The Tragic Tale of the False Saint

[Disillusioned]

The Saint moved through the dark alley; blades moving in near-perfect sync. The right one was a fine katana, save for the red liquid coating. The left one was a wakizashi, a smaller blade, but very similar to the katana in make. Several chips marked that fine steel, another chip marred the blade as the wakizashi blocked an oncoming sword. The wielder of that offending blade had just enough time to let out a scream as the Saint ended his life with the katana.

It was roughly pass midnight; clouds hid the moon from sight. The wind was cold tonight; cold and cruel. Most people were in bed by now, or at least tucked away by a warm fire. Soft glows could be seen from the houses who’s occupants were still awake, most abodes were quiet and still. Each and every spark of the clashing swords brought color to the dark night, but faded just as quickly.

Jeffery Rolds, a slightly balding mercenary, cursed as he held his longsword at the ready. He had managed to live to the age of forty-seven by selling his sword according to three simple rules. One, if the price was too good to be true, it probably was. Two, don’t work for the Big Bad, it always ends bad. And three, never go to work drunk.

The lack of alcohol on his breath was a testament to how strictly he observed these rules, and was most likely the only reason he was still alive. The robed figure before him danced about; blades glistening despite the lack of moonlight. Jeffery thought he spied an opening and lunged, but a quick parry from the wakizashi blocked his longsword. The katana narrowly missed his head, but did succeed in shaving off a few pieces of hair, making the already balding man balder.

Before him was a foe who was obviously concerned with not being identified. Dressed in plain black clothes, and covered with an even darker robe and hood, Jeffery could discern little about who he fought, save for the fact that whoever it was knew how to handle those two swords. The figure was shorter than him, but fought in a slightly hunched position, so Jeffery couldn't say for sure the exact size. The assailant’s body was definitely thinner than Jeffery’s, but that wasn’t exactly saying much. Jeffery wasn’t the type of mercenary to engage in long campaigns of war and battle. He munched preferred simple jobs, like guarding shops and escorting people home.

Which made this whole situation even more insane! It wasn’t as if he was some thuggish mercenary defending a crime lord, or protecting a fat greedy merchant! His charge tonight, as it had been for the past week, was a freaking twenty-year old girl (who had frozen in complete horror). She wasn’t the daughter of some evil king, or a seductress who left hundreds of broken men in her wake. She was just a twenty-year old serving girl who’s boss felt uncomfortable having her walk home alone at night, so her boss had the two guards he had hired to watch the shop walk home with her.

Did Jeff expect to be accosted by a pickpocket? Sure. How about a random thug? Maybe. A couple of boys out to harass an innocent girl? Happened twice yesterday. A psychotic, two-sword wielding assassin? Most certainly not.

He briefly cursed Althanas for not having some sort of way to separate the simple swordsmen from the master duelists who sliced and diced their way through countless foes. Not that this robed figure had actually done such a thing; only one man lay dead tonight. Jeffery was determined not to be the second.

Still, Jeffery Rolds was a good man. Not a great man per se(nor even close), but a good man. So when he felt his a sharp pain in his stomach, and realized there was no way he could possibly escape, he did the thing that came naturally to him.

“Go! Get out of here!” he screamed at the terrified girl, who’s white face was clear even in the dark night. The groan of pain-filled words snapped the young woman back into focus, and she took off into a full sprint.

She’ll get away. Jeffery thought as he slid to the ground with a katana in his stomach; blood gushed from the wound. There’s no way whoever this is will catch her. The girl’s got a good ten feet head start. She’ll make it. She will definitely make it.

Wordlessly, the person who had mortally wounded Jeffery took several steps after the fleeing girl. The assassin, or whoever it was, did not even bother to retrieve the sword still sticking out of Jeffery’s stomach. But the mercenary was happy with that, and the way the figure walked slowly. Surely the killer had realized the pursuit of the young woman was impossible.

Hope turned to horror as Jeffery’s eyes went wide in shock. Though the moonless night left little light for accurate descriptions, there was no way he could possibly be seeing things. Two swords had appeared by the dark figure; twin blades floated in the night, suspended by some form of dark magic. Jeffery heard himself scream as the blades flew through the night; the young woman’s body convulsed in pain as her flesh was pierced.

“No,” Jeffery heard himself say, “no no NO NO NO!”

Each word, each vain protest, was accompanied by another blade burying itself into the poor girl’s body. Blade after blade materialized before the killer; wordlessly they were sent off into the night. Mercilessly those sinister blades found their target, and heartlessly they spilled her blood. The woman jerked about suddenly as another blade pierced her, and Jeffery saw the look of utter terror in her eyes.

She was too frightened to even scream. Her young face, fair and kind, was twisted in agony, but she could not even form the words to say so. All she could do was stare in horror at her own body, a body pierced with numerous swords. A body that ran red with blood. A body that would soon cease to function, and would become that inert sack of flesh that all men and women eventually become.

Three more blades sang in the night, piercing the woman’s lungs, chest, and neck. A gurgle escaped her lips, more blood than sound. The twenty-year old girl slowly crumpled to the ground; the figure watched her fall without a word. Then, those blades that had ruthlessly severed the girl from her sweet life simply disappeared, as if they had never been there at all.

It was only then that Jeffery, who at this point was mad with fear and rage, recalled a tale of his childhood. It was an often told tale, popular amongst a good size of Althanas, and there wasn’t a swordsman alive who hadn’t heard it.

It was the tale of one man; a master swordsman. His blades moved like the wind, lithe and graceful. He was the best of the best, the top of the mountain that was swordsmanship. He struck like lighting, and faded like the softest whisper. Across Althanas he went, his deeds multiplying by the day. With his two swords and his magic blades, the man was the epitome of swordsmanship.

Why he recalled this tale at death’s door, Jeffery did not know. He wasn’t sure if it was the pain, or if it was the sight of an innocent girl being murdered right in front of him, and him being powerless to stop it. He knew not why he recalled this tale of his childhood, this tale of a man who wielded two swords and fought with magic blades.

