He Will Tear Your City Down

Soldier I

Nobody knew if the rumors were true, of the man who could take down entire nations with nothing more than a wave of his sword. Many didn't believe them until they had witnessed his destruction firsthand, until their kingdom was destroyed and they were at the mercy of the bloodthirsty killer himself. 

Not even he knew for certain whether the rumors were true, whether his frenzies of destruction were even within his control. His sharp ears would often hear the hushed whispers of people telling his story by a glowing campfire, oblivious to the fact that their beloved country would be the next to fall. Through the endless chanting in his ears, he always felt a little twinge of pain in his heart, a fragment of guilt through the chaos that he was causing. 

The campfire tonight sits in the bottom of a valley, light smoke billowing from the lighter flame. Shadows are cast onto unknowing faces as they whisper tales around the light of the fire. In the early night, while the sun is still fighting to stay above the horizon, the stories are light. The children are still awake, and their mothers are burdened with the responsibility of caring them through night terrors, so innocent tongues sing innocent stories for their innocent ears to hear. He doesn't hear his name mentioned in these tales, he never does this early in the evening. The stories of him only swallow the late hours of dark nights as the fire begins to dwindle and fear creeps into the hearts of the strongest. 

He almost wishes that one of his stories would be heard by young ears, that there was a single fable about him soft enough to be told to the little boys and girls. Not tonight, though. Tonight the hunger rages inside him again, and whispers from the outside give way to the screaming in his head, commanding him to destroy everything that these innocent people had created, urging him to stain the snow with the crimson despair of those poor little boys and girls, promising him that these people wouldn't live to see the sun fight it's way back into the sky.

The familiar pang of guilt stings his soul, almost enough to make him wince. His face stays stone-cold, though. He's better than this pathetic mortal emotion, and he fights it away. Instead he focuses his attention to the stories told, sitting silently as a pretty woman tells chronicles of adventure to entranced youth, her voice nearly inaudible over the deafening sounds of the screaming inside of him.

The sun loses it's battle to the darkening sky, weeping  the last of it's light into the air before it vanishes entirely. Darkness gradually washes over the land, broken only by the dim light of dying flames. The children are long asleep, and voices are hushed impossibly more as tales become more grim.

Another woman is telling this story, skin pale and green eyes glinting with youth and fire. She looks barely old enough to be of age, yet her eyes darken just the same as the familiar story is told. "They call him The Blade, a merciless man known to take down the most powerful kingdoms in the blink of an eye. No one is safe, and every nation will have to fall before him eventually. Some say he wears a mask, reaped from the country of nether-hunters that fell up north a few moons ago. They say his face is too littered with scars to even be recognized as human, and that's why he wears the Piglin mask."

Well that's a bit of an exaggeraion.

The furious cries pound into his skull, their patience dwindling. They demand blood, but he isn't ready yet. This young woman had captured his attention, enthralling him in the story that he already knew the ending to. She has quite the gift for storytelling, stretching the truth just enough for it to be believable, and snatching the awe from her audience. It impresses him, and he might as well let her finish before she meets her fate.

"There's no way to escape his sword. If you come within eyesight of The Blade, you might as well make your final prayers to the saints above, as you are not making it out alive." The woman's delight is clear on her face, staining her eyes feral as she continues. "They say the tip of his sword is forged in lava, gleaming with magic from the scribes of the east. Death will come quickly to anyone who dares to look into his eyes. There's not a single feeling in those blood-red eyes of his, not the smallest fragment of remorse or sympathy as he murders you and everyone you know. Nothing fuels him other than his lust for blood."

Another sting in his heart causes a little twitch in his ears, though they are still hidden under his cloak. The screams in his mind don't like this, outraged in his tiny display of emotion. He tries to reason with them, to convince them to wait just a few more heartbeats before he lets himself go. But their shouts and screeches don't relent, so he shuts them out, as he trained himself to do after many centuries of deafening wails and blood-stained hands.

"His skin is paler than the snow that litters the ground in the cold moons of the winter. His hair is pink, dyed by the blood of his younger victims. He wears it long, reaching past his waist to mock us with his victories, with the blood he's spilled over many decades. And even in battle, he wears a golden crown atop his head, flaunting his victories and treating himself like a king."

He doesn't treat himself like a king. Kings are selfish bastards who let their subjects die under their rule without care, then bring them together only to exploit them and benefit from the misery of those they should be caring for. He would never compare himself to one of them, no matter what terrible sins he is pushed to commit.

"You never know when he's coming. It could be many seasons from now, it could be only tomorrow. The only thing known is that some day, our land will fall to him as well, and nobody living will stand a chance." Her voice wavers out, concluding the simple tale. Her face still shines with glee as wide eyes dart nervously around the space, unsettled by the story. He smirks at this, the simple gesture twirling up his skin in a mixture of pride and anticipation. The screaming was silent now, every voice inside of him holding its breath as they waited for his first move. 

It takes not even a tug at his cloak for it to fall, revealing the nearly incandescent blade of a newly sharpened sword. The slaughter had begun.

He moves with lithe precision, vanishing into the harshly-cast shadows with practiced agility after three clean kills. Some carmine blood spatters into the fire, erupting into the flame briefly before boiling in the heat. He kills a few more, satisfied by the strangled cries that echo through the valley.

The village is awake now, youth sobbing in fear as their mothers huddle around them protectively. It's a little pathetic, really, how they think they can protect their children against the ruthless beast before them. It almost makes him want to laugh, but he has a task to finish. 

More die, falling to the ground and painting the young grass crimson. The fire is long abandoned, left to choke on cold air as the wood burns through. Only small embers are left now, much similar to the state of the  village. Not many people remain, cowering in the corners of their homes and frantically murmuring barely audible prayers to those above. He finds it beautiful, how little effort it takes to bring the walls of the prosperous town crumbling into the bloody dirt. The young storyteller is the last to leave, glaring up at him with fight in her eyes even with the sword buried into her abdomen. She doesn't give up easily, battling the heavy feeling of her eyelids falling shut. She was wild; She was strong.

He stands in the ruins of the town, gazing at the now  deceased flame of the campfire. The damned guilt pricks at him again, and he allows a soft sigh to leave his lips. The voices are quiet, satisfied at the adequate terror that he caused. They praise him softly, their invisible words only doing more to grow the spark of remorse that he tried to fight away. 

With nothing more than a scrunch of the nose, The Blade tucks his sword into its sheath and flips the long braid of pink hair behind his back, feet moving on their own accord to his next location as the sun forces itself back into the sky in the beginnings of yet another day.