Realizing someone was in danger, the lingering exhaustion in his muscles vanished. He rushed forward as fast as he could, Petra matching his pace with heavy, thudding bounds. Holding his iron axes firmly in both hands, he lunged to the top of the nearest ridge, calculating the angle to drop into the fray.
He reached the crest, raised his axes, and froze.
He saw the human.
"Damn," Rayne whispered, his eyes narrowing.
Below him, trapped in a depression of sand and surrounded by three massive Redtails, was a wickedly buff young boy about the exact same age as him. But this boy was not in danger.
The stranger was dressed in masterfully fine-tuned armour—a stunning assembly of dark, matte-grey steel plates accented with deep crimson trim, tailored perfectly to allow maximum mobility without sacrificing defence. Emblazoned directly over his heart was the fearsome Strangmoth crest—a sprawling silver moth with wings forged entirely from interlocking swords.
But it was the weapon that demanded attention. The boy was carrying an Odachi—a greatsword of eastern design, featuring a single-edged, gracefully curved blade that was almost as tall as the boy himself. It was a weapon that required an absurd amount of physical strength and spatial awareness to even lift, let alone swing with any martial grace.
Yet, the boy wielded it like it was an extension of his own arm.
With both hands wrapped around the extended hilt, the armoured boy didn't just swing; he commanded the space around him. His footwork was a mesmerizing dance on the unstable sand. As the three scorpions lunged simultaneously, stingers thrusting forward to impale him, the boy did not flinch. He pivoted sharply on his heel, dropping low to slide under the venomous arcs. In one smooth, unbroken motion, he unleashed a horizontal slash powered by a terrifying, dense surge of Numen.
The air itself seemed to tear. The Odachi sheared through the thick, armoured legs and torsos of all three Gigantic Redtails in a single, devastating arc. Dark blood sprayed across the dunes. The upper halves of the beasts slid cleanly off their lower bodies, hitting the sand with heavy, lifeless thuds.
Rayne saw a boy with short, wild blonde hair, striking amber eyes, and a jawline carved from granite. Despite the heat, the boy looked invigorated, his posture radiating the undeniable, overwhelming confidence of someone born to rule a battlefield.
Rayne stood there, analysing the strike. He couldn't deny it. To find someone his own age who could fight this well, manipulating such a massive weapon with absolute perfection while dealing with the heavy restriction of sand against the scorpions on their own turf... it was exceptional.
Down in the basin, the boy snapped his Odachi to the side, a sharp, disciplined movement that flicked the scorpion ichor cleanly off the polished steel. He smoothly sheathed the massive blade over his shoulder with a sharp clack. Having completed his work, the boy turned around. His posture was rigidly straight, but unlike the sneering aristocrats Rayne usually encountered, there was a calm, grounded dignity in his stance.
He spotted Rayne and Petra immediately.
For a long moment, the only sound was the howling of the desert wind. The boy's amber eyes swept over Rayne—taking in the tattered, filthy clothes, the dual, blood-stained iron axes, and the massive Earth Dragon baring her fangs at his side.
"Well met, knight," the boy called out. His voice was rich, warm, and authoritative, carrying a refined, booming cadence that immediately marked him as highborn. It was the voice of a natural leader, someone used to commanding respect without having to demand it. "I had not expected to find another soul wandering this furnace. I hope I haven't intruded upon your designated hunting grounds."
Rayne's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't lower his weapons. "You're standing right in the middle of them," Rayne replied, his voice flat and raspy.
The boy offered a polite, apologetic incline of his head, though he kept his hand resting casually near the hilt of his Odachi. He took a few measured steps up the dune, his heavy armour clinking rhythmically. He stopped a respectful distance away, his gaze shifting to Rayne's face.
The boy's amber eyes widened a fraction as recognition dawned.
"By the Gods," the boy murmured, his formal tone shifting into one of genuine, respectful awe. "I know you. You are Rayne. The victor of the Confluence of the Astral Tide."
Rayne tensed, his grip tightening on his axes. The Confluence of the Astral Tide was a massive, holy martial tournament held in the capital every few years, dedicated to the God of the Cosmic River. People viewed it as a sacred ritual of blood and stars. Rayne had entered it last year on Thane's orders. He had dismantled every pampered noble prodigy they put in front of him, claiming the championship with a terrifying, elegant efficiency that had left the aristocracy in stunned silence.
But still failed to meet Thane's expectation because of someone he had gave enough importance to help her win.
