Prologue

A void.

Darkness was all Imaru perceived for miles upon miles. An empty, black, and infinite void that consumed all that dared to stand within, in more ways than merely one. It consumed one’s mind, drained away their sanity… corrupted their very spirit.

Imaru stiffened, sensing the agony of all those who trod here before him. Before long, even he himself felt strange senses of cold, weariness, fear, despair… even rising anger and frustration. His strength slowly, yet steadily and surely fled him, and his perception of reality began to warp. The grip of the void – the grip of death itself – gradually and firmly clutched itself around his mind, his essence… his very soul.

Then… fire.

The whole void erupted into flames at once. Imaru’s breath caught in his chest, and he landed on his back, startled. He panicked… until he realized the flames did not burn him, and even restored clarity to his senses. Within the smoke, a silhouette made an unhurried stride towards him as the void slowly morphed into a burning village.

Chaos.

The scent of burning blood and dead became almost overwhelming. The smoke from the fire caused his eyes to well, and tears began to flow like rivers down his face. The screams of those dying, taken, burning, robbed or raped and the war cries of the invading raiders and marauders, and the sounds of futile, doomed attempts at battle… they drowned out all else, including Imaru’s own thoughts, and even through tear-blurred vision, the sights of it all were clearer than cloudless day. Imaru could do nothing as he watched buildings and homes crumble into ash: as men, women and children were all slaughtered before him. Imaru recognized the remains of his surroundings as his home village. And like the houses and people of his village, he too crumbled in horror.

Shadows.

Imaru looked up. His pulse quickened; the same silhouette from before had come significantly closer. Out of the corner of his sight, he saw two pairs of glowing eyes – white on his right, and black on his left. Two men suddenly appeared from either side; one emerged in a bright flash of light, and the other manifested himself from shadow. They were, the two of them, identical: both were tall and muscular, with skin like dark oakwood. Both had chiseled jawlines and handsome, young and rugged, yet cruel features, with a long scar from just above their right eye going down to just above their facial hair. They both had chinstrap beards and goatees and long, dreadlocked, jet black hair that drifted down the left sides of their heads. They stood tall and regal, as if they were nobility, or royalty… no, as if they were divinity. His jaw slackened as he inspected the pair more closely.

‘They both look… like me?’

Imaru had not yet grown into the build or features that these spectres possessed, nor had his hair grown quite as long; he was only eight years old. Otherwise, these two men were perfect images of what Imaru could grow up to be.

The man examining him on the right wore shining, golden armor with a mysterious and intricate design on the breastplate that Imaru could only identify as some sort of white beast. There were also runic etchings and designs of silver along the lining of his armor. He held a wicked, white longsword in either hand that glowed with a faint, white light.

The warrior glaring at him from the left wore evil, black armor that sang of corruption and darkness. It had a glowing, red center on the breastplate that stretched from the sternum to the navel. The black warrior held a dark, regal halberd whose blade danced and whispered with visible dark power.

But the warrior in the center – the approaching silhouette that at last stood before him… he was the one who frightened him the most.

He was identical to the other two, yet very much different. He stood taller, and stronger. He wore perfectly blended black hood and robes and golden armor with ornate, white runes etched into the lining. He held the sword of the white knight in one hand, and the black warrior’s halberd in the other. But to Imaru, the most intimidating difference about the man was his mask. He wore a full gold mask with ornate, black designs that appeared to glow and dance across his face like the runes on his armor, and the only things visible about him were his eyes: scarlet, piercing through to Imaru’s very soul, and burning like the fires that surrounded them. His mask faded away to reveal an identical face to the other two warriors, and those terrifying eyes gleamed as he pointed his sword at Imaru, and uttered one word:

“Choose.”

Death.

The smoke finally infiltrated Imaru’s lungs. He noticed as he struggled to draw breath, but instead coughed and hacked. The trinity of spectres watched emotionlessly as Imaru suffered from a slowly increasing lack of oxygen. His vision began to blur, and he got dizzier and dizzier until finally, his legs gave out. He collapsed… suffocated… choked…

Writhed…

Gasped…

Died…

Awoke.

Imaru jolted awake from yet another nightmare, breathing as though he were still battling the smoke for his lungs. Once his nerves calmed, the chill of a late winter night set in. The grass and dirt beneath him was frozen and rough, but still more comfortable to sleep on than the rocks and gravel. The sounds of the nearby tavern and its reveling or brawling patrons could be heard. The village itself was impoverished: nothing but worn buildings and poorly built homes of bamboo and mud and the sleeping bodies of orphaned children or adults who fell upon such hard times that they could not even afford to live in these dilapidated shacks were to be seen for dozens of meters. The air here reeked of bodily fluids, liquor, and sex – as did most of the village residents. Somewhere, in some dark alley, Imaru could hear the sound of a whore plying her trade. Somewhere else, he heard a struggle between men ensuing – a group of men mugging someone for money.

This was life every day in Black Hill.

“Bad dreams again, ‘Ru?”

Imaru turned to see his best friend Isa standing behind him. She was five years older than he was, so she had already been farther along on the path to maturity. Even at thirteen, however, Isa was an incredibly beautiful girl: more so than most grown women Imaru had seen around here, although that wasn’t saying much. She was taller than Imaru by several inches, mainly due to the age difference between the two. She had beautiful, perfectly clear, jet black skin that radiated in the moonlight. Her equally dark, matted, dried hair flowed down her back with an elegance that did not match her environment. Her eyes were a deep, piercing green that glistened like starlight.

Imaru nodded his head in response to her question. “I’ve been having nightmares for over a week, and it scares me. And each one is worse than the last.” he answered quietly. Isa put a hand on his shoulder and squatted to look him in his eyes. “You wanna talk about it?” she asked. Imaru just looked down and turned his head after a moment. “You wouldn’t understand unless you saw them. I couldn’t explain it to you even if I wanted to.” he sighed. Isa looked at him for a moment, then patted the side of his face and rose to her full height. “Maeson will be up soon. It’s the last day of the month; we’d better get ready.” Imaru’s heart sank even lower. Maeson was the second son of the village head. At the end of each month, he had everyone living on the village streets and under seventeen bring him something of value as tribute in an event called the Collecting. He would take these items and present them to his mother, who would sell them to passing merchants. In exchange, he got favor from his mother, and Maeson allowed the ‘Loaders’ (short for freeloaders) to remain on the streets. The problem was, Maeson and his mother and siblings were the only ones with more than ten silver knights to their names. That meant in order to get what he demanded, Loaders had to either rob each other or venture into the Igi Egún – the woods outside the village – and either sneak into and rob a camp of bandits or a roaming company of knights, or hope that somebody from one of those two groups left something behind in the woods. That was if they were brave enough to risk an encounter with wild animals – wolves, bears, boars, panthers – or worse. But if they missed their due date, even once, they were driven out by village guards, and unless they were able to find other transportation into the capital city, Meluaad – weeks upon weeks of journey on foot – they were condemned to live in the perpetual danger of the Igi Egún, ranging from beasts to murderers, slavers, or exiled Callers.

Imaru and Isa were two of the braver Loaders in the village, and they’d recently heard rumors of a possible caravan carrying a prince to Meluaad. But the caravan would be well-guarded… they had even heard there might have been a Blademaster or two among them. It was dangerous… but if they didn’t get caught, the reward would be well worth the risk.

Imaru looked up at Isa, nerves steeled. “Let’s get going before I change my mind.”