Shadow Sword of Vengeance

Lucien was unconscious, unable to perceive what was happening, unfit to prevent whatever fate awaited him. 

Weakened by blood loss and hunger, his only hope was that these two mysterious men were not among them. It was a possibility, but the chances seemed low. 

Gradually, though still not fully aware, Lucien began to sense his surroundings but he still couldn't hear or see but only feel what was happening while being partially unconscious. 

It was warm. Surprisingly warm, considering the cold he had endured for five days without food and sleep. The pain in his neck once worsened by drinking icy water, was gone. He was strangely comfortable in the piercing snow, yet his senses remained dulled— 

The two men carrying him were old, yet their strength and skill defied those of young. Dressed as warriors, equipped with swords and bows, they bore Lucien on a wooden plank through snow-covered mountains and deep but mesmerizing valleys, covering him with a thick, warm blanket. 

After what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at a pristine lake its waters mirrored the sky and the towering trees around it. 

A wooden raft lay waiting on the shore—large enough to carry three or four people, though it didn't have borders. Without hesitation, the men stepped onto it, gently placing Lucien down before canoeing off. 

As they paddled toward the far shore, the sky slowly started to turn dark. Yet the two men did not slow. Their movements remained swift and precise, more agile than those of a young man in his prime. 

At dawn, they arrived at their destination. A small island near the mainland. The land was filled with breathtaking—meadows with water so clear it acted like a mirror for the clouds. Vibrant flowers swaying in the morning breeze. It was the kind of beauty Lucien always admired, yet he lacked the luxury to appreciate it now. 

Carrying him carefully, the two men made their way toward the center of this secluded place. They passed through fields and meadows, eventually reaching an open ground surrounded by trees. Though not vast, this place was hidden from anyone who didn't already know the way. 

There was a small wooden shack with a bed, they treated Lucien's wounds with care and fed him, even though he remained unconscious. 

By sunrise the next day, Lucien woke up—feeling better than ever. 

The soft glow of a lamp flickered on the ceiling, while outside, the sun slowly rose over the horizon, which Lucien appreciated very much. 

His instincts kicked in immediately. Grabbing his sword, he stepped outside. 

The sight before him was one of the best he had ever seen. The golden light of dawn bathed the landscape in warmth, the fresh morning breeze could make a person sleep in a second. It was peaceful—almost too peaceful. 

As he scanned his surroundings, his gaze fell upon a group of men sitting in the field. 

Nine of them. 

The two who had carried him were among them. The others varied—some bore the rugged appearance of warriors, while others seemed more refined, and their eyes seemed to carry wisdom and experience. 

They sat in a circle. At the center, an older man occupied the seat beside the main seat, a flag behind him bearing a strange crest. 

Lucien's eyes widened. 

It was the same crest embroidered on his clothes—the same one his father and master had worn. 

He stood frozen, his mind racing. Where am I? Who are these people? How am I even alive? 

Before he could gather his thoughts, a voice broke through his confusion—gentle yet Respectful. 

"Lucien... come, sit with us." 

His gaze met the old man's. The others watched him in silence, their expressions gentle and lightened with a smile. 

Slowly, Lucien walked toward the group. 

As he approached, they stood to greet him. 

The old man gestured to the seat beside him, directly under the crest. Without hesitation, Lucien accepted. 

As he sat down with the group, He felt a strange sense of comfort he hadn't felt in years. 

"We understand—you must have many questions." 

The old man's voice was calm yet firm. 

"But first, introductions." 

He gestured toward each person in the group, calling out their names one by one. 

His name was Peter. 

Lucien listened carefully, his expression neutral—until one name froze him in place. 

Milerin. 

His eyes snapped toward the man sitting just a few meters away. That name… it was the same one his master had told him to find. 

Milerin met his gaze and gave a nod, silently confirming Lucien's thoughts. 

"These people," the old man continued, "are the ones dedicated to restoring peace and harmony in this kingdom." 

Lucien was still full of questions. 

"This group was founded by none other than your great-father." 

These words echoed in his mind. Father??!!! 

A mix of awe, disbelief, and shock surged through him, He felt goosebumps all over his body. 

"And now," the old man's voice deepened, filled with both gravity and honor, "to fulfill his mission and carry on his legacy—just as he wished—you are hereby named the leader of the Soomro Brethren group." 

This was both difficult and strange for Lucien to grasp. His experience couldn't let him trust them but the sense of nostalgia grabbed him firmly. 

But when the old man spoke the same words his father and master had once told him, something shifted. 

For the first time in a long while, Lucien felt a flicker of belief. 

Yet, his distrust did not waver. 

"I cannot trust you all," he said, his tone respectful but firm. "I won't make the same mistake I did years ago." 

The group nodded in understanding. 

Peter, sitting beside him, responded calmly. "We understand..... Trust is earned with time. It may be valuable, but it is also a double-edged sword..... 

We will work together, sharing information until you are ready to fight alongside us." 

Lucien still didn't intend to trust anyone completely. But out of respect for his father's wishes—and for the men before him—he agreed. 

As a sign of acceptance, they all stood, greeting and blessing him. 

A few moments later, Peter reached for a chest beside him. With careful hands, he lifted a black sword adorned with the Soomro crest. 

"This belonged to your father," he said, stepping forward. "It is now yours." 

Lucien took the blade, running his fingers over the hilt. 

It was dark—so dark that it looked like shadow itself. 

And in that moment, as the weight of his father's legacy rested in his grip, Lucien knew—his journey had only just begun.