Chapter Six - Protecting One's Family.

The Sword Saint is one of the most numerous Birthmarks, not related to a Bloodline, and is easily the most recognizable mark even among the uncouth masses. Afterall there are hundreds of tales about heroes bearing that birthmark cutting down monsters and saving fair maidens.

A Sword Saint is able to form swords out of their willpower, with little to no practice. Shaving what would take a powerful warrior decades of effort into something effortless, instantly making a Sword Saint a warrior above his fellows. Afterall instead of fighting one, you are contending with multiple swords and only one is bound to the dexterity and reach of the human body.

Of course this does not mean a Sword Saint can instantly form thousands of swords. There are two constraints on the number of blades. The first is the number nine, there has not, in all of recorded history, been a Sword Saint with more than nine swords formed of will. The second constraint and certainly the most important is the power of will of the Sword Saint. To form each subsequent sword requires twice the amount of willpower at the one preceding it.

If the first sword required a single unit of will, the second will require two and the third, four. This continues all the way to the ninth, which requires a will, two hundred fifty six times as powerful as when the Sword Saint started. These two rules make it so that there have only been a handful of Nine Sword Saints across all the millenia and all of them were terrifying beings, below only the gods themselves.

Lastly and though I question as to if I need include this, there are so many popular legends, I shall anyways. A future Sword Saint is characterized by a startlingly white Birthmark on the forearm of their dominant arm, in the rough shape of a sword; the stronger the Sword Saint the more detailed and mysterious the mark becomes.

-Five Common Birthmarks and How to Recognize Them, a short article penned by Arneus Cragan in his early years

Before the word had even ended a white crescent split the sky, connecting with the surprised Wakin and forcing him from the edge of the outcropping as a man with a sword appeared in front of Garret and the Children.

“Who!” the bird bellowed, his voice deafening as lightning rained down from his body, destroying the mountain face. Not even a single bolt managed to reach Taran and his sister, all of them stopped with a casual swing of the newcomer’s blade.

Taran shuddered, relief flooding him as he stared at the broad familiar back of the man protecting them “Dad.” he whispered, his eyes growing wet; to a boy, his father can shoulder the world.

If someone unfamiliar with him was asked to describe Fulgan in a word, it would be a tie between big and rough. In fact, with a week's worth of dirt on him, he could pass as a bandit from the tales used to scare misbehaving children. Which is why he dressed in simple, but well kempt clothes, neatly trimmed his beard to half a centimeter in length and kept his hair short and combed back.

Of course if a man was a bandit at heart, even the garb of a nobleman wouldn't be able to hide the fact forever, after all the man underneath is truly the key. Fulgan was man worthy of respect, raised by a good man and then trained as a knight from a young age he grew into one of the best. Despite his uncouth features he was a disciplined, loyal and kind. An air of earned nobility surrounded him transforming the bandit into a hero.

Looking back at his son Fulgan smiled, the corners of his lips reaching to towards his eyes. “I'm proud of you son.” It was something the older man truly meant, they knew Wakin would make a move tonight, however exactly how was not known. Elizabeth may have really been in danger if Taran hadn’t chased after her and for a young boy it wasn't an easy task to do so.

Turning back to the overgrown chicken in the sky Fulgan raised his sword in challenge. In that moment his entire aura transformed. If Garret had been a mountain to find shelter under Fulgan was an unsheathed sword ready to cleave apart the world.

An invisible pressure filled the surrounding kilometer, it was accompanied by the grating sound of metal on rock. Faint, white marks appeared, criss crossing over the stone all around Fulgan. Some of the smaller pebbles were sliced in half. This was willpower manifested into reality, capable of changing and shaping the physical world, this was the true weapon of powerful warriors.

The transformation was not over. Under the astounded gaze of Wakin and the worshipful one of Taran, a bright light began to radiate from Fulgan’s right arm, the sleeve of his tunic shredded to rags as seven lights shot into the sky, on his forearm there was a silver-white sword shaped Birthmark.

Twinkling like stars the seven lights circled Fulgan. Around each of them, a vortex formed, emanating a powerful suction. Similar to water in front of a thirsty man, his willpower was rapidly swallowed by the lights, the oppressive aura that filled the air vanishing. It wasn't, however, destroyed. Instead his willpower was collected, condensed and sharpened by the seven increasingly bright lights. At its peak, the glow of the seven lights completely obscured Fulgan for an instant. Then they abruptly dimmed, revealing seven silvery-white swords, each gently pulsing with a faint light and identical to the sword in Fulgan’s hand, only about three times as large.

Though it seems like a lengthy process, the seven swords were formed in the blink of an eye and like seven shooting stars they charged towards Wakin, seven silver blurs intent of carving the bird up. For the first time tonight, a serious look appeared in the monsters eyes. A Seven Sword Saint had the power to threaten him if he wasn't careful.

What shocked him the most was that he recognized his new opponent, he had taken note of the man and his daughter when they first arrived in the village, at the time the man could only form six swords. To jump to the seventh sword in two years was incredible.

It still wasn't at the point that Wakin would give up getting his hands on a Blind Witch. With loud cry he launched himself towards the blades, a web of electricity rising from his feathers and dancing around him as he clashed with seven streaks of light. Two he swept away with his claws, the momentum of the others halted by thick bolts of lightning.

Fulgan’s ethereal swords circled Wakin not letting up for a moment as they continuously zipped in at impossible angles, attacking from all sides. The bird was unable to do anything but defend, blocking what he could with his claws while stopping the rest with the web of crimson electricity that surrounded his entire body. Each time a blade reached it, the web would pulse, pushing the sword back once again.

It only took Wakin a dozen clashes to understand that, in addition to being Seven Sword Saint, the bastard in front of him was an expert at combat. Grasping a timing and rhythm that left zero openings to be exploited. Thus the stalemate. Had he been fresh, that would mean nothing, he was confident he could outlast his opponent. Unfortunately he had expended his energy on Garret, already his defensive barrier of lightning was starting to dim.

Wakin was not dumb enough to ignore reality, he could only grudgingly pay a price and fight. If he retreated, he would only have more enemies to contend with. When the damned hag woke tomorrow, she would be strong enough to battle equally with him on her own. From that point on he would have to live as a caged bird, trapped in his nest, waiting for death. He needed to grow stronger and the only way he could do so rapidly was with Elizabeth.

While still defending himself Wakin suddenly shuddered in discomfort, golden runes appearing on body. It was impossible to describe them, they were composed of a complex tangle of lines that constantly shifted and writhed, leaving the impression that some great mystery was hidden within.

There were five of the mysterious runes in total, three of them were dull and incomplete, continuously fading in and out of existence. The final two were bright and whole, looking at them gave one a sensation of glimpsing the divine.

Even though Wakin knew what to expect he still couldn’t stop from roaring out in agony as he shattered one of the two runes.