The Weeping Swordsman

Laughter and chatter filled the air of the bustling bar, drowning out the banging of wooden jugs of expensive beer and the soft strumming of a lute in the corner. Adventurers gathered to celebrate their flawless victory over a band of hunters who had terrorized the town for the past decade. This was no minor celebration. The MVP of the battle was Ragnar, a towering, muscle-bound, A-class adventurer known for his countless feats. He toasted his bravery, raising his mug and filling the bar with his deep belly laugh.

“That’s our man right here! The hunters had no chance against him!” a young adventurer praised, and others cheered in agreement. All intoxicating themselves in their favourite poison.

“Bring more drinks,” an adventurer said, standing on the table. “The night is still young, my brothers. Let’s feast!”. They all screamed, raising their mugs.

The town council had promised to cover the bill, so it wasn’t a normal night. Girls, drinks, and entertainment filled the air, like something out of a dream. Ragnar returned to his seat, adjusting the sword strapped on his back, making himself more comfortable. He had three ladies at his side. He leaned into one of them, his lips parted slightly as he went for a kiss. Matilda, the server, noticed and walked towards him with a refill. She leaned in, dropping a full mug on his table.

“Thanks, Matilda, you’re a darling,” he guzzled down his beer.

“No, No we should thank you without your help. Kanto would be long gone,” Matilda said, smiling at the girls.

Ragnar laughed out, stretching out his mug for another round. Matilda went to get more. The celebration went on for hours; the men danced to the rhythm of the lute and the vocals of the three girls. Matthew, a fellow member of Lion’s Claw, finished his drink. He was a young adventurer who wore only a chest plate and shorts. Matthew walked towards his comrades, who were still busy with their drinks.

“Hey buddies, I believe we all have heard the news,” he said, his eyes blurry and brain filled with beer. “W-We may have some fresh blood soon. Yes, soon; the guild won’t leave this town to just a single band of adventurers since we. We beat those damm hunters! As the saviours of this town, how should we treat them? Huh? How should we, the heroes, treat those amateurs who come with their funny accents and outfits, huh? How should we treat them?”

“They’re better off as our subordinates,” an adventurer said, drinking more from his mug.

“They should be proud to work under us, legends.”

Matthew laughed, leaping onto the counter and crossing his legs. “Good answer, my comrades,” Matthew said, his eyes still blurry. “Do you all believe in ghosts?”

“Seriously, man?” someone said.

“Matthew must be going nuts again.”

“Just had to change the topic to some horror flick.”

“Yeah, he always tries to spook us like we’re kids and he looks drunk too”.

Matthew giggled and leaned over the counter. “A few years ago, a man fell from the heavens, his clothes tattered and dyed red. He wielded a strange Katana emitting an ominous aura. People said he killed his victims in under three seconds, slicing through his victims’ necks as if they were mere butter. A ghost, appearing at night, never uttering a word. However, if you listen closely, you’d hear a cry whenever he was close. People call him the Weeping Swordsman-“

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but we’ve all heard this before. The bards sing about it all the time,” an adventurer said, downing his beer.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “The Weeping Swordsman, you say, what do the bards sing about him?”

“He is a swordsman who single-handedly wiped out a clan right here in the seventh realm,” an adventurer recounts.

“No, he subdued them to be his subordinates and commanded they kill themselves,” another said.

“Same thing, bastard!”

“What did you just call me?”

They punched each other and fell to the floor.

“I heard he survived a coliseum filled with deadly creatures, hands and feet tied, blindfolded.”

“I heard he slayed a dragon too, using his bare hands. His bare hands!”

Ragnar slams his mug on the table, shattering both with the impact.

“Today is my day, not some swordsman’s,” Ragnar yelled, lifting his sword and assuming a stance. Ragnar wasn’t just an adventurer but a three-time winner in the colosseum of the Nine Realms. He was a legend, a prodigy loved and admired by thousands. His strength, he claimed, far surpassed that of the swordsman.

“Now let’s enjoy the night, more booze for everyone, drink like your lives depend on it!” Ragnar screamed.

“Yeah, the boss is right. Today is our day not some swordsman,” an adventurer said.

The adventurers roared, cheering their leader.

“Please, someone, help me. I think I’m dying,” Matthew groaned, falling to the floor.

The adventurers drank all night, forgetting the swordsman they had spoken about.

