Leading the 300 Barbarian Warriors

Chapter 3: The Ghost of the Lineage

The words hung in the smoky, blood-drenched air of the courtyard like a death sentence.

By order of my father, Overlord Malakor…

Ragnar couldn’t breathe. The massive, dark iron greatsword that had felt like an extension of his own arm for the last ten years suddenly grew impossibly heavy, its tip dipping toward the crimson-stained stone tiles. The roaring battle fury that had carried him through the ravine and broken the imperial shield-wall evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow void.

He stared at the young executioner standing on the steps of the inner keep. The boy’s dark velvet cloak ruffled in the freezing mountain wind. The silver-plated armor caught the flickering orange glow of the burning barracks, reflecting light off the polished imperial crest emblazoned across his chest. But Ragnar wasn’t looking at the armor. He was looking at the face.

The soft roundness of childhood was gone, replaced by the sharp, aristocratic angles of their father’s lineage. Yet the slight indentation above the left eyebrow—the mark from when a seven-year-old prince had fallen off his training horse and laughed instead of crying—was still there. And those eyes. The piercing, brilliant royal blue eyes that Malakor had spent a decade trying to erase from the world.

"Eran…?" Ragnar’s voice was a ragged whisper, a sound completely unsuited for the towering giant who had just butchered an imperial vanguard. He took a hesitant step forward, his heavy boots dragging through the slush. "Eran… it’s you. You’re alive."

The young executioner didn't blink. His expression remained as cold and unyielding as the glacier stone of the Frozen Wastes. He didn't lower the jagged, single-edged blade humming with unnatural green sorcery. If the name Eran meant anything to him, his face didn't betray a single flicker of emotion.

"I am the First Blade of the Overlord," the boy replied, his voice smooth, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth. "I have no name other than the one given to me by my Emperor. You are trespassing on imperial soil, rebel savage. Lower your weapon and face execution."

Behind Ragnar, the three hundred barbarians shifted uneasily. They were men who lived for slaughter, men who feared neither god nor demon, but the sudden, suffocating shift in the atmosphere unnerved them. Torin stepped up to Ragnar’s side, his twin battleaxes still dripping thick cords of gore onto the stone. His chest heaved from the exertion of the battle, his eyes locked onto the young man on the steps.

"Alpha," Torin growled softly, his voice a low rumble meant only for Ragnar’s ears. "What is this? Look at his eyes. He has the same cursed gaze as you. Is this the brother you spoke of?"

"It's him," Ragnar breathed, his vision blurring for a fraction of a second as ten years of grief crashed into him all at once. "It's Eran."

"He just claimed Malakor as his father," Torin warned, his grip tightening on his axes. "He’s wearing the executioner's silver. He isn't the boy you lost, Ragnar. He’s a monster trained by the man who murdered your king."

"Silence!" Ragnar roared, the sudden boom of his voice startling the remaining imperial soldiers who were cowering near the doors. He kept his eyes locked onto his brother, refusing to accept the nightmare unfolding in front of him. "Eran! Look at me! Look at my blade! I am Ragnar! Your brother! The night the palace burned, I held your hand until the fire separated us! I have spent ten winters in the wastes, bleeding, starving, conquering the tribes—all to come back for you!"

The young executioner tilted his head slightly, a micro-expression of mild curiosity passing through his detached features. "A compelling fiction. The rebels always invent grand tragedies to justify their treason. But the dead do not return, and the Emperor has no sons but those who earn the right through blood."

He raised his glowing blade higher. The green light pulsing along the jagged edge cast sickening, sickly shadows across the stone steps.

"If you will not drop your weapon, then I will take your head back to the capital myself," Eran said.

Before Ragnar could utter another word, Eran moved.

He didn’t charge with the heavy, ground-shaking momentum of the northern barbarians. He moved like a shadow, his boots making no sound as he practically vanished from the steps.

CLANG!

Ragnar instinctively brought his greatsword up just in time to catch a descending strike that would have split his shoulder open. The impact was shockingly powerful, far heavier than a youth of Eran's build should have been capable of producing. The green magic humming along Eran's blade flared violently upon contact, sending a jarring wave of localized kinetic energy straight down the shaft of Ragnar’s greatsword. The force vibrated through Ragnar’s arms, forcing him back a step.

Eran didn't pause. Using the recoil of the strike, he spun through the air, his dark velvet cloak swirling around him like a shroud. He unleashed a rapid succession of horizontal slashes, each one precise, lethal, and aimed directly at Ragnar's exposed neck and joints.

Ragnar was forced into a desperate defensive retreat. He parried, blocked, and deflected, the metallic rings of their clashing swords echoing through the burning courtyard in a frantic, terrifying rhythm. He was faster, stronger, and possessed decades of brutal combat experience, but he was fighting with a fatal handicap: he could not bring himself to strike back. Every time he saw a gap in Eran’s defense—an exposed rib, a delayed recovery—Ragnar pulled his weight, refusing to commit an offensive blow that might harm his brother.

"Fight me!" Eran hissed, his eyes flashing with a sudden, unnatural green tint that matched his blade. "Are the legendary warriors of the north nothing more than cowards who only know how to defend?"

Eran lunged forward, executing a flawless thrust aimed straight at Ragnar's heart. Ragnar sidestepped at the last possible millisecond, but the jagged edge of the executioner's blade caught the heavy fur cloak on his shoulder, ripping it away and leaving a shallow, burning laceration across his collarbone. The wound didn't just bleed; it stung with the corruptive bite of the green magic, sending a numbing sensation spreading through his left shoulder.

