Kaelen didn't move like a hero from a bard's tale; there was no luminous aura, no mountain-shaking war cry. He moved like a metallic machine forged in the furnace of a hundred forgotten battles. When the three "Corpse Collectors" lunged, he saw their movements before they even began—not through magic or prophecy, but because their stupidity was as predictable as the sunset.
The first, a brute wielding a rusted axe, lacked balance. The second, the pale one with the net, relied too much on distance. The third lurked behind them, waiting for the moment of betrayal.
'Fifty silver pieces to kill me?' Kaelen thought mockingly behind his deaf helmet. 'Even death has become cheap in this world.'
The net-wielder cast his weapon. The net soared through the air to bind the armored knight. In naive novels, the hero gets tangled inside or shreds it with a magical sword. Kaelen, however, simply... ducked. He let the net sail over his head to snag on the charred branch of a tree behind him.
With a movement that didn't waste a single drop of energy, Kaelen pivoted his iron-clad body. The blade of his Greatsword didn't just cut the air; it closed the distance in a heartbeat. The sword slammed into the axe-wielder's shoulder. It wasn't a clean cut; it was a total demolition of bone under the combined pressure of weight and speed. The man let out a short scream, which Kaelen silenced with a blow from his iron Gauntlet that shattered the man's jaw completely.
"One," Kaelen muttered coldly. "Two more to finish the volunteer work."
The net-wielder retreated in terror, but Kaelen gave him no opening. He threw the full weight of his armor into a Shoulder Tackle that sent the man sprawling. Before the pale scavenger could process what had happened, Kaelen's blade had pierced his throat, pinning him to the dirt like an insect in a researcher's display.
Kaelen turned toward the third, who was now fleeing toward the thickets.
"Fleeing is a good idea," Kaelen said in a loud, mocking voice, "but it came far too late."
Kaelen snatched the fallen axe of the first man and, with a professional, emotionless motion, hurled it. The axe spun through the air, end over end, until it buried itself in the coward's back. The man fell silently. Nothing remained but the sound of the wind and the clanking of Kaelen's armor as he regained his balance.
Elaria watched the scene from atop the rock, resting her hand on her cheek with regal boredom.
"Disgusting," she said, averting her eyes. "Your way of fighting lacks all elegance. You don't fight; you... sweep the floor. Is this how 'ordinary' humans do it?"
Kaelen removed his helmet again to breathe the air tinged with the scent of death. His face was pale, but his eyes were eerily calm.
"Elegance is the luxury of those who do not fear death, Elaria," he said, heading toward the corpses to "search" them with a skill born of years of hunger. "I don't fight to impress an audience; I fight so I can take this armor off at the end of the day without being soaked in my own blood. Look, this is what they call 'Blade Logic'."
From the pockets of the dead, Kaelen extracted a few copper coins, a tattered map, and a flask of cheap wine. He studied the map intently; it bore markings for regions in Aether known only to smugglers.
"Interesting," he muttered. "These thugs weren't here by chance. They were waiting specifically for our 'package.' It seems someone at the Fortress leaked the information."
"Are you going to keep talking to yourself?" Elaria interrupted, approaching him and dragging her crimson dress past the axe-man's corpse. "I'm hungry, and the darkness is starting to swallow the valley. My wings are feeling the dampness, and I cannot stand it."
Kaelen looked at her, then at the sky. Darkness was indeed creeping in, and in the world of Aether, the night does not belong to humans.
"Elaria," Kaelen said with sudden gravity, "you told me earlier you wanted to see when this hard shell breaks. Well, tonight might grant you that chance. We aren't heading to the Fortress; we're moving away from it. We're taking the 'Path of the Dead' through the Hills of Ash."
"The Path of the Dead?" she raised her golden eyebrows mockingly. "What a dramatic and cliché name. Are you trying to frighten me, Knight?"
"I'm not trying to frighten you; I'm trying to keep us alive," he replied, sliding his helmet back on. "Based on what I know of this world, and what I saw in those men's eyes, we're no longer just a guard and a package. We are 'Capital' in a war you know nothing about. Now, cling to my arm. We need to move fast."
Indeed, Elaria did not hesitate. She wrapped her hand around his metal arm again, leaning her weight on him even more "clingily."
"Then, to the cliché 'Path of the Dead' we go," she whispered near his metal ear. "But if I get bored, I'll make you carry me on your back—armor, weight, and all."
They walked through the pitch-black darkness: the knight carrying in his mind the experience of "500 years" of survival (metaphorically speaking, through accumulated mistakes and lessons), and the Sovereign carrying in her wing the curse of the heavens. The road ahead was choked with sharp stones and cold winds, but Kaelen was not afraid.
