The dawn broke crimson, as if the heavens themselves had been wounded and bled across the vast Judean desert. The golden sands stretched endlessly to the horizon, a deadly carpet woven from dust and the bones of the forgotten. The air hung heavy, stifling, laced with the acrid stench of dying campfires and the sweat of tens of thousands of warriors exhausted after months of marching through the merciless Syrian wastes. Atop the walls of Jerusalem—the ancient holy city with its towering stone ramparts built in the time of King David, watchtowers jutting like colossal fingers toward the sky, and the mighty Zion Gate forged from iron tempered in hellfire—thousands of Seljuk archers stood in eerie silence. Their eyes, dark and unyielding, gazed down like specters guarding the city's soul. Clad in light leather armor, their curved wooden bows were drawn taut, feathered arrows glinting in the early sun, their sun-scorched faces and long beards masking the iron resolve of their faith.
Beyond the walls, crimson crusader banners snapped in the scorching desert wind. Tens of thousands of Christian warriors knelt in prayer, their Latin chants rising like a tragic symphony: "Deus vult! Deus vult!"—God wills it! The camp of Godfrey of Bouillon sprawled for miles, a sea of white tents embroidered with red crosses, warhorses neighing, and piles of gleaming weapons: long spears, battle-axes, and triangular shields carved with the image of Christ. The air thrummed with anticipation and dread—young knights from Lorraine with golden hair and eyes ablaze with faith, mercenaries from Normandy like myself, scarred and hardened by blood-soaked experience, and brown-robed monks clutching scriptures, praying through the night. Yet none dared approach the Zion Gate, where two figures stood facing each other amid the ashen dust and howling wind, like gods stepped from ancient myths to decide the fate of the world.
I, Ealdred, a wanderer from the muddy fields of Normandy, now twenty-five years old, stood six feet three inches tall, my frame corded with muscle forged from years of wielding a blade. My black hair was cropped short, my beard streaked with premature silver, and my gray-blue eyes were cold as a storm-tossed sea. In my hands, I gripped the sword Lucifer—a blade of pure black that devoured all light around it, like an endless void. Its hilt was etched with ancient Syriac runes that glowed red like embers from hell.
This was no mortal weapon; it was a relic of the War in Heaven, the very sword the archangel Lucifer wielded in his rebellion against God, cast down to earth after his fall into the Abyss. Its power was terrifying: it could sever immortal souls, swallow divine light, grant its wielder strength many times beyond human limits, pierce the essence of an enemy to reveal their weaknesses, and render the bearer immune to magic and conventional death. But it came with a curse: each use burned a fragment of the wielder's soul unless their will was unbreakable, and it would only bond with one whose heart balanced good and evil, untainted by greed or lust.
I wore gleaming silver plate armor, a crimson cloak emblazoned with a white cross, an old Viking axe hung at my hip as a reminder of my past, and a piece of amber from Isolda dangled at my neck like a talisman. Across from me stood Asael ben Samson, the eighteenth-generation descendant of Israel's greatest judge from the Scriptures, a true Nephilim born of a fallen angel once in Lucifer's service and a woman of Samson's line. He towered nearly eight feet tall, his shoulders broad as a fortress wall, his muscles like granite carved from a volcano. His bronze skin glowed under the dawn, his long copper-red hair whipped in the desert wind, and his emerald eyes burned like hellfire, consuming all they touched. His silver armor was etched with the pillars of Dagon's temple—a symbol of his ancestor Samson—and he wielded a greatsword longer than a man, its blade gleaming like silver forged in heavenly furnaces.
We stood there, amid the dust and howling wind, two poles of belief: I, a man of darkness seeking redemption through the Cross; he, a being of fallen light defending the Holy Land for the curse of his blood. No words were spoken at first—only two iron wills clashing to prove who God had chosen. The backdrop was Jerusalem itself, the city of a thousand years of strife, from David's conquest to this moment, now the stage for a legendary duel.
Asael took the first step. Each footfall cracked the earth beneath him, sending up clouds of dust like a miniature sandstorm, the desert wind carrying it like an ancient curse. He swung his massive greatsword, its gleaming blade slicing the air with a thunderous whistle, whipping up a gust that scattered sand in all directions. I raised Lucifer's sword across my chest, its black blade absorbing all light, the hilt pulsing faintly as if alive, stirring from the depths of Hell. When the two blades met, the ground shuddered as if struck by an earthquake. A pillar of red and white fire erupted skyward, the wind tearing the air apart. Soldiers on both sides staggered back hundreds of yards, terrified. We were flung apart, crashing into the hard sand with a deafening roar, but we sprang back like beasts bound by a single chain of fate.
