The hamlet of Vaelthoria slept, a quiet breath beneath a sky older than memory. Its people were simple, their days marked by the rhythm of the earth. But beyond their valley, shadows stirred. Settlements famed for their sharpened bows, swift steeds, and glinting steel harbored a festering envy. Vaelthoria, though modest, possessed a peace they coveted, and in the dark corners of their minds, plots took root to claim its meager, precious calm.
Then came the night the sky screamed. Not with thunder, but with a sound like the world tearing itself asunder. Fire and iron rained down, chunks of splintered wood and shrapnel tearing through thatched roofs. Cannon blasts, loud as a god's fury, ripped through the air, followed by the terrifying gleam of mounted warriors emerging from the shadows. Chaos erupted, a whirlwind of screams and the brutal clash of steel on flesh. The earth, wet and grasping, drank deeply of the sorrow that poured from hundreds of fallen souls.
Yet, amidst the ruin, a flicker of defiance. Gelkra, the village's elder, his ninety winters etched onto his face, moved with a trembling urgency. He would not see his people extinguished. With a desperate resolve, he prepared a crude vessel, and the survivors, clutching whatever meager possessions they could snatch, were swept aboard. They left Vaelthoria's burning embers behind, casting themselves upon the boundless, unforgiving sea.
Weeks blurred into a dizzying eternity of open water until their fragile craft splintered against the jagged teeth of an unknown isle. At its heart, a lone mountain clawed at the heavens. Within its silent depths, the exiles stumbled upon a hidden truth: ores unlike any they had ever seen, pulsing with an eerie, internal light. Gelkra, seeing not mere rock but a sign of providence, declared these strange metals would become their salvation. From them, mighty swords would be forged, so that Vaelthoria's children would never again stand defenseless before the cruel hand of war.
Under his watchful eye, new lives blossomed from driftwood and black stone. Wild figs sustained them from the cliffs, and the coral-ringed shores yielded fish beneath the twin silver moons. A new law was etched into their hearts: every citizen, upon reaching fifteen years, would take up a blade, wielding it not just as steel, but as their very shield and destiny.
But fate, ever a fickle and shadowed mistress, held no lasting peace for them.
One dreadful day, the land itself convulsed. The mountain, ancient and seemingly eternal, began to weep stone. Rocks rained down, pulverizing their homes. The island's only vessel, their last fragile thread to escape, was shattered beyond repair.
As destruction loomed, Gelkra, his weary heart clinging to a final, desperate hope, ventured deep into the mountain's dying maw. There, cradled in the earth's embrace, lay two swords. One pulsed with the deep, smoldering red of an ember, the other with the vibrant green of a flourishing grove. Their power, though dimmed by ages, thrummed like the dying heartbeat of an ancient deity.
With the last of his strength, Gelkra hurled the swords into the swirling tempest. "Find those worthy of your power," he whispered, his final prayer snatched by the wind. Moments later, the mountain consumed him, its rumble echoing his sacrifice into the silence that followed.
And so, the swords, imbued with a purpose greater than their origin, drifted. They sought the hands of those destined to unlock their dormant might.
A Thousand Years Later
In a quiet corner of Xiphosia, Dextin Zirsut moved with the slow, heavy gait of a man burdened. He trudged from the fields, the day's labor clinging to his bones, and slumped into his humble chair. His sword, a cold weight on the wall, hung not as a cherished companion, but as a dull relic of obligations he wished to forget.
He uncorked a bottle of wine, the first deep swallow burning a path meant to scour away the ghosts that haunted him. His gaze snagged on a faded photograph, a tender kiss frozen in time with a woman he could no longer touch. Without a flicker of hesitation, he tossed it into the hearth, watching the flames greedily devour the last tangible shred of that love.
Then, in that hazy space between the wine's numbing embrace and the edge of sleep, destiny arrived.
A blinding green light ripped through the night, a silent, divine thunderbolt tearing into his home. The force of it hurled him from his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs, the taste of dust on his tongue. When he pushed himself up, his eyes, wide with disbelief, fixed on a floating katana. It hung suspended in the air, humming with an ethereal, verdant glow.
A voice, ancient and resonant, echoed not in the room, but deep within his mind.
"Dextin Zirsut. I am the ember of the Green God, forged three thousand years past to oppose my crimson kin. I do not seek a chosen one. I seek one whose heart will not fracture beneath the true weight of power. Take me. Nurture my flame. For if I fade, this island will wither with me."
Dextin gasped, breath catching in his throat. A talking sword? A relic from an age swallowed by legend? His fingers twitched, drawn by the insidious allure of power. But before his hand could close around the hilt, the voice softened, a chilling warning woven into its tone.
"Be warned. To wield me is to walk a path fraught with insidious temptation. If you crave power beyond restraint, you will not just change; you will become a beast—a creature of boundless hunger and relentless conquest. The choice, Dextin Zirsut, is yours alone."
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, a slow, predatory smirk curved Dextin's lips. "A beast, you say?" He reached out, his grip firm and unflinching. "I have no fear of power. If this is my fate, then I will tear into it with both hands."
The instant his fingers closed around the hilt, a raw, untamed energy surged through his veins. A shock of verdant lightning erupted from the blade, sending his body into a convulsion of pain and exhilarating madness. A breathless, half-crazed laugh tore from his lips, his eyes wild, reflecting a hunger that had just found its voice.
"Incredible…" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "This… this is what it truly means to hold power."
Yet, even amidst the intoxicating euphoria, the sword's first warning echoed—the red katana, its twin, its rival.
His grin widened, cold and sharp. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice now imbued with a chilling command, "where is your crimson kin?"
The green blade hesitated, its glow dimming for a brief, unsettling moment.
"Far beyond these lands, my brother has already chosen his wielder. I will guide you to him… but know this: the one who wields the red sword may one day stand before you. If he is the true Sword Master, even my power may not be enough."
Dextin's grip tightened, the raw power thrumming through him. "Then I will seek him out myself. I will face him. I will break him. And I will claim both swords as my own."
Thus, with a burning ambition consuming his chest and ancient steel clutched in his grasp, Dextin Zirsut set forth. A man transformed. A sword of ancient power. And a destiny that would, inevitably, rip open the very fabric of the world.
The true saga of Sword Master had begun.