"I am," Rayne said coldly.
"I am Yor. Yor Strangmoth," the boy said, placing a gauntleted fist over his chest in a traditional knight's salute. "It is an honour to meet you on the field."
Rayne's jaw tightened. "Strangmoth."
Who in the whole world didn't know them? They were the most fearsome lineage of warriors in the Roric Kingdom. Every single member of their clan was terrifyingly strong. They commanded a massive portion of the kingdom's military forces and held the sacred, exclusive responsibility of being the royal family's personal guardsmen. They were the pinnacle of nobility.
Yet, Yor Strangmoth was looking at him not as a peasant, but as an equal.
"I was in the stands during the Confluence," Yor continued, his voice echoing with martial passion. "I watched your final match. The nobility may have whispered about your origins, but as a swordsman, I saw only perfection. Your footwork, the way you manipulated those iron axes without a single wasted movement... it was a masterpiece. Lord Thane has forged a true blade."
Rayne was caught off guard. Nobility usually looked down on him, and they absolutely despised Thane, viewing the Captain of the Serpent's Maw as a rabid dog the King refused to put down. But Yor spoke of Thane's training with profound, unclouded respect.
"You know of my master," Rayne stated.
"Everyone knows of the Captain of the Serpent's Maw," Yor nodded firmly. "Many in the court fear him, but my family respects strength above politics. To be his sole disciple is a heavy burden, but you clearly carry it well."
Despite his polite words, Rayne's sharp eyes caught a slight tremor in Yor's hands. A bead of sweat trailed down the noble's temple. Yor's breathing was shallow and forced.
Rayne looked at the pristine, heavy plates covering Yor's body, then out at the endless, scorching desert. He let out a quiet sigh. The heir to the Strangmoth clan was a prodigy with a blade, but out here, he had the survival instincts of a potted plant.
"You're out of water," Rayne stated bluntly.
Yor's polite smile faltered for just a second. He stood taller, trying to mask his exhaustion. "My supply lines were... disrupted by a sudden sandstorm two days ago. It is a minor setback. The Strangmoth endurance is well-documented."
"Endurance doesn't replace hydration, Strangmoth. You're dying of heatstroke," Rayne said. He unhooked his full, leather waterskin from his belt. He simply tossed it through the air.
Yor caught it smoothly with one armoured hand. He looked at the heavy, sloshing skin, then up at Rayne. For a noble to accept aid from a common-born knight was often seen as a slight to their honour, but Yor possessed a quiet dignity that transcended petty pride. He knew his limits.
"You have my deepest gratitude, Rayne," Yor said sincerely, bowing his head. "A Strangmoth does not forget a boon. I am in your debt."
When he finished half of it, he corked it and tossed it back.
"Thank you," Yor breathed, his amber eyes regaining their sharp clarity. "I confess, I was beginning to consider the nutritional value of scorpion blood."
"It boils your organs from the inside out," Rayne replied flatly, catching the skin.
"Good to know," Yor chuckled softly, adjusting his crimson trim. "how long have you been wandering?"
"Three weeks. My master sent me to cull the hives."
Before Yor could say anything else, the sand beneath their boots began to vibrate. It wasn't a subtle tremor. It was a violent, rhythmic shaking that caused the loose grains on the dune to cascade downward like a golden waterfall.
Petra roared, a deafening sound of challenge, and slammed her heavy front claws into the earth.
"It seems your hunting grounds are quite densely populated," Yor noted, his tone shifting instantly from gentlemanly to commanding. His hand rested on the long hilt of his Odachi, his stance widening.
Over the crest of the surrounding dunes, a massive wave of Gigantic Redtails crested the horizon. There weren't three this time. There were at least thirty, their massive pincers snapping, a sea of venomous stingers raised against the bleeding sun.
Rayne stepped up beside Yor, settling into a low, terrifyingly calm stance, his dual axes held out in front of him.
"Don't get in my way, Strangmoth," Rayne rasped, his Numen flaring to life, coating his iron axes in a faint, deadly hum.
Yor drew his Odachi, the massive blade singing as it cut the air. He settled into a flawless, textbook high-guard, a smile of pure martial thrill crossing his face. "I was about to say the same to you,"
They charged.
As they crashed into the horde of scorpions, the sheer contrast in their styles was breathtaking.
Rayne's five years under Thane had stripped away every ounce of humanity from his swordplay, leaving only geometry and death. He didn't hack or slash wildly.