Yes, that had been an important part of the tales. Magic blades that protected the warrior, magic blades that felled his foe. The swordsman could summon the blades from naught but air, and command them as he saw fit.

“You were supposed to be a hero!” Jeffery heard himself shout as the figure silently approached him. Pain wracked his body, his vision was blurred; he couldn’t see much outside of a red haze. His hands clutched his wound, his own warm blood fill his hands and fell through his fingers.

“They told stories of you! Of how you saved people! Of how you helped people! This can’t be! THIS CANNOT BE!” Jeffery screamed his killer gripped the hilt of the katana.

“You were supposed to be a hero damn it!” Tears welled up in his eyes as those childhood tales turned into a nightmare, and the hero of his childhood tore out his intestines with a katana.

“You were supposed to be a saint. The Saint of Swords...”

Roughly six minutes later the town’s guards responded to the screams that had been reported, along with a good number of curious townsfolk. They shined light on the alley, finding only three people. One was a dead man, cleanly cut by a sword. The second was a man who’s stomach had been spilled out before him, and was beyond all hope of saving. The man muttered incoherent things about a hero, blubbering as he slowly died. The last was the young girl, her bloodly body pierced over fifteen times. Guards cursed, men swore, women cried, and children whispered about who was this monster that prowled the night, killing innocent people.

Wrapped in the cool night air, and caressed by a cold breeze, the robed figure watched the crowd gather. The next day the Saint walked the streets as if nothing had happened, but not a single word of the incident was wasted upon the ear’s of that killer. Town criers shouted at the brutality, religious men condemned the deed as acts of one possessed by the devil, and the families of the victim cried many tears. Four men swore to find the twisted killer, and visit upon that person everything that the poor girl had suffered, and much much more.

A smile played across the lips of the so-called Saint of Swords.

[Disillusioned]

Sakura Hisa let out a sigh of satisfaction as she leaned back against tree in the of the town of Irenes. Having just finished her meal, consisting of very tasty noodles and similarly tasty bean sprouts (if tasty meant inexpensive), her violet eyes carefully scanned the simple place before her.

Sakura had always liked her eyes, the color of which ran in her family; you didn't see too many people with violet eyes. It gave her a sense of mystery she happened to like, a bit of allure. However, her tangled mat of black hair took away a good deal from that mystery, making her instead look much more like someone who slept outside more often than not (which she did).

She frowned as she ran her fingers through her dark black hair, rolling her pretty eyes each time an attempt at untangling a knot only made it worse. She hadn't cut her mess of hair in a long time, believing firmly that long hair was pretty, and trips to the barber were expensive. At this point, if she combed her hair all the way out, it would reach her lower back (in its tangled state, not so much).

Sakura tucked her chopsticks (handmade by her from a pair of sticks she had found; not a testament to fine artistry in any way, shape, or form) into one of the many pockets in her long grey coat. A coat that was far too hot for the nice weather this simple town enjoyed.

Seriously, couldn't it be just a bit colder? She shifted about, trying to displace the heat that from her body, and succeeding in only making a few beads of sweat trickle down her neck. But, she dared not remove her coat, not now when she was so close.

The Saint of Swords. How many times had she heard tales of his valor and his skill? Probably about twice as much as she heard about his crimes and sins. For each and every two good stories she heard about the man, there was at least one much less flattering story.

And the drama that accompanied the man! Oh, that was the best part in Sakura's mind. Not only did the Saint of Swords have a life-long enmity with his brother-in-law, but the two also hunted gods now. After trying for close to some where over twenty years or so to kill one another. Or was it that the Saint of Swords was working with a god to finally kill off his brother-in-law? Sakura had a hard time keeping the stories straight.

One thing she was sure of was this: the man was a master swordsman, who had fought for a very long time against his hateful brother, also a master swordsman (who wasn't nowadays). Apparently the two hadn't fought too seriously, or one of them would be dead. Devastation always followed in the wake of the two's battles, up to and including the utter destruction of the Saint of Sword's home by over sixteen hundred dragons.

That last part had been rather easy to confirm. An isle of dragons tended to be rather easy to follow-up on; dragons were not known for subtly.

Other than that, separating truth from fiction had been no easy task. But there weren't too many people that could shoot swords out of nowhere, so Sakura figured her recent information had to be good. But if it was, what did that make the Saint of Swords? Was the once great hero now nothing more than a mad killer? If so, how in the hell did she plan on stopping him? The man could explode every vein in your body with a glance!

Or so she had heard.

Her epic quest (spanning no less than seven towns and costing the poor girl over a hundred precious gold coins) had led her to this town, which the Saint of Swords called home. When he wasn't off fighting his brother. Or fighting gods. Or killing innocent people. Whatever.

Sakura spied two uneaten bean sprouts, and quickly snatched them up. She munched on them, savoring the nonexistent flavor, as she gave her equipment a quick check. This quick check took over five minutes, as the young girl (just turned twenty-three; celebrated by splurging on precisely two chocolate-dipped strawberries) had no small amount of equipment to check.

She had a sword at her side, but if it came to blows with the Saint of Swords, titles dictated she didn't have a chance. Instead, if she had to fight, Sakura would rely on the numerous gadgets she had tucked away. A couple knives, smoke bombs, a bit of explosive powder, a small wrist mounted weapon that shot tiny crossbow bolts, one single piece of beef jerky, a spring-loaded dagger in her boot, and several other things that made the long coat a necessity. And heavy.

Wait a sec! A single piece of beef jerky? The still sweating Sakura thought to herself. "I thought I had eaten all of it! Score! Good day!"

She accompanied her victory with a hoot and a fist pump into the air, causing a nearby town guard (they had no uniform, save for a white sash and tiny badge) to stare at her. Sakura's lip twitched nervously as the white-haired man eyed her; her hands pulled on her hair quite frantically as she saw the man's katana.

"I...um...thought I had eaten it all," she muttered softly.

"Oh. That is a good day," the man replied with a puff of pride, as if he found three pieces of beef jerky earlier today, and was therefore having a great day. Sakura was jealous, but said nothing as the man cheerfully walked away, smiling to himself happily.

