The blade and the sword clashed.
No matter how sharp a fine sword might be, it could not sever another blade in a single strike. Instead, he twisted his sword diagonally, pushing the opponent’s weapon outward, and then drove the blade into the chest wrapped in layers of cloth.
The steel grazed past the ribs and finally reached the source of life. Through the blade, he felt the heart’s frantic beating. Even amidst the deafening war cries, the pulse rang clearly in his ears, and the faint tremors traveled unmistakably through his fingertips.
He was certain. A life had crumbled here and now.
Though the man had clung to his sword until the end, the light in his eyes was fading. An undeniable truth—he was dead. With a kick, he sent the weakening body tumbling away, retrieving his sword in the process.
Then, he surveyed the battlefield. Clashes of steel erupted all around him. At the end of each struggle, most of those who fell were the enemy. Simple cloth and leather were no match for the crushing blows of a knight’s sword—an inevitable outcome.
Yet, the tide of battle remained unchanged.
A sudden roar of battle cries drew his gaze. As soon as the enemies were pushed back, another wave of Janissaries surged forward.. In this battlefield, where even a brief break was a luxury, he had no choice but to be content with a single deep breath before swinging his sword once more.
He struck at an enemy’s neck, sending a head flying. He gripped his sword with both hands, bringing it down in a vertical slash, cleaving another foe in half. But each fallen enemy was swiftly replaced by another, returning the battle to a deadlock.
Each wide swing of his blade created an opening, one that the enemy skillfully exploited. He parried their strikes by gripping the sword’s blade and using the hilt like a staff, but he could not block them all. The scales of his armor were scratched, then chipped, and finally began to break apart.
As the defensive struggle dragged on, the situation only grew more dire.
At some point, he was no longer able to swing his sword freely, occupied entirely with fending off attacks. The Janissaries, having recognized him as a commander, were pushing the knights back, isolating him. A net was closing in, ensuring there was no escape. He staggered backward, desperately trying to avoid being cut off from his allies, but the enemy adjusted their formation, tightening the encirclement.
At this rate, he would be captured or slain.
That desperate realization left no room for fear of injury. Clenching his grip on the hilt, he abandoned defense and brought his sword down with full force against the nearest incoming blade.
A loud clang.
The enemy’s sword was sent flying, clattering onto the ground. Seizing this opening, he lunged forward—not away, but toward the now-disarmed foe. His right shoulder slammed into the enemy, who twisted his body in an attempt to lessen the impact. But the charge was not the end.
Planting his right foot firmly into the ground, he lowered his stance and swept his sword in a fierce arc. The blade, swinging at an unusually low trajectory, caught the enemy off guard, slicing through legs and thighs.
Blood sprayed.
Agonized cries followed.
As his enemies staggered and fell, he turned without hesitation, sword raised once more.
Had it been a moment of quick-witted instinct, or had the Janissaries simply wanted to ensure the net was fully tightened? Either way, they no longer pressed their attack. This brief pause granted him a moment of break. Yet, surrounded as he was, the situation remained dire. But he had entered this battlefield knowing it was a death trap. There was no fear.
To carve a path,
To alter fate,
He had steeled himself to stake his very life.
And so,
He raised his sword high.
“Look upon me! Your enemy, your sovereign, stands here before you!”
The taunt carried another purpose—it was a signal for his knights. While he drew the enemy’s gaze, his comrades would fight with greater ease.
As expected, the Janissaries’ eyes burned with renewed fury at his words, their bloodied blades ready for slaughter.
Slowly lowering his sword and adjusting his stance, he muttered in a voice too small for anyone to hear.
“I have done all that a man can do. The rest is in the hands of the heavens.”
Resignation and faint hope mingled in his words.
The Janissaries closed the distance in an instant. Once again, swords clashed and intertwined, their chilling friction singing a discordant melody that crumbled against the soul.
The splendor his armor once boasted was long gone, reduced to a tattered shell marred by scratches and shattered scales. His arms, exhausted from relentless combat, grew heavier with each passing moment. Then, at last, he faltered.
A sharp sensation coursed through his back, and before he could react, paralysis set in. One knee buckled beneath him. Only then did he notice his armor’s scales had been violently torn away, leaving his leg exposed and vulnerable.
The delayed ache in his thigh confirmed it—he had lost all feeling before he could even register the pain. Supporting himself on his sword was all he could manage.
He took a deep breath, his gaze falling upon the blood-red reflection on his blade. Even his helmet, grazed by multiple arrows, was barely holding together. Blackened saliva dripped between his lips, falling in slow, deliberate drops. His face, slick with blood and sweat, revealed only his eyes—glistening, unwavering.
A hollow chuckle escaped him.
Even now, in this wretched state, his eyes still gleamed as if untouched by despair. Were they truly his own?
But it was not only his eyes that shone.
Through the crimson streaks running down the blade, he saw it—a clear, gleaming reflection of another sword approaching from behind.
—Clang!
With all his remaining strength, he swung his sword, deflecting the strike. But his legs, drained of power, failed to absorb the shock. Stumbling backward, he lost his footing and collapsed onto the ground.
Before he could even gasp for breath, the air around him howled with the sound of blades cutting through wind.
Dignity and pride held no place in a battle for survival. He rolled across the dirt, instincts overriding shame.
A split second later, swords struck the ground where he had been. His decision had been right. He had to rise and fight again.
But his body betrayed him.
His weakened leg refused to obey. No matter how many times he tried to stand, he staggered and collapsed. At last, as he nearly toppled forward, he caught himself with his left arm, barely holding himself up.
His gaze fell downward—and he finally understood his helplessness.
His left arm was drenched in blood, a mixture of his own and that of his fallen foes.
And in that moment, another realization struck him.
The sound of clashing blades had begun to fade.
He closed his eyes.
No tears came.
There was only a quiet acceptance. Had he always known it would end this way? Was it simply fate?
He did not look to the heavens.
Faith had never been his. He had invoked the name of the gods only to give people courage, never truly believing himself.
Perhaps that was why the heavens had ignored the prayers of those who followed him.
Even so, accepting the reality he had spent decades fighting against was agonizing.
He had not been idle. He had struggled, knowing full well how grim the odds were. He had cast aside all personal desires, dedicating himself solely to those who believed in him.
Not for divine will, but to remind men of their own.
Was this where he would die?
Would he be remembered only as a failure, a man who could not defy the tides of history?
The thought blurred everything else.
From the moment he acknowledged defeat, his conviction, his will, his passion—all crumbled. The ambition to carve a new path in history faded into nothing.
Death would claim him.
Or so he thought—until a single sound cut through the void.
A sound he had not heard before, drowned out until now by battle cries and clashing steel.
The earth trembled beneath him.
A clear, rhythmic pounding that sent a jolt through his dying heart.
His lips, too weak to form words, parted, reshaping uncertainty into certainty.
“…Horses.”
Again.
Again.
Again…!
He tightened his grip on his sword.
But it was too late.
Blades rained down upon him.
The deafening scrape of steel against armor. The weight of murderous intent pressing down upon his flesh.
Yet—he was not dead.
That was all that mattered.
Legs trembling, he mustered every last ounce of strength and rose to his feet.
And at that moment—
A thunderous crash erupted behind the Janissaries.
Screams tore through the air as men were flung high into the sky.
Amidst the chaos, a single banner soared upward, displayed with the image of a double-headed eagle.
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