Ch.3 New World I

Dust winded in the cold morning air, covering the tattered tents. Banners rippled, dragged by the cold wind. Stained with blood and dust. Pride.

The earth held its breath. War was near.

Two armies stood opposed on a vast, barren plain.

King Raaz of Meer had assembled a massive army of 100,000 troops. Each soldier was a veteran of his previous brutal conquests.

In just five years, he had crushed three kingdoms, forging his legacy in steel and blood. Now, his eyes were set upon the Ketu Empire, a prize that would cement his rule in history.

Yet, as he surveyed the battlefield, a striking disparity. Only 30,000 soldiers had assembled in defence.

They stood in heavy armour, shields locked, their posture one of defence rather than offense.

To the soldiers of Meer, this looked like another effortless victory.

But they were mistaken.

Ketu wasn’t an ordinary empire. It was a fortress of history. An empire that had withstood the test of time. Their influence extended far beyond its borders bustling with trade routes that linked distant kingdoms and brought the empire vast riches.

It wasn’t just financial; they had a military to back the economy. Armies had battered its walls.

Trade built armies, and armies ensured trade. A nation rich in gold but weak in arms was a ripe carcass, soon to be devoured. A nation mighty in war but starving in wealth was a beast consuming its own flesh. The balance decided an empire’s rise or ruin.

Ketu was the equilibrium of both. In just the past fifteen years, it had repelled twenty invasions.

And at its heart stood a single name, Yodh.

He wasn’t just an ordinary Sentinel. He stood like a shadow over the battlefield, a living pillar of the Empire’s foundation.

While most men perished before reaching seventy, Yodh had lived for over two centuries.

He was the firstborn of King Kurlan, one of the previous emperors of Ketu Empire. His longevity defied reason. Magic? A divine pact? A curse? The answer was not known.

No army had ever claimed victory when Yodh stood on the battlefield. His strength was monstrous, his skill unmatched. Swords, maces, magic—he wielded them all with brutal efficiency. But there was more to his legend than strength alone.

He was bound by oaths, chains to his capabilities.

His mother had perished in childbirth. His father, King Kurlan, had shaped him into the ideal heir—a warrior, a scholar, a ruler. He was the rightful successor to the throne.

But fate was cruel.

A princess arrived, her presence altering the course of history. She was beauty incarnate, a jewel from a neighbouring kingdom. Kurlan was ensnared.

A king who had broken armies, shattered empires, now found himself helpless before a woman’s mere presence.

He sought her hand. She refused.

She and her father foresaw the inevitable conflict. If she bore Kurlan’s child, it would never inherit the throne due to Yodh.

Kurlan withered under rejection. Growing depressed and heartbroken.

Yodh could not see his father like this. Hence took matters into his own hands.

He approached the princess. She listened. Then, she made her terms clear.

Her children would inherit the throne—not Yodh.

But she was no fool. She saw further than the immediate generation.

Even if Yodh was stripped of his right, what of his descendants? What if his bloodline laid claim to the throne generations later?

Thus, she demanded more than his renunciation.

She demanded his whole bloodline to lose the right to throne.

Yodh did not hesitate. He swore three oaths to convince her.

The first: He would forsake the throne, surrendering his birthright.

The second: He would never marry, never father a child. His lineage would end with him. Eliminating any risk of future disputes over succession.

The third: He would stand as the King’s guardian, a sword drawn in its defence of the empire and her bloodline. For as long as he lived.

The princess, struck by his loyalty and selflessness, accepted. She became Queen of Ketu. Yodh became the shield, Sentinel Primus.

Decades passed. Then centuries. Dynasties rose and fell, kings lived and died, but Yodh remained. His presence alone deterred invasion. His blade ended insurrections before they began. He was no longer merely a warrior—he was a legend, ‘The Aegis’.

Now, once more, the battlefield called. Once more, the legend was sought.

And once more, Yodh stood.

War was never about numbers alone. History had proven this time and again, yet men in power clung to the illusion that sheer strength dictated victory.