*

It became a ghost town. The cool breeze blew through the town, and the bells placed on some houses’ entrances rang softly.

Kanto was a simple town with simple people, everyone working their hardest to earn a living and survive. It was peaceful until the hunters came. Weekly taxes, affordable or not, were mandatory for all, filling the pockets of the hunters. All hope seemed lost. Until Ragnar and his band of adventurers, popularly known as the Lion’s Claw, stumbled into the town and decided to help. The battle took over a month of strategizing, gathering resources and information about the enemy, reinforcements, and finally, the endgame. They executed the Hunters, while some fortunate ones managed to escape. Lion’s Claw received a vast sum of money and a free meal as a reward. The townsfolk celebrated their freedom; it was a splendid day to be alive. However, at nightfall, the silence lingered in the air.

The once lively bar now lay in ruins, shards of glass littering the floor like a minefield, and the pungent scent of spilled ale hanging heavy in the air. The adventurers and workers at the bar all lay on the floor. Down the street was Ragnar’s home, assigned to him by the town’s chief. In his bathroom, he stood before a mirror, a dark robe draped over him.

“Hahaha, I finally did it. Yes, it is all mine, mine, I say,” he said, brushing his hair. “Matthew was right all along; these people need a worthy leader, one to guide them on the right path, one like yours truly.”

He dropped his brush and headed to the bedroom. “Tonight I’ll take care of the town’s chief, but before then, how about we have some fun?”

The three girls trembled, their eyes wide with terror as they clutched at each other. They had been told to entertain the saviours, but not like this. Taking advantage of them is already bad enough, but plotting to take over the town makes the crime more heinous. Matilda helped them last time by distracting Ragnar at the bar, but now they were alone with him.

Ragnar walked towards the bed, noticing the girls’ gloomy faces. “Oh, don’t be sad, my little angels. Once I assume the role of the town’s new chief, I’ll treat you three like queens, and I’ll ensure the town’s safety. I promise you.” He leaned closer to the shivering ladies, whispering, “Now, take off your clothes.”

Evelyn, one of the girls, screamed, swinging her arms and aiming for Ragnar’s eye. He smirked and tried to dodge, but he couldn’t move. As he glanced at his torso, he noticed the other girls holding him down. Despite his strength, he couldn’t break free in time. Evelyn stabbed his eye with the needle.

“Arrgh, you bitch!”

Heading to the domain of the chief, the girls ran out of the building. The wind grew stronger, birds flying off to safety as the storm drew near. The girls giggled through their tears; they had escaped but were not out of the woods yet. To better their chances, they decided to split up. The chief’s residence was at the center of town, with multiple routes leading there. The fastest way was through the forest, but it was also the riskiest since the person who took the route had a higher chance of crossing paths with Ragnar’s men, who were still in the bar.

“I’ll go.”

“No, Evelyn, it’s too dangerous,”. Janet said. She turned to Marian.

“We should go to the chief’s house, together”

Evelyn sighed.” You are aware of our current situation. One of us must head that path and I’m well suited to it. Also, we can better our chances if we split up. That way it’ll be harder for them to catch us”

“But-”

Janet and Marian bowed their heads as Evelyn drew them in for a hug, then pushed them aside. She ran into the forest, ignoring the screams she heard behind her.

*

“Damn! I let my guard down for one second, and this happens. That girl, I’ll kill her,” Ragnar grumbled, placing a bandage on his wound. “I’ll bring this town to its knees. Then they’ll beg me to rule instead. But first, I need the guys.”

Arriving at the bar, Evelyn’s legs gave out. The adventurers were still on the floor, stains of blood on their collars. It was their necks, a slight cut, almost unnoticeable. What in the world is going on here? She held a short knife, hoping to take down whatever caused this. Maybe it was Ragnar, she wondered. He is a savage, after all, she thought. Gathering the courage to stand, a deep husky voice brought her back to her knees.

“What the hell is going on here?” Ragnar turned to her. “Are you responsible for this?”

His voice echoed in the room as she sat there silently,

“I SAID, WHAT HAPPENED HERE!” Ragnar slapped her. She remained on the floor of broken bottles.

“Come here, you bitch” Ragnar grabbed her hair, pulling her up. Evelyn swiftly threw glass shards at him, making him fall to the ground. She ran out of the bar into the streets.

