Rising Of The Blind Swordsman

On a frigid morning in Kryo, a thick blanket of fog and mist enveloped the atmosphere, resembling ethereal tendrils of smoke. Yet, despite the bone-chilling cold, the industrious townsfolk went about their daily routines with unwavering determination. For them, such weather was a customary occurrence—a perpetual companion since birth. Clad in layers of warm garments, they valiantly braved the elements. Even the young ones frolicked, their laughter piercing through the icy air.

Remarkably, this peculiar town boasted an anomaly: an absence of snow and ice. Instead, an extreme, biting coldness permeated the very air they breathed. Along a bustling market street, nestled in a corner near an alley, lay a young man named Archon, sound asleep. The relentless cold tortured him, as he clung to a meager scrap of warmth—a small scarf draped around his shivering frame.

Curiosity piqued the children's interest, drawing them inquisitively towards this unfamiliar figure. Never before had they encountered someone like him, a stranger to their tight-knit community. Speculations ran rampant, fueled by the stark contrast of his regal attire juxtaposed against his vulnerable circumstances. Did he abscond with stolen garments from his master, they wondered, seeking refuge in their imaginations.

Meanwhile, from a distance, young ladies cast furtive glances, admiring the symphony of handsomeness etched across his visage. If only he were a man of noble character, they mused, longing to be the fortunate bride to such an exquisite suitor.

In an abrupt and callous interruption of his slumber, a cascade of icy water splashed upon Archon's unsuspecting countenance. Startled awake, he was greeted by a cacophony of jeers and laughter from the heartless townspeople. Standing before him were three men, their leader being Landon, an imposing figure and a member of the city guard. He reveled in his act of dousing Archon in freezing water, relishing the torment it inflicted upon him.

Although Archon was afflicted with blindness, his heightened senses alerted him to the presence of the three individuals. Annoyance and frustration coursed through his veins, having spent a restless night only to have his respite shattered by these contemptible interlopers.

One of the men brandished a large paper—a sketch of Archon, bearing the inscription "Archon Blade, youngest son of the Blade family, banished."

Merely two months had elapsed since his banishment from the familial abode, yet this damning proclamation dogged him relentlessly. Wherever he roamed, the revelation of his true identity precipitated a uniform response: disdain and hostility. This was a cruel reality he had grown all too accustomed to—often forced to endure beatings before retreating, bruised and battered, from yet another unforgiving community.

His family's transgressions served as the impetus for the townspeople's animosity, their ire kindled by an ingrained resentment of the aristocracy. Now, having identified a vulnerable target—Archon, a solitary exile—these commoners seized the opportunity to vent their pent-up frustrations and resentments. As much as he yearned to retaliate, Archon recognized the futility of resistance, understanding that his efforts would only invite further persecution.

"Oops, it's the worthless progeny of the Blades," one of the men jeered, inciting raucous laughter from the assembled crowd.

Archon, summoning his last vestiges of strength, stoically endured the verbal onslaught, his countenance remaining stoic and unyielding amidst the torrent of taunts and insults. Years of enduring abuse had molded him into a bastion of emotional detachment. He simply no longer cared, an emotional fortress forged through countless trials.

"I seek no trouble from anyone. I shall depart quietly," Archon declared, determined to extricate himself from the grim tableau that unfolded before him.

However, the townspeople harbored no intentions of granting him an uneventful departure. Landon, the instigator who had drenched Archon in icy water, seized his shoulders with a vice-like grip and flung him back to the ground. The impact jarred his already fragile frame, inflicting pain upon his battered body. Resolute and unbroken, Archon rose to his feet, his gaze directed squarely at his assailant. A smoldering anger churned within him, fueled by sleepless nights and relentless persecution. They would not even afford him the simple dignity of leaving in peace—this was the final straw.

The other two men joined Landon, clutching Archon's arms and forcing him to his knees. He realized that resistance was futile, their strength overpowering his own. Bitter contemplation coursed through his thoughts—what had he done to warrant such treatment? Why were they united in their contempt for him? The world outside the confines of his family's manor had proven no sanctuary, offering no respite from the misery he had endured.