It was a comforting lie. One that soothed their egos and justified their ambitions. But war was not a simple contest of might. It was a game of principles, strategies, and most importantly, understanding one's limitations.

Kings who failed to grasp this distinction were fated to become mere footnotes in history, their bones buried in the lands they sought to conquer.

Today, in the cold light of dawn, King Raaz was beginning to understand this truth.

The legends of Yodh were not just stories woven to instill fear. They were warnings. Tales passed down through generations, whispering of an immortal guardian whose strength defied reason. Raaz had heard the claims—Yodh wielded the might of 100,000 men, and none who had crossed swords with him had ever survived.

The battlefield was his domain, and those who stepped into it without absolute certainty were simply offering their heads.

And yet, Raaz had still chosen to attack the empire.

Why? Why was he so desperate to wage war against an empire known for its unshakable defence?

If it were for power, there were easier conquests. If it were for expanding his kingdom's influence, forging an alliance with Ketu would have been far more beneficial than making them enemies. Instead, the reason was far more foolish.

A woman.

Lechery was the fire that reduced kingdoms to ashes. Kingdoms burned under a single obsession. It wasn’t conflict that birthed wars, but impulses, lusts, and insatiable hunger of men who mistook possession for fulfillment.

Lady Irgis, the ruler of Bahleeka, was a woman whose beauty and strength could drive men to madness. With a single glance, she could ensnare the hearts of warriors and kings alike. But she was not some mere ornament to be claimed.

A master of both sword and sorcery. Undefeated in all Bahleeka, she stood as a legend in her own right. Her very existence challenged the notion that power belonged to men alone. Many had sought her hand, yet all had been deemed unworthy.

When King Raaz first beheld her, he was consumed by infatuation. He approached her with a proposal of marriage, but Lady Irgis was not so easily swayed. Titles and riches meant nothing to her. Strength was the only currency she recognized, and her condition was simple—Raaz must prove his worth in real war.

His previous victories over three smaller kingdoms had not been enough. She sought something grander, something undeniable. And so, blinded by his desperation, Raaz turned his ambitions toward the Ketu Empire.

If he could achieve what no army before him had done—if he could break the unbreakable—then surely, he would be worthy of her.

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Inside a war tent near the battlefield, the rulers of Meer gathered.

King Raaz sat at the head of the table, flanked by his prime minister and chief warrior. Around them, nobles preened and postured.

Each one was eager to carve their own legend from the coming battle, each one drooling at the thought of the rewards that would follow. They spoke of glory, of conquest, of how they would shatter Ketu’s forces like brittle glass.

Before battle, men were invincible. One of them, drunk on his own hubris, even boasted that he would personally sever Yodh’s head.

The prime minister, however, was a man of caution. He alone seemed to grasp the enormity of what lay before them.

“A contingency plan is needed,” he urged. “If the tide turns against us, we must be prepared to retreat.”

The nobles scoffed, mocking his words. To retreat? Against an army of 30,000 when they commanded a force of 100,000. The suggestion was laughable.

But the prime minister was not done. He spoke then of an old tale.

Years ago, Ketu’s previous king had sought to wield Yodh as a tool of conquest. Confident in his guardian’s power, he launched an unprovoked attack on a neighbouring kingdom, expecting Yodh to slaughter the enemy forces and pave the way for expansion.

But Yodh’s loyalty had its limits. His protection was absolute—but only for Ketu’s ruling bloodline. His magic shielded the king, and his blade struck down those who directly threatened the monarch.

But he did not wage wars. He did not fight for conquest.

The enemy quickly understood this restriction. They ignored the king and turned their blades upon the empire’s soldiers instead. Yodh did nothing to stop them.

The result was a massacre.

The king was forced into a humiliating retreat, his ambitions crushed, his arrogance turned to ash. He had sought to exploit Yodh’s power, and in doing so, he had exposed its limitations.

Yodh’s strength was only a means of protection for king and the Empire. Not a means of conquest or expansion.

The prime minister let his words hang in the air.

The nobles erupted into laughter.