He stepped directly into the lethal reach of the scorpions, reading the exact trajectory of their stingers. With minimal, razor-thin movements, he used his left axe to gently parry a massive pincer, while his right axe slipped through the microscopic gaps in their armour, severing nerve clusters and joints with sickening precision. It was a terrifyingly good manner of fighting—quiet, fast, and completely devoid of wasted energy.
Beside him, Yor was a hurricane of majestic, overwhelming authority. His Odachi painted massive, sweeping arcs of silver light. He maintained perfect posture, using the heavy weight of the blade and his immense physical strength to cleave through the thickest armour as if it were parchment. His footwork was a masterclass in noble fencing, sliding across the sand with calculated precision, holding the line and drawing the beasts' attention like a true Vanguard.
"Your motion is incredible!" Yor shouted over the din of battle.
"And your swings are too wide, Strangmoth!" Rayne barked back, smoothly ducking under a stinger and dragging his axe across the beast's exposed underbelly, letting it collapse in a heap. "You're over-committing your shoulders! You're giving them a half-second opening just to maintain your noble posture!"
"It is the Strangmoth way!" Yor replied warmly, unleashing a wave of Awen that blasted two scorpions back, his armour shining in the sun. "Power through perfection! A knight must project authority, even in the strike!"
Yor used the momentum of his previous swing to seamlessly transition into a downward cleave, bisecting the falling scorpion mid-air. "Hah! I see your dragon fights with the same brutal synergy you do! Excellent beast!"
They fought back-to-back, establishing a rhythm almost immediately. It was a beautiful display of violence. The polished, aristocratic perfection of the Strangmoth Odachi acting as the shield and the hammer, paired with the chilling, surgical precision of the iron axes acting as the scalpel.
"The court whispers about you, Rayne!" Yor called out, slicing off a scorpion's leg to hobble it while covering Rayne's blind spot. "They say you were born a slave! That Lord Thane bought you for copper in the outer provinces!"
"Does that bother you, noble?!" Rayne shouted, driving his knee into a beast's thorax and burying both axes into its face.
"Bother me?! NO" Yor parried a heavy strike, his amber eyes bright with genuine admiration. "To forge such flawless, elegant technique from the mud—it proves that true strength is born of will, not just bloodlines! You are a testament to the warrior's spirit!"
Rayne paused for a fraction of a second, his axes freezing mid-air before he finished his kill. He had expected an insult. He had expected the usual aristocratic disdain. But Yor meant every word. The heir to the greatest clan in the kingdom was openly praising a former slave, acknowledging him purely on the merit of his blade.
"Focus on your flank, Strangmoth!" Rayne yelled, hiding the strange warmth blooming in his chest behind his cold exterior.
"I have it handled, Rayne!" Yor laughed, spinning his Odachi in a tight arc to ward off three beasts at once.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the desert in hues of blood and fire, the last of the Gigantic Redtails fell. The dune was entirely coated in green ichor and shattered shells.
Rayne stood breathing heavily, his tattered clothes completely ruined, his body slick with sweat. He rested his axes by his side, looking at the absolute carnage they had wrought.
A few feet away, Yor Strangmoth stood perfectly upright. He flicked his Odachi to clean it, sheathed it with a sharp click, and adjusted his crimson trim. Despite fighting in a desert while wearing full plate armour, he maintained his dignified composure, though his chest heaved with exertion.
Yor looked around the battlefield, his amber eyes calculating the dead. He looked at Rayne, his authoritative expression softening into a warm, deeply respectful smile.
"Twenty-four," Yor stated, his voice ringing out in the quiet desert. "I killed twenty-four."
Rayne wiped his face, his cold eyes locking onto the noble. He looked at the bodies, then back to Yor.
"Twenty-eight," Rayne replied flatly.
Yor's eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he looked genuinely crestfallen. Then, he threw his head back and let out a booming, joyous laugh that echoed across the dunes.
"Well fought, Rayne of the Serpent's Maw!" Yor declared, walking over and extending a heavy, steel-clad hand. "I concede defeat!"
Rayne looked at the extended hand. It was a gesture of absolute equality. He sheathed one of his axes and reached out, gripping the noble's gauntlet firmly.
"When we return to the capital, I am buying you a drink. And perhaps we can find a proper sparring ring. I must learn how you execute that slip-step parry."
They released hands, standing amidst the mountain of corpses under the dying light of the harsh desert sun.