Tobi’s spear struck the man who had dealt the lethal blow to Jakob. The tempered iron head of the stout weapons pierced through the man’s chest completely, running him through, the leather armor offering no more resistance than wet paper. He hit the ground before Jakob did, followed quickly by two of his comrades, then a third, and another two. In the pause as the last of their perceived enemies fell to their weapons, the Mitene Union soldiers had hesitated. And it was this hesitation that led to their demise, as Tobi cut down the last two dozen men in less than a minute.

He dropped to his knees beside Jakob, whose eyes were still moving faintly, rotating to view his Master and oldest friend. There was no sign of fear on his face. He’d fought a warrior’s fight, and now he would die a warrior’s death. No, the fear was in Tobi’s face. It was in his heart and soul, consuming him. He gently lifted Jakob’s head, propping it up on his own folded knee as the tears began to fall.

“Jakob!” He cried out. He shook his friend roughly. “Stay with me! You’re going to survive this. Just stay awake!”

He knew in his heart that the words were a lie, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying them. Jakob shook his head with what little energy he had left in him and even managed a weak chuckle. “You can’t fool me, Tobi. Not since my first year as an apprentice.”

Despite himself, Tobi let out a laugh that was more sob. He took a deep breath to steady himself, not wanting his friend to see his Captain weakened. It took more effort than he could have ever imagined, but he looked back down at Jakob with what he hoped resembled a mask of calm. But the mask shattered, as he saw the life had already left his friend’s eyes. They were a pale, blank brown now, reflecting the light of the early morning.

He could have stayed there kneeling beside the body of his best friend for the rest of the year if it weren’t for the sound of fighting that broke into his mind. On a whim, he turned to glance behind him, only to freeze as another wave of horror washed over him. Men had broken through the center of the army, where the survivors of his defense had hit the rear lines. They’d torn through the battalion of mages and archers, scattering them to the sides. Combined with the power of the main force, they’d split the Gorteauan army in half.

Tobi was on his feet and racing back before he could quite process what had happened. Then he realized that considering the cause was a futile effort. He needed to attack the men who had broken through and were now flanking the two sides of the army. If he didn’t the men of Gorteau would fall, and it would all be over. Letting out a war cry, he summoned the spikes back to him and threw them at the enemy with as much strength as he could muster.

The explosion of dirt blinded the invaders for several seconds, blinding them to his approach, leaving them ignorant. He didn’t need to see, for he knew that everybody within ten feet of him was an enemy. His ki flared to life, coating his body and weapon in bright white light. He cut through three of his enemies in as many seconds, his weapon almost bending with the force of his strikes and sweeps. He skewered one man completely, ramming the spear through him and into the ground, then vaulting high over him. The force of his jump tore his weapon free, and he landed with a powerful burst of Ki, sending more men flying.

He refused to pause, even for a second, even as the occasional enemy broke through his guard and wounded him. In just the first thirty seconds, he bore three long gouges on his arms, but he refused to stop. He was a whirl of silver steel and white energy. He struck high, he struck low. He thrust and cut, discarding any balance or defense for sheer power. He was at a disadvantage with the close-quarters, but it was his only chance to push the enemies back before they could cement their foothold.

Above the battling enemies, the skies darkened, and the clouds broke apart with a clap of thunder. Rain began cascading down on them all, dousing fires and drenching the men. They continued to fight, seemingly ignorant of the veritable flood of water falling on them. Flashes of light still burst between the forces, as the men sought desperately towards their separate goals. The Mitene Union strived to widen the hole they’d made, while the Gorteauans moved with the Captain of Issho-Ni, crushing the invaders on both sides, in an attempt to repel them.

The brightest source of light by far was the Captain, his white robes and weapon shining even through the dim light of the rainstorm. He was a whirling white cloud of movement, almost too fast for others to perceive him. His robes were drenched by blood as well as rain now, both his own and that of his enemies. He had no way of knowing it, but he’d already cleared the gap himself, pushing the enemy back as he continued to cut them down. The Gorteauan force, now reformed and reinvigorated, let out a roar of approval and stomped after him.

With formation and courage back, they slammed into the Mitene Union, trying their best to keep up with the man who saved him. Their swords and pikes lashed out, taking a heavy toll. Lightning cracked down near Tobi, killing half a dozen men. Then another strike two meters to the left, killing a mage who had just aimed at the Captain with a spell. The men looked about for the source, but could not see any mage responsible. They thought of the Archmage of the College, knowing that he was capable of such great power. But there was no sign of him, as he was unconscious, kilometers away.