I slashed horizontally at his midsection, Lucifer's black blade sweeping like a shadow devouring light. Asael parried with the hilt of his greatsword, the clash ringing out across the desert like a shrieking bell. He countered with a downward strike, his blade carrying the might of eighteen generations of heroes, cleaving the air with a trail of blinding white light. I twisted aside, letting my black sword graze his abdomen—a sound not of metal on metal, but of steel striking an immortal soul, like a shattering chime. He staggered back half a step, his emerald eyes unwavering, as if pain were a mortal illusion. "You wield the blade of the Fallen One, mortal," he boomed, his voice like thunder from the heavens, shaking the sands. "But I carry the blood of God's chosen. Do you think darkness can swallow light?"
I said nothing, only tightening my grip on the hilt. This fight had transcended the living; it was a clash of ancient myths and the tragedy of human faith.
Asael roared, a sound that echoed across the desert. From his right arm, beams of white light shot forth like spears from paradise, piercing the sky at the speed of light, exploding into pillars of white fire on the sand. The wind howled fiercely, sand spiraling into a storm of white flame, sweeping away everything like a divine curse on the fallen. Soldiers on both sides panicked, shielding their eyes from the blinding light, the wind wailing like the cries of lost souls. I raised Lucifer's sword, its black blade absorbing the beams that struck it, turning them to black ash that scattered in the wind. The sword's power didn't just break magic; it devoured divine essence, turning light to darkness, as Lucifer had done in Heaven's rebellion.
I advanced, each step leaving a scorched black mark on the sand, like Hell's brand on earth. Asael charged with supernatural speed, his greatsword striking like continuous thunderclaps, wielding the strength of Samson—power from the Holy Spirit that could tear lions apart or topple temples. I moved with the speed granted by Lucifer's sword—ten times faster than any man, my body gliding like a wraith. I circled him, landing three rapid strikes to his shoulder, ribs, and hip. But no blood flowed; only green light seeped from the wounds, sealing instantly like immortal flesh. He spun, his greatsword sweeping horizontally, carving a white arc that melted the sand into glittering glass. I leaped to evade, but the light grazed my leg, leaving a searing burn like hellfire. "You cannot kill me," he said, his voice calm as fate. "I was born to protect, not to die. The blood of Samson is God's promise—strength to save His people, but a curse of eternal solitude."
His words carried a profound tragedy: an immortal Nephilim, gifted with divine power but bound by destiny, unable to love, unable to die, existing only to fight. I realized this battle wasn't good versus evil; it was the tragedy of faith—faith that turned men into tools of the divine, stripping them of freedom.
I roared, charging with Lucifer's sword humming, its black blade glowing with an eerie purple light—the fusion of Hell's darkness and human will. I slashed across his chest, the blade carving a black fissure in his silver armor. For the first time, Asael staggered back, his emerald eyes flashing with pain—not of the body, but of the soul. "You… are cutting into my very destiny," he whispered, his voice echoing from an abyss. He countered with "Divine Pillar Strike," a legendary move from Samson's bloodline, cleaving downward with a column of light that shattered the desert, creating a gaping crater, white fire erupting like a volcano. I was hurled back, crashing into rock with a thunderous crash, blood spraying from my mouth. But Lucifer's sword pulsed, granting me temporary immortality—wounds healed instantly, my body surging with dark energy.
I rose and charged into the light. The two forces collided, exploding like a second sun in the desert. The blinding flash temporarily blinded soldiers on both sides, and a massive sandstorm erupted. From afar, Godfrey knelt beside Bernard, whispering, "Two gods fight for Jerusalem—God's light against the Devil's darkness." Seljuk archers on the walls trembled, loosing arrows in panic, while Jerusalem's people prayed in their churches. The desert transformed: sand melted into glass, rocks split into chasms, and the wind wailed like mourning spirits.
Power surged within me from Lucifer's sword, but so did its curse. Whispers rose from the hilt: "For every soul you slay, I feast. In return, you are immortal—but your soul will burn to ash, lost to eternal darkness, if desire sways you." My blood boiled like hellfire, my skin cracking like sun-baked clay, black light creeping up my arms like Lucifer's curse. Asael watched, his voice tinged with sorrow: "Your own weapon consumes you, mortal. That sword is not for salvation, but destruction. It chose you for your balanced soul, but it will drag you into the abyss if you falter." His words held deep philosophy: Lucifer's sword chose those like me—a soul from the mud, balanced between light and dark, driven not by greed but survival and purpose. Yet it demanded iron will to avoid corruption.