Moving back to the task at hand, locating the Saint of Swords, Sakura began her walk to through the tiny town. She was surprised at the lack of...well, everything. She had expected the home of the Saint of Swords to be more epic, with tall castle walls and mansions, but this place was anything but. Lots of simple wooden houses, a market...oh, there was a art shop over there. She promised herself to swing by later; just to look (art was expensive).

There was a surprising lack of guards, and not a single soldier, but that made some sense. If a town had a man who could cut you a thousand times (literally), you really didn't need much in the way of defenses. Still, Sakura thought it a bad idea to simply walk about asking about the Saint of Swords, so she simply eavesdropped on every conversation she could, hoping to gleam some worthwhile information.

In the end, after four hours of wandering, she had learned several things. One, that the place called Noel's served amazing food (she wondered if she could somehow earn a discount). Two, the Saint of Swords did indeed live here, but was off on another one of his adventures. Three, his family lived in the two story house with the small stable attached (a rarity in this town; the stable, the two-story house less so). Four, his wife was still in town, and she was a looker. And five, the bartender at the bar was a very nice man, who didn't mind if you only ordered one drink and nursed it for two hours because your feet were really sore, and you wanted a seat with an actual cushion instead of a dirt floor.

The man had even helped her pass the time by telling her of the time he had saved a princess. Sakura found such a thing unlikely, but the story had been so good (and the seat had been so comfortable), she had left a tip of a single gold coin. She didn't even miss it (well...maybe a little).

But now night had fallen, and it was time for action! Sakura avoided the guards as she made her way through the town (an easy feet; there were only three guards on duty), and to the house the Saint of Swords called home. It was a rather nice house; two stories tall, a soothing dark brown paint matched the wooden roof. There was a balcony up above her head, it looked like a nice spot for a romantic date. Sakura wondered what the Saint of Swords would consider a better date: romantic walk on the beach, or ritualistic blood-letting?

She tried the door; locked of course. Well, at least the Saint of Swords wasn't a total idiot. No matter! Sakura Hisa could handle locked doors, rusty hinges, and tie her own shoes! She reached into her left pocket (the middle of the three), and procured a lock picking tool. She quickly went to work, and smiled with satisfaction as the lock clicked open. She frowned it disappointment as the door scrapped against the floor when she opened it; maybe the wife of the Saint of Swords was asleep, or if Sakura was really lucky, deaf?

As Sakura silently walked through the house, she mentally went over her plan. Find the wife of the Saint of Swords, and ask her why her husband was on a killing spree. More than likely she would have to make some adjustments, but that was her base plan. As for the breaking and entering...well, it would probably seem a bit out of the ordinary to knock on the door and simply ask the woman. Not that Sakura hadn't considered such an approach. Hello! I am Sakura Hisa with the Althanas Population Census! Is your husband a murderer, and if so, why?

"Just find the girl, and ask her. Then disappear into the night, like a bat!" Sakura whispered to herself as she softly made her way up the stairs; she saw a light up there. All she had to do was extract a bit of information, then be on her way. Sure, it wasn't the best plan, but she seriously doubted it could go too wrong. Get the info, scare the woman if necessary, and avoid three town guards on the way out.

Sakura went over the information she had gleamed about the woman she was about to confront. Total babe. Ten out of ten. Huge tits. Why was it that men only seemed to care about the shape and weight of a woman's chest? And why had the good lord deem fit to bless Sakura with a bust size an inch below the norm? It just wasn't fair!

Fuming about her lack of breasts, Sakura angrily shoved open the door before her. A woman was there, with blond hair and green eyes. She was a tiny thing, and skinny too. In fact, upon seeing the wife of the Saint of Swords, Sakura could only blurt out the first thought that came to her mind.

"Hey! You don't have huge tits at all!" Sakura shouted; the woman let out a whimper.

"You don't have to shout it!" the girl whined. "And yours aren't very big either!"

"I know," Sakura sniffled, "it's so not fair!"

"I agree! What did we do to...wait, why are you in my house?" the blond woman (who struck Sakura as being maybe a year younger than her) asked as she took a cautious step backwards. That's right! Now wasn't time to discuss breast size, or curse at those stupid, big-boob bimbos who always got free drinks when they went to the bar! Now was the time for action!

"All right you! Spit it out!" Sakura demanded as she whipped out her sword for dramatic effect. The woman she pointed the blade at screamed, and dove behind a table. That was good, it shouldn't take too long to get any information out of someone like this, thought Sakura would have thought that the wife of someone as renowned as the Saint of Swords would have a little more backbone.

"I've got questions, you've got answers! Just tell me what I want to know, and I'll be on my way!" Sakura advanced two steps. "I'm looking for your husband, where is he?"

The blond girl peeked her head out from the table, and gave Sakura a strange look. It took a moment, but Sakura eventually came to realize it was a look that made her doubt her own intelligence. Sweat trickled down Sakura's cheek, and this time not because of the coat she wore.

"Ummm...he's like, right behind you," the girl answered as Sakura froze. She distinctly heard the sword of someone drawing a sword, and she slowly turned her attention to what was behind her.

Sakura guessed he was about thirty years old or so. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair. His hair was carefully combed, and fluttered about a bit as he moved. He wore a long white coat of fine quality, and his eyes were the color of the coldest blue. His skin was white, perhaps a bit on the pale side. His face was grim; there was a very determined look in those cold blue eyes of his. And in his right hand was a sword, and Sakura wondered if it was to late to go with the Althanas Population Census plan.

[Disillusioned]

This was him. This was the man that was lauded in the fairy tales, the man who was said to be the best of the best. The hero of the ages, the master of the blade. This was the person who's name would be forever etched into the pages of history.

And yet, this was him! The man who’s footsteps were dogged by misfortune. The man who's very existence brought suffering unto others, the man who's home had been burned to the ground, taking with it thousands of innocent lives, all because of him!

Sakura's hands trembled fiercely, her palms grew heavy holding her shortsword. Before her was a man who could most likely kill her in an instant, but still, if everything she heard was true, then this man was a killer. He would most likely not even give her mercy even if she asked. The man raised his sword; a fine steel saber meticulously cared for. Simple, but the evidence of love that went into the blade was all too apparent.

