1 Prologue

In an unknown period of time, a lone swordsman stands atop a hill peak, looking down at a corpse strewn battlefield. Men line the ground, seemingly with no end. Weapons are scattered around: swords, sabers, spears, bows, and other cold weapons. They lay still by the side of their former wielders, longing for their scabbards.

The swordsman looks up at the grey sky; though it's a struggle for the battle hardened veteran. His body is lined with deep scars, trophies of his many bouts. The crevasses carved deep within his skin make him hard to look at, almost like a foul demon. Some bones peek out from under his skin, slashes so deep they are unable to heal. Despite this, the swordsman continues looking around. Blood slowly drips from the blade's tip, and strikes the ground with a sound too quiet to be noticed. The swordsman slowly starts inching forward down the hill, while staring down his adversary.

On the opposite end of the valley looms an old man grasping a spear in his calloused and bloody hands. He is in a state no better than the swordsman. The swordsman begins toward the old man, and then he speaks, "Old bastard, it's time for this to end; I'll finish you with this last strike."

The old man looks back and smirks at him, "Brat, you'll never be powerful enough to defeat me. You're just a frog in a well staring at the endless sky."

"Overconfidence leads to death. This is a battlefield, anything could happen." The swordsman refutes. "An unknown variable could kill us both at any time."

After the swordsman speaks, his own blood flows down onto his blade's shaft and bright arcs of electricity burst out from the steel. He instantaneously disappears from his original location and appears next to the old man. He swiftly swings his blade and it strikes the shaft of the old man's spear. Both the blade and the spear are crafted out of other-worldly materials. Both blades flare with a dominant aura unknown to most. Runes of a gorgeous ocean blue hue run down the shaft of each until it hits the butt end. The blade of the sword has a beautiful black and blue color, almost as if the night sky was forged into a weapon meant for killing. The spear was blood red and white; almost as if the spear was a cloud originally, but after being stained with the blood of countless people it turned into a weapon of nightmares.

As the sword makes contact with the spear arcs of blinding, white electricity jumps from the blade and into the old man's frail body. It cremates the pitch black robe the old man had haphazardly thrown over himself. Underneath, his skin is charred as if he was plunged into a world of flames. The old man immediately strikes back with the spear, the tip of the blade grazing the swordsman's arm, from the wrist to the shoulder. Dark red blood, like someone cast the blackest night over a garden of roses, spits out of the gash. The swordsman's face twists into a pained expression, though he tries to hide it. He keeps his mouth shut, not making a sound, keeping his mind focused on the battle. Blow after blow is exchanged between the two, sparks fly at their faces as metal meets metal. Neither of them will stop, neither of them will falter. The swordsman summons a second blade out of nowhere as if he could control the void itself.

The swordsman roars a battle cry of the likes that he has never done before. He rushes at the old man, traveling faster than is humanly possible. He is stopped dead in his tracks by the old man's spear, it pierces clean through the swordsman's ribcage. Blood starts to flow out of the swordsman's chest around the shaft of the spear, staining the wood a deep red color and a little trickle of blood appears at the corner of his mouth. The swordsman persists, adamant on killing the old man, he completely disregards his own life and swings both of his blades with all of the energy left in his body. The old man appears shocked and lets go of the spear that's lodged in the swordsman's chest. His expression shows panic, then goes blank. His burned with hatred, remorse and despair above all else. A line of blood appears on the old man's throat as his head separates from his body and hits the ground, it rolls to the swordsman's feet . His blades fall out of his hands and he collapses to the ground.

" I- It's finally... o- over." The swordsman breathlessly murmured. Slowly, life is drained from his eyes as it starts to rain, as if the world itself was mourning the fall of two legends of war. The battlefield fell completely silent except for the soft percussion of rain striking the ground and the faint stench of blood in the air…

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A boy sits on the side of a road in a modern city. He focuses heavily on the newspaper in his hands…

"How the fuck did I get here?"