The Swordsman
Chapter One:
The Last
When, in the darkness,
The lamenting cries do call to deaf skies,
There shall come into the world
A hero who will bear the light.
Zero could not know the future. He was one who can only hope to live to see the sun set. Indeed, that is all anyone can hope for in these dark times. Max once believed a courageous heart could overcome any obstacle, as heroes of the past once gave hope to the universe with their strength and benevolence. But these heroes had all died, and when the sky turned red, and new flames masked the setting sun, the night, cold and merciless, set in, and gave an unfulfilling sleep beneath the cold stars to the unfortunate souls. Memories of past hopes haunted his mind through troubled sleep. He seemed to think more and more of the older days, happier days that he had never known. Thin beams of a deceiving, warm light struck his eyes. So he was alive for another day. He turned his eyes groggily to the mangled shards of glass through which the intruding light entered. It is funny. Every morning, some part of him almost expected to see the world at peace: to see buildings standing on solid ground, see people walking up and down streets without fear, and see small children playing in a world that did not threaten their young lives. But the sharp, mocking edges of shattered glass that broke the light as it entered, reminded him daily of his reality. Born in the few, fleeting months of peace, which are not even a faint glow in his mind, this was all he had ever known. This terror created all that he was or might one day be. He often wondered if he could save these people, if he could survive the awesome force that decimated so many others. If he were to die, then this world would die with him. If he lived, there might have been nothing he could do. When they came, the sun shown red in anticipation. One by one, the brave warriors of the past fell. A story he have heard so many times, yet was too young to remember for himself, those two hunted the great fighters of Earth for amusement and smiled as they died. The monsters! They killed so many innocents the same way, and he could do nothing.
"The last," Zero whispered, watching the dim rays break in the glass. "I am the last."
He tried to hold it back, but the weight of this responsibility held him down. He could have easily ended up dead, just as the others had in protecting this world. If he wanted to stay alive, survival had to be his first priority. But then, the others would die; more people, guilty of nothing, would suffer in their own, or their loved ones' pain. If he abandoned them, they would have nothing.
"I am the only one left." he reminded himself. "I am all they have now."
That night flooded back into his mind, bringing an image of a man back to him like a hurricane. The rain, the tears, the lightning, all flowed over him and he clenched his sheets savagely. That night he had gained his goal, but lost something far more cherished.
"Trunks," he choked out, his own voice barely audible to his own ears.
His heart beat faster. His face grew warm. In the cool air, he began to sweat, and breathing became slightly more difficult. He felt the threatening moisture cover his eyes and he forced the menacing tears back. Even after so long, he could still see Trunks so vividly.
"I'm sorry, Trunks." he whispered. "I am sorry."
With nothing else to eliminate the memories, he threw the sheets away and dressed quickly. It was an eerie morning; all was quiet and the streets were deserted except for the occasional shadow darting from alley to alley. The citizens slunk from each darkened corner and buttress like wild game, always wary of the unseen hunter.
This was his world: a life of fear, unseen danger, an uncertain future, and a dreary past. The sensation of heat, induced from old fears, passed and he pulled his jacket over his shoulders to block the chilled air. He brushed stray hairs from his eyes absently and turned from his window. He was truly the last. These remaining people needed help, but he was not sure if he could be the one they needed. He did not know if he had the strength.
"I just don't know if I can do it." he spoke to one who could no longer hear him. "I don't know if I can save them."
Instantly withdrawing him from his own doubts, an echoing crashing boomed through the air. It pulsed in his ears, rang within his head, and he stood utterly dumbfounded. He turned in an instant, rushing back to the broken panes at my window, and searched the empty streets. There, the flames rose fiercely. The twisting, searing orange and red reached up from decaying buildings that succumbed all to easily in their heat. As the flames spread, stretching into the cresses of the city, explosion followed explosion until the morning sky boomed like a firing squad.
The silent people had found their voices, but it was calls of pain. Mothers screamed for their children and ran with them held close to their chests down the streets. Men rushed out from the flames and searched for dark corners, yet found none in the sinewy glow. Children, lost and afraid, cried and darted about, looking for saviors that either did not exist or could not come to them.
He couldn't bear standing there. He couldn't stand to wait any longer. He rushed out into the hall, grasping the belt of his sword's sheath as he passed through the doorframe. He leapt down to the first level, and vaulted out of the house. As he stepped down onto the stone steps of the door, he imagined he heard the soft voice of his girlfriend call out in anxious trepidation.
He did not hear her; he couldn't wait to hear her. He stepped lightly on the doorstep, allowing a splintered second of contact, and launched myself toward the city. He climbed higher in the air every second, closer to the city and closer to the flames.