“You...you Saint! You stupid Saint!” Sakura blurted out; the Saint of Swords coolly raised his eyebrows.

“Ah, I see. One of you louts out to claim that worthless title,” the man muttered softly. This statement infuriated Sakura; people had died for, and because of, that title. How dare this man take it so lightly!

“I really do not care about any of that,” the Saint of Swords continued, “but you will remove yourself from my home immediately. After you apologize to my wife for scaring her, of course.”

The distaste was evident in the Saint of Swords’ tone. Not only did he not care about Sakura‘s purpose, he seemed to not care about the title in general. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if countless people hadn’t died because of him and that title. Because he sought that title, many dreams had been shattered; innocent dreams of people who had wanted to do nothing save live a life of peace.

Black Isle was a perfect example. The people there had done nothing, but still they were caught in the Saint of Swords stupid war with his brother. Sakura had no idea what the Saint of Swords had done, but his brother-in-law had retaliated by wrecking havoc on people who had absolutely nothing to do with their cursed feud. Yet here was the Saint, caring not a bit about the pain and tears of anyone.

“You!” Sakura bellowed as she charged forth sloppily, neither noticing nor caring about the holes in her attack. “I hate you! I hate hate HATE YOU!”

Her attack was easily blocked, no surprise really. The man she faced down was a master of the sword, and she was a rank above amateur at best. But the Saint of Swords must have felt a trace of pity, for as he parried her blow to the side, he simply shook his head instead of press his advantage.

“Give it up girl,” the man whispered as Sakura turned around and struck at his face; the saber blocked the blow effortlessly. “You cannot hope to beat the Saint of Swords with such meager skill. Go home!”

The Saint gave her a forceful shove, she tumbled backwards over her own two feet. She rolled away, Sakura could hear the blond girl shouting something. The saber came at her again; her shortsword flew to her defense, but the Saint knocked the blade aside without a care. Sakura quickly crawled backwards, imagining she looked quite silly scrambling away on all fours.

The man seemed to concern himself little with her; that gave Sakura a bit of hope. If he underestimated her, than he would leave himself open. When she had managed to get enough distance between the two of them, she reached for her left wrist. She saw the Saint of Swords’ eyes grow wide as she level her hand at him.

Eat this, you son of a bitch! Sakura swore as she thumbed back a small lever on the bulky bracelet she wore; she saw the Saint of Swords hook his right foot around a small table as her bracelet shuttered three times. Three very small crossbow bolts flew at the Saint of Swords; the range of the bolts was crap, but this was close quarters fighting anyhow.

Sakura heard the blond girl cheer as the Saint of Swords kicked up the small table; the crossbow bolts were far too small to penetrate the fine oak the table was crafted from. Sakura grimaced as she heard the bolts chunk into the table, not harming the Saint in the least.

“That was hardly a display of swordsmanship,” the Saint of Swords muttered as he tossed aside the ruined table, “are you out for blood then? Out to kill the Sword Saint?”

Rather than respond, Sakura opted to dig into one of her coats many pockets. She tossed a small black bead across the floor; the Saint of Swords instantly went on guard. A second later there was a loud BANG, and a cloud of smoke appeared at the man’s feet. Sakura grinned, and lunged at him. There was no way even the Saint of Swords could fight effectively in a cloud of smoke.

Unless of course he took two steps back. In that case, the Saint of Swords would be able to see just fine, and Sakura would be the one flailing about blindly amidst the smoke. If that happened, well, then Sakura would most likely end up at the tip of the Saint of Swords’ saber.

“Er. Um. Ah,” she muttered as the sharp end of the blade appeared at next to her throat, “aren’t you supposed to use two blades?”

“No, I’ve always believed that if you cannot do it with one sword, why bother doing it all?” the man offered as he held Sakura at sword point. Then, his blue eyes lit up as if he had just realized something. “Ah. I see. You wouldn’t by chance be-”

He couldn’t finish his statement; another small black bead fell from Sakura’s coat sleeve (she always kept one tucked away there, just in case). Instantly the Saint of Swords retreated; Sakura realized he was a very cautious fighter. That made sense, he had no doubt survived numerous duels due to that caution.

But that caution worked in Sakura’s favor today. As the Saint of Swords retreated, she did as well. Actually, hers wasn’t so much of a retreat, as a full fledged run-the-hell-away. She bolted over the railing of the stairs, and raced down to the front door. She checked her back; no pursuers. She knocked on wood for luck (the door was made of fine wood, and she had to pass it on the way out anyhow).

Once she was outside, she drew a knife from her belt, and took careful aim. Surely the Saint of Swords would follow her, and once he did, she would fling this little knife into his stomach. Of course, there was always the chance the man would block it, and then impale her with numerous magic blades, but Sakura was running desperately low on options.

She heard voices behind her. No, more than just voices. She heard a crowd muttering many things, along with one man screaming for her to stop. She turned just in time to recognize one of the three on-duty guards charge at her. He wielded what seemed to be an iron stick, and confirmed this when Sakura felt a sudden pain in her right hand as he struck her. Her sword fell to the ground as she cursed; the man continued his onslaught.

She managed to block the steel staff with her dagger, and shoulder tackle the guard to the ground. The man quickly swung the staff at her legs, but she grabbed it with both hands (dropping her knife as she did so). Pain coursed through her fingers as the metal slammed against her skin, but it was better than having her feet swept out from under her (unless it was a handsome knight doing the sweeping, that would be all right).

The guard cursed as the two fought over the staff, but Sakura knew it was a losing battle. She had never been the strongest of children, and she hadn’t done much to improve that particular weakness as she grew up. Thankfully, she had other ways of dealing with foes, and as the guard wretched at the staff, Sakura slammed the back of her boot against the ground. A tiny knife shot out from the front of the boot; the guard screamed and covered his face. With a slight shake of her head, Sakura kicked the man away with the side of her boot. She wasn’t about to puncture the head of an innocent guy who was only trying to do his job.

