Eltz Castle, the heart of the Kingdom of Helvetia, stood atop a limestone hill that rose majestically from the center of the capital. From a distance, it resembled a giant crown placed upon the city—white towers, granite walls, large glass windows that captured sunlight and reflected it in golden sparkles.
Inside, in King Wilhelm's private study, the atmosphere was markedly different.
A wooden desk was buried beneath a mountain of documents. Maps lay rolled up in the corners. Silver candlesticks held candles that had melted into frozen pools. And in the midst of all this, King Wilhelm sat in his shirt sleeves, his thin white hair disheveled, his reading glasses nearly sliding off his nose.
"Again," he muttered, his voice hoarse from too much talking to himself. "This name keeps appearing."
In his hands, a report from the front lines. The how-manieth in the past month? He'd lost count. But one thing remained consistent: in every report about successes, about breakthroughs, about the things that made his generals cheer, the same name always appeared.
Albert vin Götterbaum.
King Wilhelm set that report aside and picked up another. A report from Lord Harald, commander of the eastern front. Thick, detailed, filled with numbers. But on the third page, a highlighted paragraph:
"The success of the Vallenwood siege cannot be separated from the contribution of the Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment under the command of Albert vin Götterbaum. The infiltration of thirty people into the city, the destruction of supply warehouses, and the sabotage of the eastern gate mechanism—all accomplished in a single night with only three casualties. The gate stood open; the city fell the following day."
King Wilhelm read that paragraph once more.
Thirty people. One night. Three casualties.
He laughed—a short, bitter laugh, like someone who had lived too long and was only now seeing something truly new.
"This young man," he whispered. "How old is he now? Seventeen, isn't it?"
Beside him, the royal secretary—a thin man in his forties with round spectacles—nodded. "Seventeen years old, Your Majesty. The only son of Baron Friedrich vin Götterbaum. Betrothed to the daughter of Earl Richard vin Lancaster."
"Lancaster..." King Wilhelm frowned. "That crippled Richard?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
King Wilhelm leaned back in his chair. His eyes—old, but still sharp—gazed at the ceiling painted with scenes of ancient battles. In those paintings, knights on horseback charged enemy lines, swords raised, banners flying. Romantic and heroic. Nothing like real war.
"Read me that report from Lord Harald again," he commanded. "The part about Vallenwood. Quickly."
The secretary retrieved the document and read in a monotone voice. But to King Wilhelm's ears, the words came alive.
"The night before the main assault, thirty people infiltrated through the marketplace. Two teams: one to the warehouses, one to the gate. The warehouse team burned the supplies—grain, smoked meat, hay—with remarkable speed. The fire spread quickly, creating chaos throughout the city. The gate team destroyed the lifting mechanism, rendering the gate impossible to close. By dawn, the main forces entered without significant resistance. The city was fully subjugated within six hours."
King Wilhelm raised his hand. The secretary stopped.
"Thirty people," the King repeated. "He accomplished all that in a single night."
"According to the report, Your Majesty."
King Wilhelm stood and walked to the window. Below, the capital stretched out—red rooftops, a meandering river, stone bridges.
"I want to know more about him," he said. "Not from official reports, but from other sources. What do the soldiers say? What do the enemies say?"
The secretary produced another set of notes. "From soldiers who briefly served under him... they call him the 'Black Sword Demon.' Not because he's cruel, but because of... his fighting style. Without sound, without expression. Like a war machine."
"A machine?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. And from Leandria prisoners of war... they fear him more than any other commander. They say that when he appears on the battlefield, their troops' morale immediately plummets."
King Wilhelm smiled. Not a proud smile, but the smile of someone discovering a new tool in the arsenal.
"Send a thousand soldiers to the front lines," he ordered. "For that Special Regiment. And a letter to Lord Harald: authorize that unit to operate in the villages around Vallenwood. Clear out any remaining resistance and secure the territory."
"At once, Your Majesty."
King Wilhelm returned to his chair, picking up the report once more. In the corner of the page, he scribbled a small note in red ink:
Albert vin Götterbaum. Worthy of attention.
***
A week later, in Vallenwood, Albert received his new troops.
A thousand people. Not green recruits—most had seen combat before, merely transferred from other units. New faces, new names, new habits to learn.
They camped in the field near the eastern wall, where the scars of battle were still visible. Ground blackened by blood, stones smeared with soot, a smell that never truly faded.
Albert stood before them, Luise at his side, Hilda and Sir Varin behind. His face was expressionless, his voice devoid of pleasantries.
"You are now part of the Götthain-Lancaster Special Regiment. Here, your previous positions mean nothing. What matters is ability and discipline. You will be retrained from the ground up. Those who cannot keep up will be sent back."
The new soldiers were silent. A few exchanged glances, uncertain.
"Training begins tomorrow morning, before dawn. Arrive late, and you'll be punished by running around the city five times. Disobey orders, and you're out. Simple."