"Ragnar!" Torin shouted, stepping forward to intervene. "He’s going to kill you!"

"Stay back!" Ragnar commanded, his voice raw as he deflected another downward strike. "Nobody touches him! This is my fight!"

"It's not a fight if you're waiting to be slaughtered!" Torin yelled back, but he respected the absolute authority in his leader’s voice, forcing himself and the three hundred barbarians to remain on the perimeter, their weapons tightly gripped as they watched their Alpha take damage.

Eran noticed the distraction. With a cold, calculated smirk, he suddenly changed targets. He dropped low, sweeping his leg out to force Ragnar off balance, and then launched himself toward the closest barbarian warrior standing in the circle.

The barbarian, a seasoned warrior covered in northern tattoos, barely had time to raise his axe before Eran appeared in front of him. The green-glowing single-edged blade sliced through the air with terrifying velocity.

SPURT.

The barbarian’s head left his shoulders before he could even utter a gasp, a fountain of hot blood spraying into the freezing air. Eran didn’t even look at the falling corpse; he immediately pivoted, his blade already tracking toward the throat of the next barbarian.

"No!" Ragnar bellowed.

The sight of his own man dying broke the paralyzing shock holding him back. Ragnar surged forward, his boots tearing up the snow and dirt. He intercepted Eran just as the boy’s blade was about to claim a second life, bringing his massive greatsword down in a devastating, two-handed vertical strike.

Eran was forced to abandon his attack, spinning around to catch Ragnar's blow with the flat of his jagged sword.

BOOM!

The sheer, unrestrained physical power of the exiled prince slammed into the young executioner. The stone tiles beneath Eran’s boots shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. The boy’s knees buckled under the immense weight, his breath escaping his chest in a sharp, pained gasp. The green magic on his blade sputtered, struggling against the pure, unadulterated fury of Ragnar's iron.

They were locked in a stalemate, their faces inches apart, their blades grinding against one another with a high-pitched, agonizing screech.

"Look at me, Eran!" Ragnar growled, his muscles bulging, his eyes burning into his brother's. "Look deep into my eyes and tell me you don't remember the royal crest! Tell me you don't remember our mother! What did Malakor do to your mind?!"

For the first time since he stepped out of the keep, a crack appeared in the young executioner's perfect, icy facade. At the mention of the word mother, Eran’s royal blue eyes widened slightly, and a violent tremor shook his hands. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, and his brow furrowed as if a massive, agonizing migraine had suddenly bloomed inside his skull.

"Mother…?" Eran whispered, the cold detachment in his voice fracturing, revealing the terrified voice of a boy hidden deep within the layers of imperial brainwashing. "No… my father is the Emperor… he found me… he saved me…"

"He lied to you!" Ragnar pressed, using his weight to force Eran’s blade down inch by inch. "He slaughtered our family! He took you to twistedly turn you into a weapon against your own blood!"

"Stop it… Stop speaking!" Eran screamed, his face contorting in pure agony. The green magic radiating from his sword suddenly went wild, exploding outward in a chaotic shockwave of emerald sparks.

The magical blast caught Ragnar square in the chest, throwing him back several feet. He managed to dig his boots into the ground, sliding to a halt, but the magical energy left his chest armor smoking and his breathing ragged.

Eran stumbled backward onto the steps of the keep, clutching his head with his left hand, his breath coming in frantic, hyperventilating gasps. The jagged blade in his right hand trembled uncontrollably. The psychological conditioning that Malakor had spent ten years carving into the boy’s brain was actively fighting against the resurfacing memories of his true bloodline, causing his mind to fracture under the pressure.

The surviving imperial soldiers, realizing their elite executioner was mentally compromised, began to panic. One of them, a high-ranking officer who had been hiding behind a pillar, pointed a trembling finger at Eran.

"The executioner is failing! He’s compromised by the rebel’s words!" the officer shouted, pulling a strange, black iron cylinder from his belt. "Activate the failsafe! Do not let the prince reclaim the boy!"

The officer twisted the bottom of the black cylinder.

Instantly, a deep, resonant magical frequency hummed through the entire courtyard. Eran let out a blood-curdling scream of pure agony, dropping to his knees as glowing runes of imperial compliance suddenly burned bright red directly into the flesh of his neck, visible just above his armor collar. The boy’s eyes rolled back into his head, the royal blue completely swallowed by a dull, lifeless, glowing green light.

"Eran!" Ragnar screamed, lunging forward to kill the officer.

But before he could take three steps, the ground beneath the inner keep began to violently shake. The heavy iron portcullis above the main entrance slammed shut, completely cutting Eran off behind a barrier of thick metal bars.

From the high battlements of the fortress, a massive mechanical grinding noise echoed. Ragnar looked up, his blood turning to ice for the second time that night. The fortress wasn't just a border outpost; it was a trap. Massive iron pipes protruding from the walls began to spew a thick, black, volatile oil directly into the courtyard, drenching the three hundred barbarians and the mountains of dead bodies.

High above, an imperial soldier stood over the courtyard with a burning torch in his hand, a cruel, mocking smile on his face.

"If we cannot hold the pass, then we burn it," the officer's voice echoed from behind the reinforced iron gate. "Die in the ash, ghost prince."

The soldier dropped the torch.