Rise of the Faceless Demon

The Oesterian wind slapped his face. Hard. Cold.

The freezing air carried rust dust from the dead lake below the cliff. Luka picked up the rusted sword from the stone mud dirt. The old iron felt rough. Repulsive. The soldier's dried blood stain from yesterday still crusted between the hilt guards.

He took a greedy breath, rot-scented air filling his lungs.

His left foot shifted forward. His upper body posture was pulled by force. His spine straightened, challenging the storm's direction. The basic Royal Eisenhart stance. A combat position that should be embedded deep inside a throne heir's blood and veins. The stance of a blue-blooded slaughterer.

Luka gripped the sword hilt with both hands, raising it past his shoulder.

He swung the old iron forward.

Rusted metal sliced through the freezing air, its trajectory ruined and lacking a straight path. The sword tip bent, responding to a wrong muscle pull.

His right shoulder rejected the command. The veins around his wrist twisted by force. A massive cramp attacked, opposing muscle pulls tearing the tissues beneath his own skin. Agony stabbed sharply from the base of his neck to his fingertips. The heavy weapon slipped from his grip, falling and clinking as it struck the cliff rocks.

Bastard.

Luka growled, his teeth clashing. He stepped forward, punching his left fist into a nearby skeleton tree trunk.

Crack.

The frozen bark shattered. His knuckles tore. Fresh blood seeped, soaking the pale trunk. Pain crawled from his hand to the base of his neck, but he ignored it. He pulled his arm, punching the tree again. Once more, ruining the skin of his own hand.

Why?

This flesh refused to be a knight. This body thrashed every time he tried to stand straight. He crawled on his inner prison floor yesterday. He scavenged watery soup like a starving pig. Where was a prince's dignity? Where was that exalted Reinhardt bloodline?

He swung his fist for the third time.

A hand caught his wrist from behind. Pale skin bearing warm temperature muffled his punch's force. The scent of lilies banished the rotting wood stench from his nasal cavity.

"Enough, My Lord," Rhea whispered.

Luka brushed the maid's hand away. His chest rumbled hard. "My body is defective. This flesh defects against my own commands. I cannot even hold a sword without tearing my own veins."

Rhea bowed her head. Her gray wool dress fluttered, slashed by the blizzard. "That is not your fault."

"Then whose fault is it?" Luka's voice rose. His neck veins bulged hard. "A prince who cannot swing a sword is trash. How do I chop Ulric's neck if my hand paralyzes just from lifting old iron?"

Rhea took one step closer. Her face was hard. Her eyes stared straight.

"Ulric shattered your foundation, My Lord." Rhea's voice flowed flat, piercing the wind's roar. "His sword slash on that night of betrayal did not merely tear your scalp. That blade severed your veins' connection to the past. Your flesh's memory vanished."

The explanation infiltrated. Filling the void in Luka's head demanding answers.

"The law of erosion gnawed at what remained," Rhea continued. The maid let her words settle into poison. "During the escape, your flesh discarded all palace techniques. Your body was forced to adapt into a hunted beast to maintain your heartbeat. This weakness... this is proof of your suffering."

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Ulric.

That name burned his solar plexus again. His uncle stole his throne. Decapitated his father. He realized that bastard also robbed control over his own body. His uncle ruined a prince's masterpiece.

Luka's breaths hunted. His jaw hardened until his temple muscles twitched.

He stepped back two paces. Slumping down on a dead tree root protruding from the frozen dirt. His back leaned against the skeleton trunk. White vapor billowed from his mouth.

Luka looked down. Staring at his palms covered in blood from the punch wounds earlier. These hands were rough. Full of thick calluses. The hands of a quarry worker or a thief living off the mud.

His eyes narrowed.

Something odd rested behind the fresh blood stain on his left palm.

Luka wiped the blood onto his shirt fabric. Cleaning the surface rough.

There, crossing from the base of his thumb to the center of his palm, lay an old scar. A thickened scar line. Its color paler than the surrounding skin. The slash mark of a sharp weapon healed years ago. A very deep slash.

Luka furrowed his brow. He traced the scar with his right thumb.

Empty.

He tried to summon past fragments regarding this wound. No image emerged. When did he get it? During sword training with a palace master? During a hunting accident in the royal forest? Not a single memory connected to this transverse scar. His skull buzzed in pain as he forced himself to dig the dark space in his brain.

"Do you remember it?" Rhea's voice sounded from above.

Luka looked up. "This scar... I do not know where it came from."

Rhea knelt before him. The maid touched Luka's left hand with both her warm hands. Rhea's pale thumb stroked the thick scar. A touch channeling calm.

"You were fourteen years old," Rhea whispered. Her eyes locked onto the scar. "An assassin from Gileroth infiltrated the palace dining hall. He swung a poisoned dagger at King Reinhardt's neck."

Luka held his breath. His mind worked hard, chasing the story.

"The guards acted late," Rhea continued. "But you did not. You jumped in front of your father, catching that sharp blade with your bare hand."

Pain exploded in Luka's head.

A feral migraine struck the back of his eyes. His brain felt split in two by a blunt axe. A memory exploded in an instant inside his head. A white marble table. Spilled wine soaking a gold tablecloth. Blood dripping heavily from his palm gripping sharp iron coated in green slime. His father's face turning pale in shock, while radiating unspoken pride.

That memory fragment petrified him. The veins on Luka's temples bulged. He shut his eyes tight, enduring the sensation of a rusted nail hammered into his skull. The pain was real. Cold sweat pierced his pores. His memory had returned, demanding its place inside a long-empty head.

"This scar is your medal, My Lord," Rhea said. The maid pressed the wound. "Proof that behind this flesh ruined by Ulric, you have always been a protector. You spilled blood for others long before that coup night happened."

Luka's breath grew steady. The pain in his head subsided, leaving a new conviction crawling warm in his vessels.

He stared at his left hand.

Protector. Blood medal. Those words bound his hatred with justice. He was no monster crawling in the mud. He was a sword of truth being reforged in this hell. His wrath possessed roots. He had to decapitate Ulric not merely for revenge, but to protect the people now dying from war taxes and starvation.

He accepted his newly returned memory. This defective hand was proof of his devotion to the kingdom. His weakness held meaning.

Luka stood up. He no longer tried forcing a straight posture. He let his shoulders drop a fraction. He accepted his crooked body posture as the price of a sacrifice.

He stared at the rusted sky above. The red ring illuminated the dead forest with the color of rot. Beneath that filthy light, Luka stared straight toward the southern horizon. Toward the jagged mountains caging the border. The assassins' headquarters.

He needed an unseen right hand. He needed wild dogs capable of tearing necks devoid of questions. If his physical strength lacked the power to collapse Ulric's palace, he would bring a mercenary executioner force to finish it.

"The Hollow Syndicate," Luka said. His voice was cold. "We depart tomorrow."

"As you command, My Lord," Rhea replied.

Luka walked past the maid, stepping back toward the shack. His mind locked full on tactics and blood preparations.

Behind him, Rhea stood petrified. The wind slapped her dress. The woman stared at her master's retreating back. Beyond the prince's line of sight, Rhea's lip line curved upward. A smile of satisfaction formed on her pale face. The satisfaction of a cold-blooded loyalist who had just finished reforging her prince into a flawless sharp weapon. The smile vanished as fast as it appeared. Rhea smoothed her dress, pivoted her step, and walked to follow her master.

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