Chapter One:
The Last
When, in the darkness,
The lamenting cries do call to deaf skies,
There shall come into the world
A hero who will bear the light.
Zero could not know the future. He was one who can only hope to live to see the sun set. Indeed, that is all anyone can hope for in these dark times. Max once believed a courageous heart could overcome any obstacle, as heroes of the past once gave hope to the universe with their strength and benevolence. But these heroes had all died, and when the sky turned red, and new flames masked the setting sun, the night, cold and merciless, set in, and gave an unfulfilling sleep beneath the cold stars to the unfortunate souls. Memories of past hopes haunted his mind through troubled sleep. He seemed to think more and more of the older days, happier days that he had never known. Thin beams of a deceiving, warm light struck his eyes. So he was alive for another day. He turned his eyes groggily to the mangled shards of glass through which the intruding light entered. It is funny. Every morning, some part of him almost expected to see the world at peace: to see buildings standing on solid ground, see people walking up and down streets without fear, and see small children playing in a world that did not threaten their young lives. But the sharp, mocking edges of shattered glass that broke the light as it entered, reminded him daily of his reality. Born in the few, fleeting months of peace, which are not even a faint glow in his mind, this was all he had ever known. This terror created all that he was or might one day be. He often wondered if he could save these people, if he could survive the awesome force that decimated so many others. If he were to die, then this world would die with him. If he lived, there might have been nothing he could do. When they came, the sun shown red in anticipation. One by one, the brave warriors of the past fell. A story he have heard so many times, yet was too young to remember for himself, those two hunted the great fighters of Earth for amusement and smiled as they died. The monsters! They killed so many innocents the same way, and he could do nothing.
"The last," Zero whispered, watching the dim rays break in the glass. "I am the last."
He tried to hold it back, but the weight of this responsibility held him down. He could have easily ended up dead, just as the others had in protecting this world. If he wanted to stay alive, survival had to be his first priority. But then, the others would die; more people, guilty of nothing, would suffer in their own, or their loved ones' pain. If he abandoned them, they would have nothing.
"I am the only one left." he reminded himself. "I am all they have now."
That night flooded back into his mind, bringing an image of a man back to him like a hurricane. The rain, the tears, the lightning, all flowed over him and he clenched his sheets savagely. That night he had gained his goal, but lost something far more cherished.
"Trunks," he choked out, his own voice barely audible to his own ears.
His heart beat faster. His face grew warm. In the cool air, he began to sweat, and breathing became slightly more difficult. He felt the threatening moisture cover his eyes and he forced the menacing tears back. Even after so long, he could still see Trunks so vividly.
"I'm sorry, Trunks." he whispered. "I am sorry."
With nothing else to eliminate the memories, he threw the sheets away and dressed quickly. It was an eerie morning; all was quiet and the streets were deserted except for the occasional shadow darting from alley to alley. The citizens slunk from each darkened corner and buttress like wild game, always wary of the unseen hunter.
This was his world: a life of fear, unseen danger, an uncertain future, and a dreary past. The sensation of heat, induced from old fears, passed and he pulled his jacket over his shoulders to block the chilled air. He brushed stray hairs from his eyes absently and turned from his window. He was truly the last. These remaining people needed help, but he was not sure if he could be the one they needed. He did not know if he had the strength.
"I just don't know if I can do it." he spoke to one who could no longer hear him. "I don't know if I can save them."
Instantly withdrawing him from his own doubts, an echoing crashing boomed through the air. It pulsed in his ears, rang within his head, and he stood utterly dumbfounded. He turned in an instant, rushing back to the broken panes at my window, and searched the empty streets. There, the flames rose fiercely. The twisting, searing orange and red reached up from decaying buildings that succumbed all to easily in their heat. As the flames spread, stretching into the cresses of the city, explosion followed explosion until the morning sky boomed like a firing squad.
The silent people had found their voices, but it was calls of pain. Mothers screamed for their children and ran with them held close to their chests down the streets. Men rushed out from the flames and searched for dark corners, yet found none in the sinewy glow. Children, lost and afraid, cried and darted about, looking for saviors that either did not exist or could not come to them.
He couldn't bear standing there. He couldn't stand to wait any longer. He rushed out into the hall, grasping the belt of his sword's sheath as he passed through the doorframe. He leapt down to the first level, and vaulted out of the house. As he stepped down onto the stone steps of the door, he imagined he heard the soft voice of his girlfriend call out in anxious trepidation.
He did not hear her; he couldn't wait to hear her. He stepped lightly on the doorstep, allowing a splintered second of contact, and launched myself toward the city. He climbed higher in the air every second, closer to the city and closer to the flames.
