In the annals of history, there are names that echo through time, and then there are those that vanish into obscurity. The Abandoned Cursed Prince of Wymhold was one such name—or rather, the absence of one. No one knew his name, nor his existence, until he emerged on the battlefield like a storm from the void.
I was 25 when I first saw him. In the battle against Valtheria, who attacked the Southwest region of Wymhold out of the blue—or at least that's what it was for us.
Valtheria, the Kingdom of Legendary Archers, was a land of unparalleled precision and deadly grace. Nestled in the southwest of Wymhold, it was a place where the bow was revered as a divine instrument. The kingdom's archers were said to be able to pierce the heart of a sparrow mid-flight, their arrows infused with mana that could rend steel and shatter stone.
Their attack on Wymhold was not a reckless act of aggression but a calculated strike. The Southwest, a region known for its economic prosperity rather than military might, fell swiftly under their control. The defense army of Wymhold was decimated; their banners trampled into the blood-soaked earth.
The fall of the Southwest was a blow to Wymhold's pride and a wake-up call to its people. The kingdom had grown complacent, its focus divided after the costly victory over Astra just a year prior. Though we had triumphed, the price had been steep. Of the ten greatest swordmasters, only Ezekian and I remained unscathed. The others are too broken to fight.
When Kaelith declared war on Valtheria, the stakes were clear: reclaim the Southwest or face annihilation. Ezekian, Claude, and I were dispatched to lead the charge.
The battlefield was a nightmare given form.
The once-lush forests surrounding the fort were now a sea of flames, their towering trees reduced to skeletal remains. Thick plumes of smoke choked the air, and the acrid stench of burning wood and flesh clung to every breath. The ground was a mosaic of blood and ash, the cries of the dying mingling with the clash of steel and the whistle of arrows.
Valtheria's archers were relentless. Their mana-infused arrows rained down like meteors, each one capable of piercing through armor and bone.
The fort they had seized loomed in the distance, its walls bristling with archers and its gates barred against us. Inside, the civilians of the Southwest were held captive, their lives used as a shield against our wrath.
We were outnumbered and outmatched. Of the 20,000 warriors we had brought, only 500 remained. The rest lay scattered across the battlefield, their bodies broken and lifeless. The water of the nearby river ran red, its currents carrying the dead to some distant, forgotten shore.
Claude's mana shield was our only refuge, a fragile barrier that flickered under the relentless assault. Ezekian worked tirelessly to heal the wounded, his divine power a beacon of hope in the chaos. But even he was reaching his limit.
I stood outside the shield, my sword, Slayer, glowing with a dark, crimson light. My arms were torn, my body riddled with arrows, but I refused to fall.
The leader of the Valtherian forces stood atop the fort, his blue cap a mocking symbol of his arrogance. He smirked down at us, confident in his victory.
"How long can you hold?" I shouted to Claude, my voice barely audible over the din of battle.
"Not more than thirty minutes!" he replied, his voice strained. "We need to kill the leader—the one in the blue cap!"
I tightened my grip on Slayer. The odds were impossible, but I had no choice. If we failed, the people inside the fort would die, and the Southwest region would be out of our hands for good.
I stepped back into the shield, my body trembling with exhaustion. Ezekian looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Can you heal me?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
He hesitated, his hatred for me warring with his duty. But in the end, he kneeled beside me and poured his divine power into my wounds. The pain was excruciating, but I felt my strength returning, my aura reigniting.
When he finished, Ezekian coughed blood, his face pale and drawn. "If you die," he said, his voice cold, "none will mourn you."
I smirked. "If I live, you'll owe me your life."
I charged out of the shield, my aura flaring like a dying star. The Valtherian archers focused their fire on me, their arrows shattering against my aura shield. But as I neared the fort, I was surrounded by over a hundred sword users, their blades gleaming in the firelight.
I fought with everything I had, my sword cutting through flesh and bone. But I was outnumbered, my aura dwindling with every strike. Just as I thought it was over, I heard the thunder of hooves.