“Yodh may be strong,” one sneered, “but even he cannot defy numbers. 30,000 against 100,000? The outcome is already decided.”

Their laughter echoed through the tent, thick with contempt.

They did not understand.

Not yet.

*

On the other side of the battlefield, a lone figure stood atop a chariot drawn by two majestic white horses. His presence was a statement of dominance.

His body, a monument to war. Towering at six feet eight inches, dressed in full silver armour, he was an iron fortress in human form.

His fists, massive enough to crush skulls, rested on the hilt of his sword. Yet, in this moment, he was still, his deep gaze lost in the vast field before him. A warrior contemplating not just war, but the weight of its consequences.

A soldier kills, but a warrior understands.

A rider approached, his horse galloping with urgency. “Sentinel, are you prepared for battle?”

Yodh did not turn his gaze. His voice, steady as the mountains, carried the weight of experience. “Mogh, is a man ever ready to commit the atrocities the war Gods require for their worship? To slaughter sons, husbands, fathers? War demands sacrifice, and it is never the soldiers who pay the highest price, but the families they leave behind.”

Mogh remained silent, but Yodh had already made his decision. “We give them a chance. Hoist a white flag on my chariot. I will speak with their king.”

With that, he removed his armour, piece by piece. The plates clattered against the wood, leaving him in simple garments.

Meanwhile, in the enemy camp, arrogance reigned supreme.

Within a lavishly adorned tent, King Raaz sat among his nobles and generals, all engaged in idle boasts and self-assured laughter. The scent of overconfidence was thick. Suffocating.

A soldier burst in, breaking the illusion. “A chariot approaches! A white flag flies on top of it!”

The response was immediate. Laughter, mockery, sneers.

“Have they already surrendered?” one noble jeered.

“Perhaps Yodh has realized his doom and come to beg for mercy,” another added.

But outside, as Raaz and his closest advisors stepped onto the field, the sight that met them turned amusement into silence.

A lone chariot advanced steadily. Two white horses bore it forward, their movement unshaken.

Standing on it, unarmoured, unarmed, was a man who looked not a day over forty. His hair was black, his body immense, his presence overwhelming. He moved with the composure of one who feared nothing.

The chief warrior of Raaz’s army instinctively placed himself in front of the king, hand gripping his sword.

A futile gesture. If this was Yodh, no blade, no army would stand in his way.

He looks like the Yodh from the description, thought Raaz.

Raaz raised a hand, signalling for restraint. His eyes narrowed. Yodh was not known for deception. If he had come in peace, it was genuine.

But that raised a question—why? Why would a legend, a war deity, approach under a banner of truce?

Yodh stepped down from the chariot.

He strode forward, unhurried yet unwavering. The assembled soldiers stiffened instinctively. Though he bore no weapon, his presence alone was as suffocating as the spectre of death.

King Raaz stood tall, meeting Yodh’s approach with an expression of measured pride.

“Greetings, King Raaz,” Yodh said. “I am Yodh, son of Kurlan.”

“Greetings, warrior Yodh,” the king responded with forced civility. “What brings you here?”

“I come bearing a warning.” Yodh’s tone was neither pleading nor threatening. “You now stand at the boundary of the Ketu Empire. If you proceed further, you invite ruin.”

King Raaz smirked. “I am well aware of where I stand. I did not march my army here in ignorance. I am here to declare war upon the empire. I thought this much was clear.”

“I expected as much,” Yodh acknowledged. “My purpose is not to dissuade you, for men seldom turn from the course they have set their hearts upon. I am here to offer you one final chance. No army has ever set foot upon Ketu soil and returned triumphant. If you turn back now, the empire will erase this transgression from memory.”

Raaz’s smirk deepened. “Your concern is unnecessary, Yodh. I march forward assured of victory.”

A pause.

Then Yodh spoke again. “Then allow me to make another proposition, King Raaz.”

He raised his hand, and the reality around changed. An incantation left his lips. A golden mace materialized in his grip, its surface gleaming with an unnatural light.

He lifted it effortlessly, its glow casting a faint illumination upon the ground.