She heard the gathered crowd gasp, and she turned around just in time to see the Saint of Swords in all his magnificent glory. He hadn’t gone out the door; he had flown through the air. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had leapt out of the second story window, and was now falling towards her with his sword. On this night of Irenes the moon shinning shinned, and the saber in the man’s hand gleamed like silver as he flew towards Sakura; his white coat billowed majestically with the wind.

She had just enough time to grab the iron staff from the unconscious guard, and raise it to defend herself. She felt the wind leave her small frame as the Saint of Swords fell upon her, smashing his blade into her recently acquired staff. Unfortunately for her, the Saint of Swords was the one doing the falling, and as such she ended up being the one he fell on. Sakura was fairly certain that the Saint of Swords gracefully rolled away (though she couldn’t be certain), but she herself had been smashed to the ground like a tomato in the hands of an angry child.

The crowd gathered closer to her as she struggled to her feet; she saw the white-haired guard with the katana move towards her. She snatched up her sword off of the grass to defend herself, but there was no need. The Saint of Swords himself stopped that man.

“She’s after the Saint of Swords,” she heard the man in the white coat grunt as he held up a hand to stop the guard. A sudden protestation of annoyance broke out from the crowd, along with no small numbers of insults aimed at Sakura, as well as her hygiene (that bit hurt).

“You know, that damn title has been nothing but trouble!” a man cursed; Sakura recognized the voice of the friendly bartender who had rescued the princess. Or so he said. Either way, Sakura would have loved to sit down into one of his comfy chairs and hear another tale.

“What do you think she wants?” a woman with long brown hair asked. Unlike the Saint of Swords’ wife, this girl was a real knock out. If anyone had big tits, it was her. Sakura gave a small grunt of annoyance mixed with jealously.

“Who knows? I will deal with it,” her foe muttered as he walked over to a small child. The young boy grasped a sword tightly, as if he was ready to go to battle himself.

“Might I borrow that sword Guy?” the Saint of Swords asked politely. The young boy frowned, but handed over the sword all the same. The Saint of Swords thanked the child, and handed him his own saber for safe keeping. That gesture brightened the boy’s day considerably, but Sakura’s day darkened significantly as her foe returned his attention to her.

“Stand down,” the man muttered as he placed his new sword into the sheathe the child had given to him along with the blade. “Stand down and listen to me.”

Sakura’s response was to frantically wave her sword in front of his face, much like a cornered tiger would claw at a foe. Except in this case, she felt more like a cornered babe who was about to wet her pants (she managed to retain that bit of dignity, however).

“If you intend to fight the Saint of Swords, I truly do not mind. However, if you would hear me out-”

Sakura interrupted the man with a timid slash at his face. As expected, she missed completely.

“So be it. Let us try a different approach,” the man muttered as he his right hand hovered over the hilt of his borrowed sword. “Stand down, or be struck down.”

The ultimatum was delivered as the crowd talked animatedly amongst itself. Sakura wasn’t exactly sure what she did in response, but she was fairly certain that whatever she had decided to do had not been the right choice. She surmised this from the fact that the last thing she had seen was a blinding fast sword strike, along with the ground approaching her head at a very rapid rate.

[Disillusioned]

"You could have at least left me my boots!" Sakura complained loudly as she was dragged barefoot through what qualified as the prison of Irenes. It had all the basic requirements of a prison, iron bars for starters. The fairly small building contained exactly three cells (capable of holding two prisoners each), a common room, and a private office.

"We would have if you didn't have knives in them!" a guard snapped back at her. It had been about two hours since her humiliating defeat, and all although Sakura couldn't exactly recall what had happened, she was fairly certain that the Saint of Swords had given her a thorough ass-whooping, or something along those lines. She was thankful to still be alive, but her side felt like someone had taken an iron pipe to it.

"And my pants! What about my pants? Stupid perv!" Sakura shouted so that all could hear. After finding no less than five smoke bombs, two tiny grenades, six straws, two steel wires, and one bag of bean sprouts, the town guard had decided it was better just to take all her clothes in general. Of course they had supplied her with new, less lethal, clothes, but Sakura was pretty sure one of them had copped a feel during the search. She would have liked to have been more sure, but at that point her head was still reeling from her face-plant (Saint of Swords induced).

With a "hurmph" they dumped her into the chair of the private room, used by the Captain of the Guards as an office. Sakura muttered an unkind word or three, and began to play with her hands, which of course had cuffs on them. Big, bulky cuffs, that were no doubt going to leave marks on her skin. She was certain she could pick them, but her coat of many contraptions had been taken away from her as well.

And now it was cold! Muttering about the unfairness of the world, Sakura brought her knees to her chest (making for quite an awkward pose; she wondered if the chair would hold), and wrapped her arms around her legs. She shivered slightly as she heard the door open behind her.

"Do you want a blanket? I can get you one if you like," came a polite voice. Sakura heard footsteps behind her, and instantly turned to whoever it was to give him a piece of her mind.

"Ack! Saint of Swords!" was went she ended up giving him, along with a graceful tumble from her chair onto the floor (it was graceful because she landed on her butt, and not her head).

"Will you please stop calling me that? I really do not enjoy that title. Not in the least," the man muttered as he helped Sakura back into her seat. He then sat down across from her, at the opposite end of the desk.

"Well, what should I call you? Hero of the ages? Master of the blade? Murder of innocents? Guy with nice hair who will let me off with a warning?" Sakura asked hopefully. With a slight smile, the man leaned his head against his hand, and looked at her.

"Troy Priam would do nicely. And what shall I call you? Thief in the night? Girl who tried to kill me? Or perhaps you would prefer something more grand, maybe something along the lines of the Trumpeter of Traps and Tricks?"

"Whatever pleases the Saint of Swords," Sakura muttered in a shy tone, much as a young girl would take when meeting a boy she had liked for a long time. She played with her long bangs as she spoke; a tangled mess of bangs that resisted each and every attempt to straighten them.

"About that, it seems you have been misinformed. I am not the Saint of Swords," the man across from her stated in a way that seemed to say "so please stop giving me that annoying title."