I roared in agony, thrusting straight at his heart with newfound power. The sword pierced his silver armor, light exploding like a meteor, but no blood flowed—only a chorus of voices, thousands of Samson's ancestors singing of liberation. Asael knelt for the first time, placing a hand on my shoulder, heavy as a mountain: "Killing me frees me, but you'll never escape this curse. Samson's blood was born to protect, but also to die for it—you, bearer of darkness, will live with eternal pain." I drove the sword deeper, white and black light spiraling into a massive vortex, sweeping away everything, the wind howling like a fallen angel's cry.
I was pulled into the void—an endless expanse with no earth or sky, only blinding white light and pitch darkness entwined. Before me, Samson appeared, a living legend: taller than Asael, his copper-red hair flowing to the ground like a river, muscles like mountains, eyes blazing with divine fire, yet carrying the deep sorrow of his curse. He wore a lion's pelt—symbol of his victory at Timnah—and held a dried donkey's jawbone as a weapon. "You should not wield the Fallen One's blade, mortal," he said, his voice like thunder shaking the void. I knelt, trembling: "I didn't want this, my lord, but only it could free you—free Asael from his eternal curse." Samson placed a hand on my forehead, white light spreading, and I saw his history unfold vividly: born in Zorah under the Nazarite vow, tearing a lion apart at Timnah with bare hands, slaying thirty Philistines in Ashkelon for their garments, binding three hundred foxes with torches to burn enemy fields. I saw him snap ropes like burnt thread, slay a thousand Philistines at Lehi with a jawbone, blood flowing like rivers, bodies piled like hills, laughing: "With a donkey's jawbone, I have made donkeys of them!" Parched in the desert, he prayed, and God split the jawbone, water gushing to save him. I witnessed him uproot Gaza's city gates, tons of iron, carrying them sixty miles to Hebron in defiance. But then tragedy: his love for Delilah, betrayed by revealing his hair's secret, shorn of strength, blinded, enslaved. Finally, in Dagon's temple, his hair regrown, he prayed for one last burst of power: "Let me die with the Philistines," and toppled the pillars, burying thousands and himself, freeing Israel.
Samson vanished, whispering: "Asael was but a fragment of my soul, bound to Jerusalem by an ancient covenant with God. You've broken those chains with the sword of darkness, but remember—Jerusalem belongs to no one. It is a fire that tests all faith, driving men to sacrifice yet betray themselves." I was hurled from the void, crashing back to the desert with a thunderous roar.
When I opened my eyes, it was noon. The desert lay in ruins: earth split into chasms, trees reduced to ash, rocks melted into glittering glass under the sun. No soldier dared approach; both armies watched from afar in terror. I stood in the massive crater our battle had carved, blood trickling from my eyes and mouth, but wounds healed instantly, Lucifer's sword granting temporary immortality—its curse already gnawing at my soul. Godfrey and Bernard approached slowly, faces etched with awe and fear. "Did you… kill him, Ealdred?" Godfrey asked, voice trembling. I gazed into the distance—where Asael once stood, only his melted silver armor remained, glittering dust carried by the wind. "No," I said softly, weary yet profound. "He's gone—freed from his curse, but leaving tragedy for us." Bernard knelt beside me, tears streaking his aged face: "You've touched the boundary between God and Devil, Ealdred. Lucifer's sword chose you for your balanced soul, but it will test you for life."
That day, both armies withdrew temporarily—no one dared fight on such a sacred day. Jerusalem fell silent, only ash and smoke drifting, a reminder of faith's tragedy. That night, Lucifer's sword glowed red like hell's coals, whispering: "Every victory demands a soul's price."
The crusaders rested, but my war was unfinished. Lucifer's sword granted new powers: strength rivaling Samson's, the ability to see into souls and find weaknesses, immunity to magic and fatal wounds. It chose me because my soul, forged in a life from orphan to survivor, balanced light and dark, driven by purpose, not greed. Should I falter, it would burn my soul to ash. The next day, Godfrey rallied the army, ordering the siege of Jerusalem—a grand assault with catapults, siege ladders, and tens of thousands charging. I stood beside him, gripping Lucifer's sword, knowing the battle with Asael was no end. It was the war within every soul—light seeking redemption, darkness craving possession. In the distance, Seljuk drums thundered from the walls, signaling the true siege's beginning.