“What’s going on there? Who killed them? Is there another tyrant in town?” She recalled seeing the cuts on most of the adventurers, but not the workers. Just who is responsible for this? She wondered. Ragnar caught up to her, grabbing her hair again and throwing her against crates of tomatoes.

“How did you do it?” he said, his voice echoing in the dark alleyway.

“What do you mean?” Evelyn tried to be courageous, but his aura was too intimidating. She felt like a little bunny in the presence of a mighty, daunting lion.

“How did you kill all my men? Even if they were drunk, you wouldn’t have had a chance.”

“I didn’t kill them.”

“Oh, so you’re a liar too, huh?” He said, slapping her, and drawing his sword. “You killed my comrades. Now, I’m going to do the same, starting from your family after your friends, this goddamn town. I’ll save you for last.”

He licked his lips and drew a powerful arc toward the defenceless Evelyn, who buried her face in her arms.

“Please don’t hurt anyone. I beg you,” she mumbled. His sword hit the wall behind her. Ragnar felt a current shift in the atmosphere. Even as the dark clouds loomed in, it played no role in the chill he felt.

“This town is a violent one,” a mysterious voice said. “How sad it is”

Ragnar picked up his sword and glared at the enigmatic figure wearing a sugegasa.

“Who are you?”

“I have no name, strong one,” the figure said, his voice calm and even.

Ragnar laughed, resting his sword on his shoulder. “Strong one? Yes, I am strong,” he said, “I like you. You see, I’m short on members at the moment.” He pointed at the figure. “Join me, and together we’ll make a new, stronger Lion’s Claw.”

Evelyn’s skin crawled. He just lost his members, and now he’s already recruiting new ones? How cruel can he be? She thought.

“I’m not interested in such activities, especially those involving an animal. I’m not a fan of those critters,” the figure responded, adjusting his hat.

“I see. This is not your lucky day then. I must dispose of you this instant”

With a single dash, Ragnar closed the distance between them, swinging his sword towards the figure’s neck. The figure swiftly bent backwards, evading the strike and admiring the reflection of Ragnar’s blade. Ragnar, still determined, kept swinging, screaming at each interval, but not a single strike hit its mark.

Who is this guy? Ragnar wondered. He swung again, but the figure dodged with a smirk. Suddenly, the smirk changed to a shocked expression as Ragnar kicked his side. The figure threw a backflip, landing on his feet, and then calmly cleaned off the dirt from his clothes.

Evelyn could not move; the fear of being killed if she attempted to escape was overwhelming. All the courage she mustered up to fight Ragnar and his men was all gone. She stared at the shadowy figure. He wore a dark, tattered cloak. Is he a friend or foe? What was his goal? Was he the one who murdered Ragnar’s men? A lot of questions ran through her mind. She waited patiently, waiting for the right moment to run and inform the chief.

“Let’s end this!” Ragnar yelled, his sword igniting. “Witness the power of the Flame Sword. One passed down through generations. This blade has overcome countless trials. With it, I shall have your head, you damm swordsman!”

His burning sword twisted to create an encirclement of flames in the air. He jumped into it, launching himself towards the figure, using his life's energy to create a sea of flames behind him.

The figure stood unfazed, glaring at the flames, in awe of their beauty.

“DIE!!!!” Ragnar swung his sword at the figure, causing a massive explosion.

I made a hit. There’s no way he survived that. Ragnar smiled, but at that moment while he was still in the air, he noticed the flames were not spreading. The explosion immediately piled up into a single spot in a few seconds and vanished.

Evelyn covered her mouth, seeing Ragnar’s severed head on the floor, and in hand, the figure held a bright red steam-emitting sword.

“I’m dead? How? Wait, how am I alive?” Ragnar looked up and saw the figure’s face. His eyes widened; he couldn’t find words to describe what he saw, a monster with an ominous, indomitable energy. His mind could only conjure a single word—a demon.

“Arrgh!! LET ME GO, LET ME GOO!!” he screamed, dying of sheer terror. The clouds wept softly, leading to a ferocious downpour. The figure adjusted his hat and sheathed his sword. Without a word, he walked past Evelyn, who was still in shock.

“T-Thank you. Pl-Please, who are you, mister?” she stammered.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to her.

“Me?” he swung the blood out of his sword, returning it to his sheath. “Just an ordinary swordsman passing by.”