"You're not? Are you sure," Sakura asked; Troy nodded that yes indeed, he was certain he was not the Saint of Swords. "But I'm sure my information was correct! The house was where the Saint of Sword's family lived..."

"In that regard, you are correct. His family does indeed live there; I am his brother," Troy stated coolly, as if being such a thing was no big deal at all. However, as previously stated, the brother of the Saint of Swords was probably one of the most terrifying men in existence. That man had killed, burned, destroyed, and brought all other manners of destruction across Althanas (the accumulation of which was the sixteen hundred dragon attack on Black Isle).

"Ack! Ack! ACK!" Sakura screamed in terror as she tumbled out of her chair once more, this time to assume a more suitable position; begging for her life. "Please don't kill me! I'm just a innocent girl who didn't know any better! I'm just a lonely little girl, with no friends or family, who is terrible in social situations! I swear I would never knowingly cross the Last Knight of Apocalypse!"

"No no no!" Troy shouted, loosing his calm demeanor for the first time, "Not that brother! The other one!"

"Eh?" Sakura, having no better response, began to twiddle her thumbs nervously, "I...er, haven't heard of the other brother."

"Then it strikes me as I am doing something right," the man said, returning to his calm state. He stood up, and gently helped Sakura back into her chair, patting her on the back in an almost brotherly way as he did so. "Now that we have determined I am no one famous, may I please have the honor of your name?"

"Gosh your nice. I haven't meant anyone as prim and proper as you in a long time. Or maybe more like ever. So, are you his actual brother?"

"No, like the other one, I am his brother-in-law. The Saint of Swords married my sister, though I personally find him lacking in most husband-like qualities, such as being around for more than a week every few months. Why are you looking for the legendary Sword Saint, anyhow?"

Again, Sakura heard a tinge of annoyance whenever Troy brought up that title, but she thought better of commenting on it. Rather, since the man was being so polite, she thought it only fair that she answer his question. Plus she had broken into his house. And threatened his wife. And tried to kill him.

"Have you heard the rumors? About the killer on the loose?" Sakura asked, Troy shook his head.

"This village is particularly removed from a good majority of Althanas. It is rather quite nice actually," the man answered in a soft, but happy, manner.

"Yeah, but the killings have been kinda near by. I mean, not super close, but the most recent attack was fifty miles or so from here. I would think you would have heard something," Sakura muttered as she went back to playing with her bangs.

"Perhaps I have been remiss in keeping up to date with such matters. I shall remedy that, but please, continue," Troy motioned for her to proceed while he leaned back in his chair.

"Well, there's a killer out there. The rumor is...um...this is just a rumor, okay? Don't get made at me," Sakura whispered; Troy kindly assured her he would do no such thing.

"They say it's the Saint of Swords."

There were at least a dozen different reasons. One was that the man, who had seen so much bloodshed, had finally gone mad. Another was that he was taking out anyone who could potentially take his beloved title from him. Still, others thought a demon possessed him, and yet others claimed that the man wasn't a man at all, but rather a specter created by some foul magic.

Regardless of the reason, there was someone out there, killing innocent and guilty alike. The Saint was constantly on the move, striking in one town, and then vanishing without a trace. No less than four towns had been victimized, with another five or so claiming certain murders could have been caused by the robed figure.

And so Sakura had sought to find the Saint of Swords. When Troy had pressed her for a reason, she had clamed up rather quickly. With a stutter, and much more nervous playing with her bangs, she failed to give a real reason, or perhaps she simply refused to. She simply wanted to find the Saint of Swords, and see if the rumors were true. Beyond that, she also wanted the killings to stop. Though she was not directly involved in any way, she had seen some of the so-called Saint's work, and it had left a foul taste in her mouth.

"In the end, I suppose I really just want to meet the man behind the legend," Sakura said with a wistful smile, "wouldn't that be cool?"

"For some," was all Troy said as he closed his eyes and thought. After a few minutes, when Sakura was pretty certain he had forgotten all about her, he opened his eyes and gazed upon her; she blushed slightly. Troy had pretty eyes, after all.

"I see. I shall look into the matter. In the meantime, I am afraid I have no choice but to have you spend the night here. We will discuss your crimes in the morning," he stated plainly; there was no room for argument. Sakura nodded meekly, and allowed herself to be led to one of the three cells, all of which were empty. They were meager cells, having no more than two beds apiece, and what looked like a hard pillow and a coarse blanket for each bed.

"Feel free to take the blanket from the other bed; it can get somewhat cold at night. If you are hungry, I can offer you a bit of water and bread, at least for now. Oh, I suppose I can remove these as well," Troy pulled into his pocket, and took out a key. The cuffs on Sakura's hands came apart with a loud click, and she rubbed her wrists as she stepped inside the cell with a slight shudder as Troy closed the iron bars behind her.

"If there is nothing else, I shall see you in the morning," came the polite tone of the brother of the Saint of Swords. The man made to leave, but she stopped him with a cry.

"Hey! Your way too nice, you know that Troy?" she stated bluntly. "Why are you so nice to me? I threatened your wife, and tried to kill you, even if it was your brother I was after. Aren't you mad?"

The man only gave a careless shrug as he turned to face her.

"My wife really is not one to hold a grudge against some like you, so I see no reason but to do the same on her account. Besides, had you wanted to hurt her, you would have used her as a hostage against me. You would have also killed that guard who attacked you, if you were as cruel as you make yourself out to be," Troy said as he gently brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes.

"Yeah, but I did try to kill you!" Sakura countered.

"Perhaps, though to be honest, I seriously doubt that blade of yours could have killed me. It is not due to lack of skill, well, perhaps it has a little to do with that...but to be honest, I simply did not sense any killing intent from you," Troy's eyes grew distant, and yet somehow more piercing all the same.

"It was as if you were not even trying to fight me, but rather something else. I am not sure you were even swinging at a person, but I suppose that is something you want to take up with the Saint of Swords, so I will not pry." Troy put his hands in his pockets, as if he wanted to leave, but he remained there all the same, content to hear the girl out.

"But for good or ill, I was after your brother, so you should hate me," she whispered softly; Troy let out a soft chuckle.

