Chapter 0043: Stormwalkers
The army now moved as one, their steps heavy and filled with unshakable resolve. The name had taken root among them—Stormwalkers. They no longer saw themselves as mere soldiers of a lost king. They were the blade Raiden would wield to carve destiny anew.
Raiden rode at the front, Vaeryx at his side, Roran close behind. The sky overhead churned, heavy with thunderclouds that seemed almost alive, reacting to the Bloodborn's presence.
"Every mile forward, every heartbeat, brings us closer to the Sleeper," Raiden thought grimly.
They entered a narrow gorge, walls towering high on both sides. It was there that the ground shifted—and the Nightbound attacked.
Skeletal beasts with burning blue eyes lunged from the cliffs, and cloaked assassins with blades of bone dropped from the shadows.
"Defensive line! Shields up!" Vaeryx roared.
The Stormwalkers reacted instantly, forming tight ranks. Arrows bounced harmlessly off their shields. Blades met bone.
Raiden leapt from his horse, drawing his rune-lit sword. Each swing sent arcs of lightning into the enemy ranks.
Vaeryx fought like a storm incarnate, her daggers flashing and blood spraying the rocks around her. Roran, from a vantage point above, rained death with his bow.
But the Nightbound were endless.
The warriors began to tire.
And then—
The whispers returned.
Soft at first, then louder, almost pleading.
"Why fight? You cannot win."
"Lay down your arms. Sleep forever..."
Some soldiers faltered, dropping to their knees.
Raiden saw it happen—and without hesitation, unleashed the storm inside him.
A bolt of lightning shot from Raiden's blade into the sky. Thunder boomed so loudly that the Nightbound creatures staggered, clutching their heads.
Raiden's eyes burned gold as ancient power surged through him.
"Stormwalkers!" he bellowed, his voice echoing like a god's. "We do not bow. We do not sleep. We RISE!"
The soldiers roared, breaking free from the whispers. They surged forward, pushing the Nightbound back with brutal force.
The gorge became a graveyard of shattered bones and broken curses.
When the battle ended, the gorge was littered with corpses, and the mist seemed thinner—as if even the cursed air respected what had just happened.
Raiden stood atop a rock, blood dripping from his blade, his cloak torn by claws and flame.
Vaeryx joined him, wiping blood from her cheek.
"You woke something inside them tonight," she said, voice hoarse but proud.
Raiden nodded. "We are no longer an army fighting for survival. We are a force moving toward conquest."
He looked toward the dark silhouette of the temple on the horizon.
"And we will not stop."
The Stormwalkers stood before it—the ancient temple of Na'therion, veiled in mist and sorrow.
Massive stone pillars jutted into the sky like broken fingers, and vines, long dead yet somehow still clinging to life, strangled the crumbling walls.
The gate was chained shut with black iron links as thick as a man's arm, covered in runes that flickered between deep blue and sickly green.
The air was heavy, pressing against their skin, making every breath feel like swallowing ash.
Raiden moved forward, each step dragging a thousand years of buried memories to the surface.
Vaeryx placed a hand on his arm.
"Once we cross that threshold... there's no going back."
Raiden's jaw tightened.
"We crossed that line the day we chose to fight."
Roran examined the chains.
"These aren't just locks. They're living seals. If we break them, we'll wake everything they're holding down."
"Good," Raiden said. His voice was a blade itself.
"We need to know our true enemy."
He raised his sword, the runes along its blade flashing brighter as he whispered ancient words only his blood could remember.
The first strike shattered a link of the chain—and the earth trembled.
The second strike split the gates open with a sound like the world itself screaming.
The mist rushed out like a living thing, cold and furious, sending many of the Stormwalkers to their knees.
Raiden stood firm, his sword pointed forward, his soul set like iron.
The halls were lined with statues—knights, kings, queens—all broken at the neck.
As they moved deeper, whispers grew louder: promises of power, of mercy, of endless sleep.
Many soldiers clutched their ears, fighting madness.
At the heart of the temple, they found it—a throne made of shattered swords and rusted crowns.
And in it sat a figure in black armor, head bowed, unmoving.
Na'therion.
Or what was left of him.
Raiden approached cautiously.
But as he neared, the figure raised its head—and the helm slid back, revealing a face Raiden knew.
It was his own.
The figure smiled—a cruel, broken mirror of Raiden himself.
"Welcome home, Bloodborn," it whispered. "You are what I was. What I still am."
Na'therion was no demon from ancient tales.
He was a fallen Bloodborn, one who had failed his choice centuries ago—and in doing so, had doomed the land to decay and darkness.
"You think you can save them?" the fallen whispered, standing. "You are the key. The curse. The storm and the silence. You are me."