He turned and left them.
Luise walked beside him. "A warm welcome."
"They don't need warmth. They need to know the rules."
***
The remainder of that week was spent not only in training but also in rebuilding.
Not rebuilding Vallenwood itself—that was the task of royal engineers and the remaining civilian population. Albert and his men's duty was to strengthen defenses, clear out remaining resistance in the surrounding areas, and ensure the villages under the city's protection were safe.
Every morning, training. Every afternoon, patrols to the surrounding villages. Every night, Albert sat in his new office—a stone house near the eastern gate, formerly the residence of a Leandrian knight—and wrote reports.
First village: Holten. Thirty-eight families. No resistance. The villagers were frightened but began returning to their homes after being assured of their safety. Albert left ten soldiers from other units as a temporary guard.
Second village: Grunfeld. Fifty families. Formerly a small Leandrian militia outpost—already empty when they arrived. But in the back warehouse, they discovered a cache of weapons. Albert ordered them all confiscated.
Third village: Stein. One hundred twenty families. Here, there was resistance. A small group of former Leandrian soldiers had hidden in the village head's house, taking his family hostage. Albert entered with five people. Three minutes later, the hostages were free, four corpses lay in the yard.
The village head—an old man with a white beard—knelt before him, weeping. "Thank you, My Lord... Thank you!"
Albert helped him stand. "Take care of your family. We'll guard this village for three days, until the situation is stable."
The man looked at him with wet eyes. "You... you're different from what they say."
"What do they say?"
"They say you're a Demon..."
Albert didn't answer. He simply turned and signaled his men to begin securing the area.
***
To the north, at Schwerin Castle.
King Ludwig II of Leandria heard everything.
The throne room of the Kingdom of Leandria was darker than Eltz Castle. Black stone walls, wrought iron candlesticks, blue banners. On the high throne at the room's end, Ludwig II sat with his hands clenched on the armrests.
Before him, a knight knelt, his face pale.
"Repeat that," King Ludwig commanded. His voice was low but echoed in the silent chamber.
"The city of Vallenwood has fallen, Your Majesty. The garrison is destroyed. Marquess Karl... is dead."
King Ludwig was silent. His hands on the armrests began to tremble.
"Who?"
The knight lifted his head slightly. "Pardon?"
"Who did this? Which commander was responsible?"
The knight swallowed hard. "Reports from the refugees... they mention one name. Albert vin Götterbaum of the Kingdom of Helvetia. They call him... the Black Sword Demon."
King Ludwig II rose to his feet. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he descended from the throne, approaching the knight. In his hand, a black wooden staff carved with dragons—a symbol of authority, also a weapon.
"Black Sword Demon," he repeated, his voice hissing. "A youth? How old is he?"
"Perhaps seventeen, Your Majesty. Or eighteen."
King Ludwig stopped before the knight. Looked down at him.
"You're telling me our city fell because of a seventeen-year-old boy?!"
The knight dared not answer.
King Ludwig struck him with the staff. Not hard—just a symbolic slap. But the knight fell, then remained kneeling, not daring to move.
"Stand up!"
The knight stood, still trembling.
"Tell me the details. Everything you know. Don't hide anything."
The knight spoke. About the night when fire consumed the warehouses. About the gate that couldn't be closed. About the Helvetia forces pouring in like a flood. About Marquess Karl choosing to die with honor in his home.
King Ludwig listened in silence. When the officer finished, he turned and walked back to his throne. Sat down.
"Vallenwood," he murmured. "The most important city in the east, fallen in a single night."
Below, the nobles and officers remained silent. No one dared speak and risk further angering the King.
King Ludwig looked at each of them in turn. His eyes—pale blue, like ice—swept across the room, searching for something. Courage? Or merely an excuse for anger?
"I want to know more about this boy," he finally said. "Götterbaum. Find out about his family background, where he comes from, what his weaknesses are. And also find out—" he paused, "—whether it's possible to recruit him... or to kill him."
The nobles and knights nodded, then departed one by one, leaving King Ludwig alone on his throne.
Outside, rain began to fall. Cold wind blew from the north, carrying bad news.
King Ludwig II sat on his throne, staring at the closed door, thinking about the name he had just heard.
Albert vin Götterbaum...
"Black Sword Demon," he whispered. "We'll see about that."
***
In Vallenwood, Albert sat in his office, writing the final report for the day. Outside, rain had begun to fall—a cold drizzle that soaked the rooftops and washed away the remaining blood from the streets.
Luise entered without knocking, placing a cup of hot water on his desk.
"The sixth village tomorrow," she said. "The last one before the report is sent."
Albert nodded. "You should rest first."
"You too."
"I'll follow shortly."
Luise looked at him for a moment, then turned and left, closing the door softly.
Albert remained seated, staring at the candle flame. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the smoke from his feltwort rose slowly, carrying his thoughts to places he didn't want to visit.