"T'would be a bit...hypocritical to hate you for that," he said with a soft smile, "at least until I figure out your reasons. Anything else?"

She couldn't thing of anything, so she made to shake her head, but then she realized something that caused her cheeks to flush just a shade of red. Her violet eyes nervously looked around the room, but that was only because the man smiling before her was nothing like she expected him to be.

"Er, it's Sakura," she mumbled.

"Beg pardon?" Troy asked as he leaned his head to the side curiously.

"Ah, my name. You told me yours, but I didn't tell you mine. It's Sakura Hisa, sorry for being so impolite," she finished with an apologetic bow.

"It is nothing to concern yourself over. Well, I shall see you in the morning Sakura. Good night," Troy said sincerely. She wished him the same, and crawled into the tiny bed next to her. Despite her circumstances, she found the bed to be strangely warm, and dozed off to sleep almost immediately; the serene noises of the tranquil town around her were akin to a sweet lullaby of a time long lost to the young girl.

[Disillusioned]

It was hot.

That was all the little girl was really able to comprehend. How much time had gone by? An hour? A day? A month? The child knew nothing, save for the sweltering heat that threatened to engulf her. Each and every minute was another step through the inferno, except she took no steps, so she would never be free of that red fire.

In the ruins of a collapsed building, the little girl clung to her mother's knees. There wasn't much else to do, save to slowly take another breath. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Repeating the endless cycle to sustain her life, that was all the little girl could do.

Why had this happened? Why did Daddy disappear? Where did he go? Was he coming back? The little girl did not know.

"Ayame will be back soon," she heard her mother mutter under her breath. "She'll be back soon, with some food."

The two were very hungry; how long had it been since they'd eaten? As the small family (the little girl, her big sister, and their mother), had crossed the red wasteland of flame, they had chanced upon a few survivors. The little girl remembered her mother begging them desperately for food and shelter, if not for herself, then at least for her girls. But the survivors had shook their head; survival was hard enough without having more mouths to feed, and there was sparse enough shelter from the flames already. There was no more room.

So the family had trudged onwards, dodging fire and enduring pain, until the little six-year old had collapsed from exhaustion. At that point, it had been the mother who had lost all hope, but the older sister told the family to endure. There was a place to rest, right up ahead. Did they see it? It was no more than a few hundred feet, surely they could endure until then.

And endure they had. Now, resting in the little shelter they had managed to find, the mother repeated the same words over and over, as if she was in some sort of trance.

"Ayame will be back soon. Back with food. Ayame will be back soon. Back with food. Ayame will be back soon. Back with food. Back with food. Back with food."

She missed her big sister, ten years her senior. She missed her big sister's quite passion, and her calm determination. The little girl remembered how people would always say how smart her older sister was, and how she would go far in the world. But now, the little girl didn't want her big sister to go anywhere. All she really wanted was to turn time back until it to when it wasn't so hot, and play with her sister again in the green field at home. That field was probably red now, just like everything else.

There was a movement; she heard her mother gasp. The little girl had no strength to do anything save cling tighter to her mother's knees. There was a heavy breathing, but if it was her own or someone else's, she knew not.

"Hey," came a familiar voice, "you should stop crying. Big girl's don't cry."

Red. Her sister was red too, but a much darker shade than any other red she had ever seen. But if the red scared her big sister, the girl didn't show it. Instead, her big sister gently patted her on the head, and set down a bag of foodstuffs.

"Eat up," her big sister told her kindly as she fed the little girl. With tears in her eyes, the little girl ate the food she was given, and then dove into her sister's arms.

"Missed you Sis. Missed you so much," the little girl cried.

*~*~*~*~

"Are you okay? Oh, I should get some water and throw it on you, that's the proper way to wake someone up," came a voice, disturbing Sakura's sleep. She instantly sat up, her black hair a tangled forest that went this way and that; every way save for the way Sakura wanted it to go.

"Not necessary!" Sakura shouted as the man returned with a pail. Either the man didn't hear her, or had chosen to ignore her, because in the next instant a splash of freezing cold water hit her in the face.

"Cool, you're up," the man with white hair sounded very proud of himself; Sakura recognized him as the guard with the katana, who had commented on her good day status. She shook her head, shook it again, and shook it one more time. Blasted hair was nothing but trouble, especially when wet.

"And you're a big meanie. Can I have a towel? A new set of clothes? Fifty gold coins, and a steak dinner?" Sakura asked as she stood up, dripping wet. The man shook his head.

"Don't got a towel, and my clothes wouldn't fit you. But Troy has gold coins! Lots of gold coins! And his wife cooked him a steak dinner to take to work! Hey! Good idea Good Day!" the man shouted as he picked Sakura up (despite her protests), and dragged her out from her cell.

"Hey! Personal space, you goon!" Sakura heard herself shout, but the man paid her little heed. Instead her carried her into another room, plopped her into a somewhat comfortable chair, and beamed with pride, as if he had just done three weeks worth of work in five minutes.

"Brought Good Day!" the man exclaimed, "can I have some food?"

"No," a calm voice replied, "and just why are you calling her Good Day?"

Sakura looked up from the brutal process of untangling her wet bangs, and found herself sitting across from Troy once again. Except this time he had steak and potatoes in front of him, and was busy shooing away the white-haired guard.

"She was having a good day; found herself a slice of bacon. Those are always good days!" the white-haired man declared with a nod of his head to reaffirm his statement.

"Then Regal, you must have had an excellent day, as you stole half my breakfast. Now then, be on your way, and...AHEM!" Troy finished his statement with a good yank on Sakura's collar; she gave him a oops-you-caught-me look as she licked a bit of potatoes off her cheek.

"Oh GOD! I was wondering why you married that girl, cause she totally looks like a little boy, but DAMN! If she cooks this for you every day, hell, even once a week, I totally understand! This stuff is amazing!" Sakura screamed as a flavor of ecstasy literally danced across her tongue, doing cartwheels at every three-second interval. She sucked a bit of gravy off her fingers as Troy tossed her back into the chair.