He knew something Elaria didn't, and neither did the assassins hunting them.
He knew that "Ordinariness" is the best cover for genius. Just as a certain slave was once a mere servant in a temple, or a certain student was just average at the start; Kaelen realized the world would always underestimate him... and that was exactly what he planned to use to crush them all.
From a distance, the Hills of Ash looked like the haphazardly discarded corpses of giants, covered by centuries of dust until their features vanished. Here, in this forgotten part of Aether, trees do not grow; instead, "Rust Pillars" sprout—metallic formations born from the waste of ancient wars that crushed the earth to its very core.
Kaelen walked, each step sinking his armor into the soft gray ash with a muffled thud, as if the earth itself were sighing beneath his weight.
"Do you feel it?" Kaelen asked from behind his helm, his voice surprisingly solemn. "This ash isn't dirt. It's the remains of humans who once thought they were heroes, that their screams would change the face of the world. Now they are just a substance that makes my boots slip and ruins my armor's joints."
Elaria was still clinging to his arm, but her grip tightened. She was no longer acting with pure laziness; something in the atmosphere stirred her sovereign instincts. Her wings were folded tightly beneath her crimson dress, but her body was as tense as a bowstring.
"The place reeks of failure," Elaria whispered, her golden eyes scanning the horizon sharply. "I feel souls that haven't found their way to the 'Upper Realms.' They're trapped here, aren't they?"
"In Aether, there is no such thing as 'trapped'," Kaelen replied, stopping to lean on his greatsword. "There is only 'consumed.' Everything here is recycled—even the pain. Look at those rocks over there."
He pointed his sword toward a nearby slope where the skulls of massive beasts were woven into the stone. The vistas of Aether were a constant reminder to the reader that nature here was not neutral; it was a silent enemy.
"Kaelen," Elaria said suddenly, her voice losing its mocking edge for a moment, "why haven't you taken off your armor? We're two miles from the trade road, and I can hear your tired heart beating from here. You're burning inside that iron."
Kaelen paused. He raised a heavy metal hand and wiped his helmet. "Because 'Ordinary' people like me don't have the luxury of relaxing, Elaria. The moment I feel safe, a gray monster or a stray bolt will appear to end this story in its second chapter. And I... despite all my grumbling, have a curiosity to see the end."
He turned to her, and through the slit in his helmet, it seemed as if he were smiling a smile only she could see. "Besides, if I take off my armor, who will carry you when you decide your delicate feet can't handle the ash dust?"
The mockery returned to Elaria's face instantly. "Oh, don't worry. I'll make you carry me while you're wearing the armor. I want to hear your bones creaking as they beg for mercy. It will be a heavenly melody."
Kaelen laughed—a dry, mirthless sound. They continued until they reached the mouth of a narrow valley called "The Wailing Pass." The wind whistled through narrow gaps in the rocks, creating a sound like women weeping—a natural acoustic effect, but in this context, enough to strike terror into the heart of the bravest knight.
Suddenly, Kaelen stopped dead. He shoved Elaria behind a jagged rock with a swift, violent motion, thrusting his sword into the ash to steady himself.
"What now? Have you seen a ghost?" Elaria asked, trying to stand up in anger.
"Shut up," Kaelen hissed. "Something is moving below. Something that doesn't belong to this ash."
From the gray fog at the valley floor, distorted entities began to emerge. They weren't human, nor were they wild beasts. They resembled flayed bodies covered in a layer of metallic rust growing out from within their flesh. These were the "Rust Walkers," the nightmares of Aether born from war waste and tainted magic.
There were six of them. They moved with a twitchy rhythm, their eyes mere voids glowing with a dim light.
"Elaria," Kaelen said, snapping his helmet into full combat position, "this time, the battle won't be 'voluntary.' These things don't want silver. They want the iron I wear... and the flesh you're hiding."
"Are you going to kill them?" she asked curiously, watching the monsters approach.
"I'm going to try not to die," Kaelen replied, pulling his sword from the ash. "And in my dictionary, that means the same thing."
Kaelen broke the Fourth Wall for a moment, turning toward the invisible "viewer." "I hope the cameraman is ready, because this part isn't going to be pretty. Armor doesn't protect against rust, and swords break if you strike 'The Reality' with excessive force."
The first walker lunged with terrifying speed, leaping over the rocks with an agility that defied its metallic body. Kaelen didn't wait. He used no magical move, but the sheer weight of his armor. He met the monster with a strike from his Bracer, followed by a direct thrust into the creature's "rusted chest."
There was a sickening sound—the crunch of breaking metal and the piercing of rotten flesh. The monster didn't die; instead, it began to coil around the blade.
"Dammit," Kaelen muttered. "Logic says I'm in big trouble."