THE MARTIAL HEALER

Chapter Two – The Ones Who Watch

The blade in Rashford’s hand felt unnatural, Not heavy but alive. It vibrated faintly, like it was hungry.

Below, the silver-masked assassins spread out silently through the ruins. The man called Taren Voss remained still, eyes locked on Rashford like a hawk circling wounded prey.

Rashford's breath caught in his throat. His newly awakened Core burned like fire in his chest. Every instinct screamed to run, But something stronger kept his feet rooted rage.

Taren had lied. He wasn’t a priest. He had branded Rashford worthless in front of hundreds. And now he was here, armed, and leading masked killers through the ashes of Rashford's home. Why?

The sword in his hand pulsed again, and he realized he already knew the answer, They had never wanted him to awaken.

Taren's blade shimmered in the moonlight as he called out, voice theatrical. “You survived the awakening? Fascinating. I didn’t expect the old man’s ritual to work. Soulforge Core… I thought it was a myth.”

Rashford remained silent. “Do you even know what you are now?” Taren stepped forward. “You’re a breach in the system. A Core that cannot be tamed. You’ll throw off everything. You’ll ruin plans.”

“Good,” Rashford said, voice steady.

Taren laughed. “Do you think you can fight us now? With a Core that isn’t even stable?” He raised a hand, The assassins surged forward, Rashford ran not away, but downhill, into them.

The sword moved before he could think. A graceful slash cleaved through the first attacker’s dagger. Rashford twisted his hips, shifted weight like instinct demanded, and drove his elbow into the man’s throat.

Crack.

The second lunged with twin hooks. Rashford dropped, slid beneath him, and sliced upward in a perfect arc. Blood sprayed. The attacker folded. He didn’t know these movements. But his body did, The Soulforge had written them into his bones.

Another attacker shot fire from his palm. Rashford raised his blade and the fire curved around him, drawn to the sword’s edge. It absorbed the flame, glowed red-hot, and then: WHOOSH.

Rashford slashed the air, A fiery crescent exploded outward, consuming the attacker in a pillar of flame, The assassins hesitated. Rashford turned to Taren. “Still think I’m unstable?”

Taren’s smile widened. “You don’t understand anything.”

He made a single hand sign, The air shifted, Suddenly, the ground beneath Rashford vanished, He landed in a circle of light, surrounded by floating runes and cold stone walls. The assassins were gone.

So was the night sky, He was in a prison array a spatial formation. A sealed pocket dimension, Taren appeared across from him, arms folded. “Now, let's speak without interruption.”

Rashford raised the sword again. “No use,” Taren said. “Here, your Core is locked. You can’t access the forge’s power. This space was made for you.”

Rashford felt it his energy, suffocated. Like a lid had slammed shut on his soul. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“You’re the last of them,” Taren said, stepping closer. “The Oakhearts were a bloodline of soulcrafters. Forbidden arts. You know what they used to do? Merge martial cores with medical ones. Heal in battle. Grow through pain. It was… divine.”

“And you killed them,” Rashford growled.

“They had to be stopped. No power should be so flexible, so free. Do you know what that leads to? Chaos. Broken dynasties. The destruction of order.”

Taren’s eyes flashed. “But the forge didn’t die. It slept… in you.”

“And now you’ll kill me?”

“No,” Taren said. “I’ll use you.”

He clapped his hands, The runes above lit up, Pain returned worse than before. Rashford screamed as golden lines wrapped around his limbs, burrowing into his skin.

“I’ll drain the forge. Transfer its pattern into a vessel. We’ll breed controllable weapons. Children born with power, without free will.”

The agony was unbearable, His fingers cracked. His chest burned from the inside out, Taren grinned. “Good. The extraction has begun.”

Rashford’s knees hit the floor. The sword clattered from his hand, He couldn't fight. Couldn't think. Is this how it ends?

Then through the haze he heard it, A whisper, Not a voice outside, but inside. “The forge must be tempered through death.”

His eyes opened wide, He remembered the voice, The Soulforge had warned him, Pain was not his weakness, It was his path, He clenched his fists and let the pain in, Something cracked not his bones, but the chains.

The golden lines flickered, Taren’s face twisted. “No he shouldn’t be stop resisting!” Rashford roared. Power erupted, The prison array exploded.

Stone shattered around him as Rashford rose, wreathed in flickering light. His veins glowed with molten gold. The sword shot back into his hand like it was alive, Taren stumbled back, shielding his face. “Impossible!”

“No chains can hold fire,” Rashford said. “And I am the forge.”

He surged forward, Taren blocked the first strike but the second shattered his defense, Blow after blow drove the false priest back. Each strike healed Rashford’s wounds even as they opened. The Soulforge was learning, healing in real time.

Taren screamed and vanished in a burst of smoke, Coward. Rashford stood alone in the shattered remnants of the array, His breath heaved. His limbs shook, But he was alive.

And for the first time, he understood what Faen had meant, The Soulforge Core wasn’t just power. It was rebellion. Dawn came slow and red, Rashford emerged from the broken circle of stone to find the last embers of Oakwood smoldering.

He stood on the ridge, sword sheathed across his back, cloak torn, eyes hard, He had no home, No family. No one to trust, But he had a weapon, He had purpose, And he had names, Taren Voss would not escape. And neither would the others.

Down the hill, unseen in the shadows of the woods, a pair of silver eyes watched Rashford’s silhouette against the rising sun.

A woman stepped from the trees, long black braid hanging over her shoulder, a silver wolf tattoo circling her left eye, She touched the emblem on her cloak a sigil of the Hidden Academy.

“The Forge is active,” she whispered.

From the shadows behind her, another figure stepped forward masked, massive, silent. “Do we approach?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. Let him walk alone. Let him think he’s free.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Soon, he’ll have no choice but to join us.”