Raiden's heart pounded.
This wasn't just a battle for the kingdom.
It was a battle for his own soul.
Vaeryx and Roran drew their weapons behind him.
The final war had begun—not against armies, but against the darkness within.
The throne room seemed to shrink as Raiden faced Na'therion—the dark reflection of himself.
The fallen Bloodborn stepped down from his rusted throne, dragging a blade behind him that screamed against the stone floor. Its edge shimmered with a sickly crimson light.
Raiden tightened his grip on his own sword.
Behind him, Vaeryx and Roran stood ready, but Raiden raised a hand, stopping them.
"This is mine," Raiden said, voice low but commanding.
Na'therion smiled, cold and bitter.
"You will fight me? You will fight yourself?"
Without warning, the dark mirror lunged.
Their swords collided with a shockwave that cracked the very walls of the temple.
Lightning and darkness spiraled around them, twisting the air into chaos.
Every blow Na'therion struck wasn't just steel—it carried memories, doubts, failures that Raiden had buried deep.
"You will betray them, as I did," Na'therion sneered between strikes. "You will hunger for power. You will burn your kingdom to ash."
Raiden gritted his teeth, pushing back harder, channeling the raw, untamed storm inside him.
"I am not you!" he roared.
But every time Raiden hesitated—every flicker of doubt—Na'therion grew stronger.
Blow after blow, Raiden felt himself slipping.
Visions swirled around him—visions of him ruling with an iron fist, crushing his enemies, even those he once loved.
He stumbled.
Na'therion's blade pierced his side, blood blooming against his armor.
Raiden dropped to one knee.
"See? It's easier to fall than to rise," Na'therion whispered, raising his sword for the killing blow.
Through the haze of pain, Raiden remembered—
Vaeryx's loyalty.
Roran's unwavering belief.
The Stormwalkers' faith.
They had not followed him because he was invincible.
They had followed him because he dared to hope, even when hope seemed foolish.
Raiden's eyes snapped open, burning gold.
With a roar, he caught Na'therion's descending sword with his bare hand—blood dripping between his fingers—and rose.
"I am not you," he said, voice shaking the pillars.
"I choose a different path."
With a burst of pure lightning, he shattered Na'therion's blade—and drove his sword through the fallen Bloodborn's chest.
Na'therion gasped, looking almost... relieved.
"Perhaps... you are stronger than me after all," he whispered before disintegrating into a mist of broken memories.
Silence fell.
Raiden stood alone before the ruined throne, battered and bleeding—but unbowed.
Vaeryx and Roran rushed to his side.
"You did it," Vaeryx said, voice rough.
Raiden shook his head slowly.
"No. We started it."
He turned to the Stormwalkers, who were gathering behind them.
"The real war begins now."
"Victory is not the end. It is the beginning of a greater battle."
The echoes of battle faded, leaving only the heavy breathing of the survivors.
Around the cracked throne, Stormwalkers gathered—bloodied but standing tall. They had seen the impossible: Raiden defeating the darkness within himself.
Vaeryx knelt beside the fallen black crown that had once adorned Na'therion's head.
She picked it up carefully, staring at it with a strange mixture of awe and fear.
Roran looked at Raiden.
"You know what this means, right?"
"The kingdoms will come for us now," Raiden answered, voice calm.
There was no more hiding, no more small victories.
Their war was now a beacon—and every ambitious king, dark warlord, and ancient terror would see it burning.
In the center of the shattered temple, Raiden stood atop the broken throne steps.
Stormwalkers gathered around him—soldiers, mages, scouts, healers. Survivors. Believers.
Raiden raised his sword high.
"I will not rule with chains," he declared, voice thundering across the ruins.
"I will not conquer with fear."
He turned, sweeping his eyes across them.
"You are not my servants. You are my brothers. My sisters. You are Stormwalkers! You are the tempest that will reshape this broken world!"
One by one, they knelt—not in submission, but in shared purpose.
A new oath was forged that day, stronger than any chain of blood or throne of gold.
In the weeks that followed, Raiden and his companions worked like never before.
They established the first stronghold—carving fortresses out of the old ruins, raising banners stitched with the mark of the storm.
Farmers, craftsmen, and scholars arrived, drawn by whispers of a leader who fought not for power, but for the freedom of all.
Small villages pledged loyalty.
Old knights cast off rusted banners to serve a new ideal.
Raiden was no longer just a warrior.
He was becoming a king.
But deep in the shadows of the world, darker forces stirred.
Not all rulers would accept the rise of a Stormborn kingdom.
And far beyond the horizon, a massive army—the crimson banners of the Obsidian Empire—began to march.
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(To be Continue...)