Another bolt of lightning struck, and this time they could see that it came from the sky. Those who weren’t killed by it let out yells of terror, retreating. It was as if the heavens had opened themselves to lend Tobi their power. Lightning struck again and again, smiting down the worst of Tobi’s enemies. Only Tobi himself knew the cause. He could feel his father in the air around him. It gave him pause for just a moment, then he resumed his attack with renewed vigor. He could feel it. His father was coming. Or perhaps he was going to his father. Either way, he knew he was on the right path.

Another fork of lightning struck the earth. This time, both armies saw the flash of an outline in the clouds above them. It was gone as fast as the lightning itself, but they would have sworn to witness a wolf’s head imprinted there, shining down from the heavens. It was the crest of the Tokugawa clan, of course. It was the heralding cry of Shigeru’s might, the visage of the monstrous wolf that protected the family and lent them its power.

Tobi continued his onslaught, now bearing twice as many injuries, each more severe than the last. He could feel himself growing weaker with the loss of blood, but still, he did not falter. The light of his Ki was flickering, and, thinking that he was beginning the fall, the Mitene Union pushed back. They might have succeeded in taking him then and there if it weren’t for the bombard of spells that rained down upon them. The spells killed over three dozen in the first seconds, and those who didn’t fall to the magic were struck down by weapons.

“Issho-Ni!”

A new storm of steel rained down upon the enemies as, swinging ferociously, a new squadron of some fifteen figures had broken through to their Captain’s position. They surrounded Tobi protectively, their weapons lashing out and cutting down any of their enemies foolish enough to continue attacking. Each man and woman wore the white robes of an Issho-Ni master, and their bodies were alight with ki and mana, fueled on by their Captain and their god. They struck with righteous fury, driving their enemies away from the man who had led them so faithfully the past half-decade.

Finally, the attack on their position eased, and they began to retreat, dragging their Captain with them. His body had gone limp, and his face, just barely distinguishable under a coating of blood, was pale. At once, two of the party broke away from the wall to tend to him. A gentle green light shined upon the red of blood, and some life seemed to stir within his glazed eyes. He struggled feebly against the grip of his comrades. He had to return. His father was watching, waiting. He could not disappoint him.

“My father!” He cried out feverishly, his eyes fixed on the heavens above. The healers paid his words no mind, hushing him, bidding him to rest. But still, he struggled, lifting one weakened arm to point skyward. “My father!”

Hesitantly, they looked up. They were just in time to see the golden light pierce through the clouds. It wasn’t another lightning bolt, they saw. It was… denser. It burned brightly through the darkness, descending from the very sky, bathing their faces in a blinding light. A pillar broke away, shooting straight for the ground, and they turned away. Only a few turned their faces to follow its progress. Where it struck was deep in the heart of the Mitene Union’s army, and when it faded, they could see nothing. But it was only a second before they heard the screams, and it became clear.

Just visible over the heads of the invading army, a white shape moved in a blur. Men were sent flying in all directions, and then the beast leaped into the air, to come crashing down and killing yet more men. It was a giant wolf, easily eight feet at the shoulder and nearly twelve feet long. Its eyes, a bright violet, flashed brightly amidst the battle as it cut through men like paper. And there, moving at its side, almost dancing in tandem with it, was…

“Issho-Ni!”

Now the cry came from a single voice, though it was not long in its solitude. A dozen voices rose to echo it. “Issho-Ni!” Then a dozen more. “Issho-Ni!” Then the men of the army took up the cry, lending hundreds of voices to the acclamation “Issho-Ni!” The men were wild with hope and inspiration, having finally recognized the man who had appeared in their time of need. Shigeru Tokugawa, God of War, struck out at the enemies of his son’s home, beating them back, killing them. Those that escaped his wrath weren’t the lucky ones, as they met the fangs and claws of the wolf.

Now outnumbered, decimated, and defeated, the invaders lost their will to fight. All along the lines, the men threw down their weapons and screamed for mercy. Shigeru and the wolf stopped their rampage at once, standing alone in the middle of a field of fallen men. Longfang stood behind him, its jaw and chest coated with blood, eyes surveying the enemies around it with undeniable hostility. After a shocked minute of silence, the Gorteauans let out a ragged cheer. The fighting was over.

-Aren Gorteau-

“Your Majesty!”

The shout roused Aren from his deep thoughts as he watched the last few seconds of the battle. He turned to see just what all the commotion was. There were perhaps half a dozen people gathered around the entrance of the command tent, he noticed. Doubtless there to offer his elder brother their congratulations on defeating the wave of invaders who had nearly claimed victory. Johnathan hadn’t done anything, of course, but this was the way of things. The King claimed the highest honors of all and rewarded whoever he saw fit, according to his royal privilege.