A man on a black horse emerged from the smoke, his twin blades cutting through the enemy like a scythe through wheat. His movements were fluid and precise, his presence both terrifying and mesmerizing. He wore a black mask, his eyes the only visible feature—cold and calculating, yet filled with an unspoken sorrow.
Our eyes met, and he threw a shield toward me. I caught it, infusing it with my aura, and hurled it at the fort's left wall. The impact was devastating, the stone crumbling like paper. He threw another, and the right wall followed.
With the fort's defenses weakened, I charged inside, my sword cutting down the archers and soldiers in my path. The leader in the blue cap met me with his blade, but he was no match for Slayer. With a final, desperate strike, I severed his head from his shoulders.
As I stood atop the fort, clutching Slayer with trembling hands, the battle below raged on. The destruction of the fort's walls had opened a path for the remaining Wymhold forces to surge inside. Claude's voice boomed across the battlefield, his mana shield now repurposed to protect the civilians trapped within.
"FOR WYMHOLD!"
The cry echoed as our warriors poured into the fort, their swords clashing against Valtheria's archers and infantry. The Valtherians, though skilled, were unprepared for close-quarters combat. Their bows were useless in the tight corridors, and their swordsmen were no match for the fury of Wymhold's remaining army.
The fort's interior was a labyrinth of chaos. The air was thick with the stench of blood and the screams of the dying. Wymhold's warriors fought with desperation, their movements fueled by the knowledge that failure meant not only their deaths but the deaths of the innocent civilians huddled in the fort's central hall.
Ezekian's voice cut through the din. "Protect the civilians! Push them back!" Claude's mana shield shimmered around the non-combatants, a fragile barrier against the occasional stray arrow or spell. Ezekian, though exhausted, swung his sword Lighter and focused lightning attacks on the enemies.
I slumped against the fort's parapet, my body screaming in protest. The mysterious swordsman stood beside me, his presence both calming and unnerving.
I looked up at him. He was tall—really tall and well built. No wonder he could swing such a heavy-looking blade so effortlessly.
His black mask hid his face, but his eyes—sharp and piercing—brightened like amysters. As I was unable to look over the battleground, I asked him, "Who is winning?"
"The battle inside is turning," he said, his voice low and steady. "Your forces have breached the lower levels. The Valtherians are retreating to the central hall, but they're making a stand there."
I grimaced, trying to push myself up. "And the civilians?"
"Safe for now," he replied. "The man with the brown ponytail—has them shielded. But the Valtherians are trying to break through. They're using the civilians as leverage."
I cursed under my breath. Valtheria's tactics were as ruthless as they were effective. "What about the man with black hair?"
The swordsman's eyes found Ezekian. "He's holding his own; his lightning strike is burning down everything on his way to ashes. A really," He paused as he narrowed his eyes. "Violent guy indeed."
I chuckled weakly, though the motion sent a sharp pain through my ribs. "ahhh." A soft groan left my mouth. He kneeled down before me and lifted me up effortlessly. I didn't have enough strength to fight back.
The swordsman's gaze was hardly readable. "You were reckless."
I shook my head, though the movement made the world spin. "Someone needed to or else people would have died."
He turned his body, and with my head on his hard chest, I could see the battle inside the fort unfolding before me.
Wymhold's warriors, though battered and bloodied, fought with a ferocity born of desperation. They moved in tight formations, their swords cutting through Valtheria's defenses like a hot knife through butter. The fort's central hall, once a place of grandeur, was now a slaughterhouse.
Ezekian's voice rang out again, this time with a note of triumph. "They're breaking! Push harder!"
The Valtherians, realizing their position was untenable, began to retreat. Some tried to flee through the fort's ruined walls, only to be cut down by Wymhold's spear warrior. Others surrendered, their weapons clanging to the ground as they raised their hands in defeat.
"It's over," he said quietly. I could finally smile, though my body was breaking in pain, "We won."
He nodded. "Thanks to you." Those words barely left my lips.
He didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the burning forest beyond the fort. The flames cast an eerie glow over the battlefield, their light reflecting in his eyes like twin embers. He jumped down from the fort with me in his arms.
"Who are you?" I asked him, my voice barely a whisper. He didn't reply; instead, he just walked toward somewhere I didn't know. I passed out, and that's how our first meeting came to an end.
But who would have thought I would be carried by the same person once again, also on our first meeting in my second life?
..............................................................
"Nghhh," I groaned, my eyelids fluttering open. The familiar ceiling of my room greeted me, its intricate carvings of vines and stars a comforting sight. I blinked several times, my vision slowly clearing as I tried to piece together what had happened.
Wait. *How did I get here?* I was clearly in the Abandoned Prince's room last night, wasn't I? My heart skipped a beat as I sat up swiftly, my eyes darting around the room. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the space. Everything was in its place—my bookshelf, my desk, the vase of dried flowers by the window. But something felt... off.
"Ahhh—" I gasped, clutching my chest as my eyes landed on him.
The Prince was sitting on the floor beside my bed, his chin resting on the edge of the mattress. His raven hair cascaded over his shoulders, and his piercing eyes were fixed on me, calm and unreadable. He looked like a painting come to life, his sharp features softened by the morning light.
"You woke up," he said, his voice low and smooth. He lifted his chin from the bed, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
I gulped, my heart pounding in my chest. *How did we get here?* I was still wearing the same outfit from last night, though it was slightly wrinkled. My mind raced as I tried to recall the events that had led to this moment.
I glanced around the room again, my eyes landing on the opposite side of the bed. There, curled up in a ball of black fur, was a cat. My eyes widened as I recognized it—Master.
*Oh no.* I covered my mouth, stifling a gasp. Master was here, and he was sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding around him.
I turned back to the Prince, who was now standing. He was tall—so tall that I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze.
His black robe draped over his broad shoulders, and the white shirt underneath clung to his perfectly sculpted frame. It was hard to believe that this man, who looked like he had stepped out of a legend, had been used as a subject for a demonic sacrifice.
"How... did we come here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He scratched the back of his head, a gesture that seemed almost boyish despite his imposing presence. Then he pointed to the cat on my bed.
My eyes widened in realization. *Master brought us here.* Of course. That explained everything—and nothing at all.
I licked my dry lips, trying to steady my nerves. The Prince's gaze was intense, but there was no malice in it. If anything, he looked... tired.
"Umm, I am—" I started, but he cut me off before I could finish.
"Thank you for saving me," he said, his voice deep and measured. "But please don't do it again."
His words hit me like a slap. My eyes widened, and I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already looking past me, his gaze fixed on Master.
"Wait, I'm not done," I said, my voice rising slightly.
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. It was clear that something had happened while I was unconscious—something he wasn't willing to share. Given what I had seen in his room, it wasn't hard to guess. The ritual, the symbols, the blood... it had all been part of a ceremony to make him a vessel for a powerful demon.
"I will leave," he said abruptly, turning toward the window.
"No!" I jumped off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I grabbed his wrist, my grip firm despite the trembling in my hands. "Don't go, Your Highness."
He froze, his muscles tensing under my touch. Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes narrowing. "Seems like you know about my identity," he said, his voice cold and distant.
*Fuck.* Why did I have to be such a frog-brained idiot? Now he was suspicious of me.
He grabbed my wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and my hold on him weakened. His eyes bore into mine, searching for something—answers, perhaps, or a sign of betrayal.
"Sorry, but I can't help you with anything, Young Lady," he said, his tone final. He pulled his hand away, but I wasn't about to let him go that easily.
Before he could take another step, I pushed him against the wall beside the window. His eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he looked almost... vulnerable. The height difference between us was comical—I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze—but I didn't care.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice tinged with shock.
*Fuck my self-respect,* I thought. I had already been carried by this man twice. What was a little more humiliation in the grand scheme of things?
"I NEED YOU," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "ONLY YOU CAN HELP ME."