his stance.

"Then come," he commanded.

Dravonir moved in a blur, vanishing and reappearing mid-air, blade crashing down like a divine punishment. The warrior raised his sword just in time—metal screamed as their weapons met, a detonation of force rippling out, uprooting trees and tearing stone asunder.

They clashed again and again—gods among mortals—each blow reshaping the battlefield.

Blades locked. Faces close. Breath hot.

"You're hesitating," Dravonir murmured. "Still grieving?"

The warrior snarled and shoved with sudden force, sending Dravonir skidding backward.

"I'll grieve when I bury you."

......

"ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS — WE ARE FIVE MINUTES AWAY FROM ARACHIS!"

The voice shattered the dream like glass, dragging Drake back into the waking world.

His breath was sharp. Chest heaving. Sweat dripping down his temples.

And his hand…

His hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt of the dragon-coiled sword strapped to his side.

His fingers were trembling. The sword—his sword—was warm.

No. Not warm.

It was pulsing.

Like it was… alive.

Like it remembered.

Drake stared down at it, heart thudding like a war drum.

"That name…" he whispered. "Dravonir…"

He'd never heard it before.

Not in the waking world. Not even in the countless dreams that haunted his childhood.

But this time, it wasn't just a dream. It felt like a memory. Something ancient. Something buried deep in his blood.

The image of the warrior—the lone man who fought with fury and sorrow—still burned behind his eyes. His movements, his voice, his grief. It all felt too real. Too personal.

Drake's grip tightened.

He wasn't just watching that man.

He was connected to him.

-------------

The sky outside the train darkened, not from clouds—but from a shadow. A massive one. It consumed the sun, casting its long, heavy fingers across the land.

He turned to the window.

What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

A wall, colossal.

Easily two hundred meters tall, stretching endlessly in either direction. Its sheer size made the train feel like an insect. Its surface was carved with symbols he didn't understand, but somehow, they made his skin prickle.

At the center of the wall, twin gates—each larger than most skyscrapers—stood slightly open.

Guards patrolled the perimeter in battle armor, their weapons glowing with stored energy. Above them, drones hummed and rotated, ever watchful.

The Iron Meadow train slowed, hissing like a cautious beast.

Then came the hum—soft and melodic—a harmonic resonance that swept across the train in a wave of green light.

"ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY FACE SCANS COMPLETE."

"ALL IDENTITIES VALID. NO HARMFUL SUBSTANCES DETECTED."

The gates creaked open. The train moved forward.

But Drake wasn't watching the gate.

He was watching the city behind it.

No—not just the city.

Something else.

Something ancient… calling to him.

Now something was waking up inside him.

Something older than the world he knew.

The sword at his side pulsed again.

He looked down at it, heart racing.

"Who were you?" he whispered. "And what… am I becoming?"

As the Iron Meadow slid into Arachis, a quiet certainty settled in his gut.

 He was no ordinary person.