It was the way their father had ruled, he remembered, back before he’d died of an illness. He had been taught that way by his father, who had been taught by his father, and so on. Right back to the very beginning of their royal line, when the first of their people settled Milagre. Of course, Aren knew the truth of the matter. They’d found Milagre to be an accidental sanctuary in the Era of Chaos, in those days when chaotic and corrupted beasts roamed the world freely. They had found the city by accident, and its walls housed the first mortal Kingdom and the first Royal Line.

“Your Majesty!”

Aren frowned. The voices of those gathered around the King’s tent weren’t voices of joy, he realized. They sounded panicked and fearful. What could give them the reason to speak in such a way around his brother? Maybe there were some in their numbers who despised the King for his lack of action. If that were the case, his brother could use someone for a little support. Johnathan wasn’t known for his quick thinking. With a quick burst of air, Aren flew up the face of the hill, landing gracefully at the back of the crowd.

“Clear the way!” He barked, his sharp voice making the men in front of him jump. “Give the King a little respect!”

They were all too quick to obey him, scurrying to the sides and letting him pass. He could see inside the tent properly now, to where his brother sat. General Rainhall was with him, his voice raised. That belligerent fool, Aren thought angrily. He was too full of himself, to think he could shout in the face of his King. He strolled forward angrily, his mouth opening to deliver a rebuke. But before he could speak a word, Rainhall turned and saw him. Aren was surprised to see his face pale, with a look of horror fixed upon his face.

“Your Grace!” he cried, falling to his knees. “I found him like this! I know not what has happened to him!”

“What?” Aren looked between Rainhall and his brother, who was staring directly ahead. There was a look of faint surprise frozen on his face as if he hadn’t expected to see his younger brother returning so quickly. “Johnathan, what is wrong with you?”

The King did not respond. Aren’s eyebrows formed together in a line of disapproval. “Brother, talk to-”

His voice faded in an instant, as he fully comprehended the scene. His brother wasn’t responding because he couldn’t or didn’t want to. With two quick steps, he was at the man’s side, hands quickly exploring the King’s body, looking for what he feared. He found it at once. A small dart, sharp enough to puncture light armor, sticking out of the back of his brother's thick jacket. When he pulled it out, it smelled sharply of poison

“The King!” Someone from outside the tent gasped. Then he shouted. “The King is dead!”

The words were echoed by the others at the tent’s entrance. They shouted it to those behind them, and the message passed along the army like wildfire. There was no response from the army but shocked silence, of course. They had been savoring the knowledge that the battle had been won. It was a narrow victory, to be, but they had won. Now, to learn that their monarch was dead, they were struck by a sudden frisson of fear. There could only be one culprit, they all knew.

-Samuel-

The bed was warm, its thick covers wrapped protectively around him. There was a light breeze on his face, which was what had probably woken him. He stirred slightly, wondering what had happened. He vaguely recalled the sight of Grimr crouched over him, holding his knife. He couldn’t remember the pain of the weapon. Maybe Grimr had succeeded in draining the corruption from his system. Or maybe not, he thought. Maybe he was dead.

His eyes opened to reveal a simple grey ceiling. His bed, tucked into the corner of the room, was low to the ground. Was he in a nearby tavern? He’d been miles from any nearby city, he thought. Perhaps he’d been unconscious for weeks. But then, as his sense of reason caught up with his eyes, he realized that he recognized the room. It took him a minute, or several, to place it, but he recognized the room that he’d grown up in. So he was back home then. That could only mean a meeting with the other parts of him.

With a sigh, he kicked the covers free of his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. They were just long enough to allow his feet to touch the cold boards of the floor. Looking at himself, he was wearing a simple dark blue nightgown. The same he wore when sleeping as a child. And he was such a child. Not his older, more powerful body, but made of flesh. Mortal. An odd way to begin the vision, he thought. He pushed off his bed and hurried across the room to the doors.

His mother was in the kitchen when he exited the short hallway. She had her back to him, humming some forgotten song as she made breakfast. The smell of bacon filled the air. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed the scent before, as his stomach grumbled. His mother, who could cook better than almost anyone else he knew. She turned as she heard him pulling a chair back at the table, and smiled at him.

“Good morning, my sweet child,” She spoke as if it were real as if he’d gone back to his childhood and not just visited for some kind of vision or guidance. “You had a tough day. I hope you rested enough.”

Rest, Samuel thought. Often used as a metaphor for death. “Did I die then? Is this the afterlife that Isip promised me?”

Her smile widened. She set the plate of food before him and reached out to stroke his messy hair free from his forehead. “No, child. You did not die. You are weak, but you will continue to live. Your time has not yet come.”