A vicious punch to the gut from Landon was followed by a merciless knee to his stomach, expelling the air from Archon's lungs. The force of the blow left him reeling, blood trickling from his wounds. The townspeople, baying for spectacle, erupted in a chorus of cheers and applause, relishing the sight of him being pummeled. Their collective voices rang out, echoing the name of his tormentor, "LANDON! LANDON!"

Yet, amid the clamor, a lone figure observed the unfolding brutality—a woman who, though choosing not to intervene, refused to endorse this cruel display. Her patience waned, unable to tolerate the grotesque spectacle any longer.

"Release him!" her voice thundered across the expanse, cutting through the cacophony with unwavering authority.

The crowd turned, their eyes trained on the audacious interloper. Who dared to interrupt their macabre merriment? Whose voice possessed such commanding resonance?

Archon, overwhelmed with gratitude that the torment had ceased, sought to identify his unexpected savior. "Who is that?" he wondered, his heart stirring with hope.

"Did you not hear me, you fools?" the woman's voice boomed once again, her command ringing clear and resolute.

The sea of onlookers parted, granting her a path. Struggling to ascertain her identity, they dared not provoke someone they might later regret offending. The responsibility of confronting her fell upon the three men who had brutalized Archon.

Approaching with purpose, the woman knelt before Archon, wielding a small cloth to tenderly wipe away the blood marring his visage. An air of mystery enveloped her actions, leaving Archon perplexed yet grateful for her compassion.

"Why do you risk your life to aid me?" Archon inquired, his voice laden with astonishment.

He struggled to comprehend why a stranger would extend a helping hand in this desolate place.

The woman remained silent, focusing on the task of cleansing the wounds upon his face. Archon's frustration began to mount, his patience waning.

"Do not jeopardize your safety for the sake of someone you barely know," he admonished, the weight of his circumstances tinging his voice with exasperation.

A gentle smile curled upon the woman her lips as she continued to tend to Archon's injuries. Her actions spoke volumes, surpassing the need for words. Finally, she lifted her head, her gaze piercing and resolute.

"I know you, Archon Blade," she uttered with a sense of quiet certainty. "I am Lady Zina, though you may be unfamiliar with my name."

Her revelation struck Archon with a mix of astonishment and relief. Here, in the midst of his darkest hour, he had found an ally—a beacon of hope in an otherwise cruel world. But Lady Zina was no ordinary benefactor. With a cold, unwavering glance, she turned her attention to the two men who still clung to Archon, their grips an affront to his dignity.

In a blink of an eye, Lady Zina, seemingly defying the laws of physics, dispatched the men effortlessly, her palm gently yet powerfully propelling them backward. The spectators, stunned into silence, bore witness to an inexplicable display of force. Landon, too, had been observing with trepidation, wary of provoking a force he couldn't comprehend. He had not witnessed the subtle yet formidable push; he had only seen the aftermath, the two men colliding against a nearby wall.

A glimmer of respect and caution flickered in Landon's eyes. He knew better than to underestimate the enigmatic Lady Zina. She stood tall, supporting Archon as she guided him away from the scene, leaving Landon to contemplate the consequences of interfering further.

Silently, he yielded to her authority, stepping aside to clear a path. It was an unspoken acknowledgment of the power she wielded. Lady Zina's voice, cold and unwavering, cut through the air one final time, a warning etched in its every syllable.

"I strongly suggest refraining from obstructing my way unless you are fully prepared to confront the consequences." she cautioned, her words reverberating with a resolute finality.

There was no trace of fear in her voice, only an undeniable conviction.

And so, with Lady Zina as his guardian, Archon walked away from the scene, leaving behind the taunts and the pain. Landon, standing in silent contemplation, understood the weight of her words. In that moment, he knew that challenging Lady Zina was a risk not worth taking.

Together, Lady Zina and Archon ventured into the unknown, bound by a shared purpose—a quest for redemption, understanding, and perhaps, a flicker of solace in a world that had forsaken them. As they walked, their determination merged, forging an unbreakable alliance in the face of adversity. And in that alliance, they glimpsed the possibility of a brighter future, a chance to rewrite the destiny that had been imposed upon them.

Little did they know, this encounter marked the beginning of a journey that would defy all expectations—a tale of resilience, courage, and the rise of a blind swordsman who would shatter the chains of his past, becoming a beacon of hope in a world teetering on the precipice of darkness.