The assembled warriors tensed. Almost all gripped their weapons instinctively.

Yodh moved with deliberate slowness, placing the mace onto the ground. The moment its head touched the earth, the ground beneath it trembled.

Dust lifted in a faint cloud, and the weapon sank slightly into the soil, as if the land itself was yielding to its immeasurable weight.

“If any of the soldiers here can lift this mace,” Yodh declared, “then I shall concede defeat. Not only that, but I shall withdraw my forces and cede five meel of land from the empire.”

A murmur spread through the ranks. The nobles exchanged glances, their expressions shifting between scepticism and intrigue.

King Raaz narrowed his eyes. The offer was almost too great. Yodh was either supremely confident or a fool.

The prospect of Yodh admitting defeat and ceding imperial land was unprecedented, a potential triumph that could elevate his name into legend.

“Very well,” Raaz said at last. “My ten finest warriors shall try.”

The soldiers stepped forward, hands tightening around the hilt of the weapon. Muscles strained. Faces contorted. Yet the mace did not move.

The ground might as well have grown roots around it. It was as if they were attempting to lift a mountain with bare hands.

More soldiers joined—thirty, then fifty. Their combined effort was a sight to behold. A symphony of exertion.

Veins bulged, sweat dripped, breaths came in laboured gasps. But the mace remained as it was, untouched by their struggles.

King Raaz turned to his prime minister, a prodigious mage whose intellect and mastery of magic was known across the land. He had mastered all basic two tiers of magic by the age of eight

“Tell me, is this some form of enchantment?”

The prime minister stepped forward, studying the weapon with narrowed eyes. Minutes passed before he spoke.

“No, Your Majesty,” he said at last in disbelief. “There is no magic. It is simply… that…that heavy.”

Raaz’s expression darkened. “How heavy?”

The prime minister hesitated, before shaking his head. “I do not know. Perhaps heavier than any material known to us.”

The weight of the revelation settled upon the king’s mind. He turned back to Yodh. “Is magic permitted in this challenge?”

“Use whatever means you wish,” Yodh answered evenly. “All that matters is that the mace is lifted.”

Determined to seize this opportunity, Raaz ordered the prime minister to aid the effort with magic.

The mage chanted incantations, using the forces of the magic to amplify strength, to lessen weight.

Blood dripped from his nose, his ears—yet even with the might of magic and the force of fifty warriors, the mace remained unmoved.

At last, the soldiers collapsed, exhaustion stealing away their strength.

Silence fell.

Yodh stepped forward. With one hand, he gripped the weapon’s handle. With no more effort than lifting a goblet, he raised it, resting it upon his shoulder once more.

Gasps. Silence. Dread.

“Now do you, see?” Yodh asked. His tone was not mocking, nor was it boastful. It was merely a statement of reality. “The difference between our strength. Your war will not end in conquest. It will end in annihilation. My offer still stands. Turn back and we will forget this ever happened.”

King Raaz clenched his fists. He obviously now knew the strength of the mighty warrior Yodh. “Lifting a heavy mace and waging war are not the same, warrior Yodh. We came here to win. We will settle for nothing less.”

The king was right.

The battlefield did not discriminate. It cared only for blood.

A king bled the same as a footer. A hero died as easily as a coward. In the end, the battlefield did not care for glory, honor, or ambition, it only demanded its due. And it always collected.

Yet, this time was different. His instincts screamed for caution. But Raaz’s pride refused to retreat.

Yodh studied him for a moment longer. Then, a hint of disappointment on his face.

He lifted his hand, and in an instant, the golden mace vanished, returning to wherever it had been summoned from.

He turned away. “So be it, King Raaz.”

As he reached the other side, he spoke a single command to Mogh. “Prepare for battle.”

The soldiers of the empire moved like a well-oiled machine. Shields locked into formation, spears braced, archers knocked their arrows.

Behind them, mounted warriors steadied their steeds, awaiting the order to charge.

The battlefield had made its choice. The only thing left now was to see who would remain standing when the dust settled.