SILVER FANG SUTRA THE DOCTOR OF WAR

Silver Fang Sutra: The Doctor of War

Chapter 1: Birth of the Silver Fang Sutra

The night was painted in blood and fire.

Screams echoed across the battlefield as men clashed like beasts. Spears snapped. Blades cut flesh. The earth itself seemed to shudder beneath the march of armies. Smoke billowed from burning wagons, carrying with it the stench of roasted flesh and spilled entrails.

Among this chaos, one man stood out—a towering figure clad in battered iron armor, his cloak crimson not from cloth but from blood. His beard, white as the snow that once crowned northern peaks, was matted with grime. His eyes, however, burned with the fury of an unyielding flame.

They called him Azael the War Doctor—a healer once, a butcher now.

The Battlefield of Skarhold

The kingdom of Skarhold had always been a land of stone and steel, forged by warlords and hardened by winters so cruel that even wolves starved. Tonight, however, its soil drank deeper than any blizzard could swallow. Thousands lay dead, their corpses carpeting the ground.

Azael walked among them with his sword dripping red, the muscles of his arm trembling not from fatigue but from restraint. He could not stop. Not yet. Every man who charged him fell. Every arrow that sought his life found only his armor. He moved like a storm given human form.

“Fall back!” cried an enemy commander, his voice cracking in terror. But his soldiers were already scattering.

The Doctor of War carved through them with the precision of a surgeon. His blade did not flail. It cut clean, every strike placed like an incision across the body of an empire.

A Promise in the Flames

As the last enemy fell, Azael stood still, breathing hard, the fires reflecting in his steel-gray eyes. His gauntlets shook. Not from fear—but from the weight of memory.

Once, these hands saved lives. Now they take them.

His mind drifted back to a night years ago. A child, coughing blood on a straw mat. Azael bending over him with herbs, with sutures, with whispered prayers. The boy had smiled through fever. “You’re not a killer,” the child had said. “You’re a savior.”

The boy died anyway.

That night, Azael swore: if medicine could not save the world, then the blade must.

Thus was born the path of the Silver Fang Sutra—a secret doctrine, neither purely of healing nor purely of killing, but both. A discipline whispered among assassins and healers alike. Its pages were said to be written in blood and ink, its teachings blending surgery with slaughter.

And Azael was its sole living master.

Betrayal in the Shadows

The clash had ended. But silence was never safety.

A sudden whistle cut through the night—sharp, thin, deadly. Instinct screamed. Azael twisted, raising his blade. The arrow glanced off his pauldron but tore into his shoulder.

He grunted, dropped to one knee.

From the shadows emerged not an enemy, but a man clad in Skarhold colors—one of his own generals. The man’s face was pale, his smile cruel.

“Forgive me, Lord Azael,” the traitor hissed. “But you’ve lived too long. The Sutra belongs to the Council now. You cannot keep it.”

Rage surged through Azael’s veins, hotter than any fire. His own allies, the very men he had bled to protect, had turned on him.

“Cowards,” Azael growled, his voice low and feral. “Do you think I stitched the wounds of this kingdom only so you could stab its heart?”

The general sneered. “You’re no doctor anymore. You’re just an old wolf waiting to die.”

At his signal, a dozen assassins leapt from the shadows, blades gleaming.

The Silver Fang Awakens

Azael’s hand tightened around his sword hilt. His blood dripped onto the ground, but his stance only grew steadier. His enemies closed in, their eyes glinting with hunger for the Sutra’s secrets.

Then, in the crackling silence before slaughter, Azael whispered words no man had heard in centuries. The incantation of the Silver Fang Sutra.

The air shifted.

His sword—once merely steel—now glowed faintly, as though veins of silver had been etched into its edge. His breathing slowed, heart steadying into the rhythm of a predator stalking prey. His eyes, cold as winter, locked onto the traitor.

“Doctor or butcher…” he growled. “Tonight, you will learn what it means to fight a wolf.”

The assassins lunged.

Azael moved.

One swing took a man’s head clean off, his blood painting the night like a crimson brushstroke. A pivot, a strike, another assassin fell with his throat slit so perfectly it resembled surgery. His blade danced not like a soldier’s, but like a surgeon’s scalpel—precise, inevitable, merciless.

Screams split the darkness as Azael carved through them. Bones cracked. Arteries burst. The battlefield that had been silent moments ago was once again alive with death.

The traitor-general’s eyes widened. Fear replaced arrogance. He stumbled backward.

But Azael advanced, slow, unstoppable.

The Oath of the Doctor of War

At last, only the traitor remained, his armor dented, his sword trembling in his hand. He fell to his knees, gasping. “Spare me, Lord Azael… I was only following orders… the Council—”

The old warrior’s eyes narrowed.

“I swore an oath to save lives,” Azael said, his voice cold as a tomb. “But I have learned this truth: to save one life, sometimes a thousand must be taken.”

His blade fell.

The general’s head rolled into the dust.

The fires of Skarhold burned brighter that night, reflecting in the blood-slick steel of the Doctor of War. He stood alone, a wolf among carrion, his oath heavy upon his shoulders.

And in the silence that followed, a single truth became clear:

The Silver Fang Sutra had awakened.

[Chapter 1 Ends]