The Situation Near Kenjuroth
"My lord... who did this to you? How can this be happening?" John's voice trembled as he caught sight of the wound on Kenjuroth's side.
"I don't know," Kenjuroth replied, his voice steady despite the blood that stained his armor. "Even I didn't notice when it happened... Whoever did this had planned it long before." He winced but forced a faint smile. "But there's no need to worry about me. Focus on the battle... I think now we are ready. It's time... to awaken the Stormcleaver."
He tightened his grip around the massive sword, blood dripping from his left hand as he pressed it against his wound. Slowly, he rose to his feet, eyes burning with determination. "John... you know what to do."
John bowed his head. "Yes, my lord." Then, turning toward the remaining soldiers, he shouted, "All warriors, prepare for the Stormcleaver's Roar! The old warriors will protect the new ones—help them survive! The King is about to awaken the Stormcleaver! For your safety, take at least eleven kilometers of distance from His Majesty! Shield units, take cover and brace yourselves!"
A wave of confusion spread among the younger soldiers. "Stormcleaver? What's that?" one of them whispered.
An older veteran glanced at him grimly. "You're about to see the power of a god's weapon. The Stormcleaver, the Sword of Wind and Thunder—one of the Gods of Destruction swords. I know it sounds unbelievable... especially for those who aren't from the Seven Warrior Kingdoms. But it's real. You can't imagine how terrifying its power is. That's why our King ordered us to protect him—and the sword."
Another soldier added, "Those without shields, move back even farther—minimum of thirty kilometers. Mount your horses and wait for the King's signal!"
Orders spread like wildfire. Within moments, the battlefield began to shift—the thunder of footsteps and galloping hooves filled the air as soldiers formed their positions, shields raised and hearts trembling with anticipation.
And there, standing alone in the heart of the field, was King Kenjuroth Thorasik.
He raised the Stormcleaver close to his chest, holding it with both hands. The blade gleamed with a divine brilliance—a thick and elegant weapon forged from a mysterious silver-blue metal that shimmered even in shadow. Its smooth surface was alive with faint golden veins, like lightning trapped beneath glass. The edge curved gracefully toward the tip, its beauty hiding the storm it held within.
The cross-guard spread outward like sweeping wings, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to flow like wind itself. The grip, wrapped in dark storm-gray leather, felt cool and steady—perfectly balanced, perfectly deadly.
At the sword's base rested a crystal pommel, clear as rainwater but swirling with faint tendrils of pale light that moved like distant thunderclouds.
Every inch of the Stormcleaver radiated a quiet majesty—a weapon not merely forged, but born. It was the calm before the storm, waiting for its master's call.