Author's Note
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to support the novel by pressing the plus button and dropping your Power Stones. Every bit of support helps this story reach more readers.
Before the world drowned in monsters, before kingdoms began to crumble, and before the Book of Ten Swords chose an heir, a boy stood in fire.
Daniel Bellhem was twelve when he watched his home burn. He didn't remember the flames as vividly as he remembered the smell—the thick, choking mix of blood, smoke, and something far worse. Something demonic, unnatural, like iron rotting beneath a layer of sulfur, like the world itself had begun to bleed.
He remembered the screams. Not the loud ones that echo in memory. The quiet ones. The ones that rise from the throat when people already know they are about to die. Those were the screams that haunted him most, and they clung to him even now, five years later.
The eastern borders of the Kingdom of Astrid had known peace for centuries. Farmers tilled their fields without fear. Knights patrolled roads so quiet that birds had the louder voice. Merchants traveled, singing and laughing, bringing silk, spices, and tales from distant lands.
That peace ended in a single, blazing night.
Daniel stood now among the ruins of an old Bellhem outpost. Stone walls lay shattered, moss-covered earth torn open, and the smell of smoke still clung to the air. He was five years older, scarred, hardened by survival, and yet, the weight of that night pressed down on him as though he had never left it behind.
He closed his eyes.
The memories surged. Sharp, relentless, and cold.
THE NIGHT OF FALL
The Bellhem manor had never been the grandest castle in the Twelve Kingdoms, but it was noble, sturdy, and built to endure centuries. White granite walls gleamed in the moonlight. Its banners, silver gryphons on black cloth, waved proudly in the wind that night, oblivious to the death that approached.
Daniel was in the courtyard, gripping a wooden sword. He swung with wide, clumsy arcs, sweat dripping down his young face. His arms burned, but he refused to stop.
Lord Arlan Bellhem, his father, watched from the steps, arms crossed. There was exhaustion in his gaze, but also pride, the faintest hint that he was proud of this small, stubborn boy.
"You grip it too tightly," Arlan said. "Relax your fingers. A sword is not strangled into obedience. It must flow with your intention."
"I want to get stronger," Daniel said, breath heaving. "If I don't push hard—"
"You'll break your wrist," a gentle voice interrupted.
Lady Seraphine Bellhem, his mother, knelt beside him. Her half-red, half-white hair fluttered in the wind, framing her serene yet worried face. She had guided his stance, adjusted his grip, and taught him to breathe correctly. Daniel inherited her hair and his father's sharp jawline.
"Strength isn't only in muscle," she said softly. "It lives in patience."
She placed a hand on his chest.
"And heart."
Daniel remembered how her touch felt—cool, steady, comforting.
Those were the last calm moments of his life.
Then came the first explosion.
The ground shook violently, sending stones clattering across the courtyard. Dust rained down from the walls, choking and thick. Another blast followed, and then a scream—a human voice—cut short before it could finish.
From the treeline, the monsters poured forth.
Demonic wolves with three burning eyes. Beast-fiends stitched together from mismatched flesh. Ogres with glowing runes carved deep into their skin. The night sky seemed to blacken beneath their silhouettes.
Arlan seized Daniel by the arm. "Run to the cellar. Now!"
But Daniel froze. He couldn't move. He watched as a demonic beast tore through a guard like paper.
His father struck him across the cheek. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to break his paralysis.
"Go!"
Arlan shoved him toward the cellar steps.
Before Daniel could descend, a monstrous roar shattered the courtyard. The stone gate exploded inward as a massive Beast-Ogre barreled through. Its body burned with corrupted sigils, and blood dripped from its claws. The creature's roar shook the earth, and it charged.
Arlan moved faster than Daniel had ever seen any human move. He threw himself at the monster, steel flashing, and sparks erupted as sword met corrupted hide. The ogre's claw raked across his father's side, but Arlan did not falter.
"Seraphine!" he shouted. "Take him!"
Daniel's mother grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the cellar. He twisted violently. "No! Father!"
Tears streaked her face, but her grip did not weaken.
"Listen to me," she whispered, her voice trembling yet firm. "You must survive. If anything remains of our house, it must be you."
She shoved him into the cellar and slammed the door shut.
Daniel pressed his back against the wooden wall. Dust filled his lungs. The sounds above were chaos—roaring monsters, crashing stone, steel clashing against corrupted flesh. Then—a scream. His father's voice. Cut short.
Then silence.
Seraphine froze for a moment. Her chest heaved, and she forced herself to stand. She pushed Daniel deeper into the shadows, her hands lingering just long enough to reassure him.
"Stay hidden," she said.
"Mother—don't go—"
She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you."
The cellar door opened, spilling pale light across the stone. She stepped out, a figure of resolve, and the door shut again. Daniel pressed his ear against the wood. He could hear the battle above. Stone crumbled. Monsters roared. Soldiers screamed.
Minutes passed.
Then came a final, piercing cry. His mother's voice.
Silence followed. Long. Crushing. Absolute.
When Daniel finally opened the door, the courtyard was a graveyard. Smoke hung in the air. Bodies lay torn apart. His father was gone. Of his mother, there was barely enough left to bury.
Monsters still prowled the ruins, but Daniel ran. He ran through the forest, bleeding, crying, and utterly alone.
He survived only because the horde moved deeper into the kingdom.
He survived—but part of him had died that night.
THE ORPHAN YEARS
Daniel wandered for weeks. He slept in trees, hid under broken carts, and scavenged for scraps of bread. Town after town fell as the demonic tide surged forward. The world had grown colder, crueler, darker.
People whispered that Astrid was doomed.
Daniel learned to fight because he had no choice. He learned to kill because mercy had left the world. He learned to endure because no one else would endure for him.
His body hardened, lean and wiry from hunger and relentless training. He practiced with broken weapons scavenged from corpses. Every day forged him sharper, faster, more relentless than boys twice his age.
At the border of the Eastern March, he discovered an abandoned Bellhem outpost. Beneath the rubble lay a sealed box marked with his family's sigil. Inside was a book, bound in black chains.
The Book of Ten Swords.
Daniel carried it for five years without opening it, fearful of what it might demand.
THE PRESENT NIGHT
Now seventeen, Daniel stood before the stone altar in the outpost. His black apprentice armor clung to his shoulders, molded by years of brutal survival. His half-red, half-white hair fell messily across his forehead.
The night was too quiet.
He knew what that meant.
He placed his hands on the book.
Chains snapped. Power poured into him.
A Beast-Ogre burst into the courtyard, larger and more corrupted than the one that killed his father.
Daniel lifted his apprentice sword, whispering, "This time… I won't run."
The First Blade answered. Energy surged through his spine, his arms, into his sword. The blade darkened, stretched, and veins of crimson fire ran along its length.
Vorrath.
He swung with every ounce of hatred, grief, fear, and strength he had ever known. The ogre fell in two, its corpse thudding against the courtyard stones.
Daniel collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath. The book floated before him, glowing. Ink formed new words:
"THE FIRST BLADE — LEVEL ONE."
Beyond the outpost, distant roars filled the horizon. The beast tide was rising. The Twelve Kingdoms were unprepared. And Daniel—he was alone.
But he had a blade. He had a destiny. He had a reason to fight. And he would carve a path through hell itself before he let another family suffer what he endured.