"Prisoners do not get to eat my wife's cooking! Neither do leeches Regal! Out out out!" Troy demanded as he finally managed to shoo away the other man (who Sakura had determined, using her superior brain power, was a leech named Regal). With a slightly exasperated huff, Troy sat back down, and eyed her carefully.

"So...ummm...how ya doing?" Sakura muttered as she went back to playing with her bangs. "Are we feeling lenient today? Cause if you're not, I can go back to that cell; it was actually pretty comfortable. Not that I've been in a lot of cells. I swear."

"I am undecided. Do you have any family? I imagine they would like to hear of your recent forays into the criminal realm," Troy asked as polite as ever. Sakura shook her head.

"Nope. All dead," she said in a tone that was a bit too cheerful to be real, "I'm just a lost girl, alone in the world."

She then batted her eyes, and put on her best puppy dog face.

"So...so you'll let me slide, won't you Mr. Priam? Just this once? I swear I'll never be a bad girl again," she said, throwing in a few sniffles for added effect. "I learned my lesson. Sniff."

"That last sniff was unnecessary," Troy muttered as he leaned back in his chair.

Time for a different approach. Sakura thought slyly.

"Oh, I am ever so sorry. Surely a big, strong man like yourself would see threw my tricks in an instant," Sakura whispered in her best seduction voice, which really wasn't that great. She would have loved to stick her chest out and show off her cleavage right about now, but the gods had already cast the die against her, and given her a pitifully small bust size.

Curse you Althanas and your unfair God of Breast Sizes! She thought, but did not say.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" Troy asked; she nodded in the affirmative. "I am married."

"Er, happily?"

"YES!" Troy almost bellowed; Sakura had an inkling that his small, boy-like wife with boobs smaller than Sakura's was the butt of many a joke around Troy's male friends.


"Awww come on! Cut me some slack!" She begged; he rolled his eyes. "Are you really gonna lock up an innocent little girl for mistaking you for your brother, and trying to stab him in the eyes? It could happen to anyone!"

"I find that highly unlik-" he began.

"Your brother is the Saint of Swords," Sakura reminded him. Troy closed his eyes, and nodded in the affirmative that yes, it probably could happen to anyone. He let out a loud sigh, and reached behind his back. Sakura barely managed to catch her long coat when he threw it at her; she let out a squeak as one of the sleeves smacked her in the face.

"Very well. You can go," Troy muttered as he stood up to leave. "I have more pressing matters to deal with anyhow. You are free to go, after you pay me back for the damages your little smoke bombs did to my carpet. The total should run you somewhere around three-hundred gold."

"T-t-t-three hundred gold?" Sakura shrieked, her face instantly became deathly pale. "N-n-n-n-no way! You gotta let me slide on this one Troy! I am begging you!"

"You would prefer to be charged with breaking an entry, and attempted murder? I could do that, if you like," the man responded coolly as he led Sakura outside. "I will not have it said you received no punishment for your crimes."

"But Troy! I'm totally broke!" she squealed helplessly. "I've got, like, fifty-three gold saved up! That's it! I swear!"

To demonstrate her point, she turned out all her pockets. Along with the various gadgets and trinkets, the most interesting of which was a can-opener that doubled as a very dangerous toothpick, a whole forty-three coins turned up. Ten more came from Sakura's shoe; her emergency stash.

"That is all you have? Seriously?" Troy gave her a bewildered look; Sakura nodded glumly. Chasing the Saint of Swords (or someone masquerading as him) had left her pocketbook quite empty. The Captain of the Guards frowned, obviously taking an issue with confiscating the last coins of a young woman.

"No family? No place to stay? Chasing after my brother...this is seriously your life?" he asked softly. "You honestly have nothing save the clothes on your back?"

"Well, when you put it like that, you make me sound like a bum," Sakura said with a bright red blush, "But it really isn't all that bad. I just have to watch my spending, cut back on personal expenses, and hope that sweet town guards will give a poor girl a break!"

"In god's name why?" Troy questioned, his blue eyes filled with concern for the young girl. For him, who obviously held his brother in dislike, and the title of the Saint of Swords in complete contempt, such a style of life would have been completely impossible. Naught but pain awaited the Saint of Swords, as well as any who would seek him out, so a young girl in her prime having nothing but that to do was inconceivable. He could no more come to terms with choosing such a path than he could cease breath. So, seeing the honest concern in the man's face, Sakura gave him her honest answer.

"I...um...was kinda hoping he could save me," Sakura whispered sadly.

[Disillusioned]

In all of Irenes, Troy's favorite spot was an area that was no wider than two feet, and no taller than three feet. It was a window in the room of his study, one that offered the man a glimpse of the whole town of Irenes. From that window he would often stand, doing nothing but simply watching the town he had sworn to protect. He would watch the people go to and fro, smile at the children who played in the street, and gaze at the setting sun. He felt a sense of peace here, as well as a sense of purpose.

I...um...was kinda hoping he could save me...

What an odd thing to say. Troy had asked the girl just what she happened to need saving from, but she had simply shook her head; it was a matter for her and the Saint of Swords. Such a thing was not too uncommon, many people came to Irenes to seek something of his brother-in-law. They sought many things from the Saint of Swords: a battle, a death, an answer. His brother often managed the first two easily; the third not so much.

Salvation though. That was a new one. Even when Troy had pressed her, she had simply shook her head, and told him a girl had to keep some secrets to herself. He had wanted to tell the girl that she what she sought she would not obtain, but that would have been a heartless cruelty. Perhaps the Saint of Swords would save her, but Troy found such a thing unlikely.

"He's the Saint of Swords. He can save everyone," was the girl's parting comment. That in and of itself was a foolish notion; it was impossible to save everyone. Mankind's very existence was parasitical in nature; planet, animals, each other, all was consumed by man. The thought of saving everyone was absurd, no man was capable of such a thing. Especially not the Saint of Swords, a man who was content to hunt gods instead of take care of his woman.

Troy's eyes narrowed; a wind as icy as the look upon his face caressed his cheek. The setting sun painted the quiet town a serene orange, a violent contrast to Troy's eyes. But he closed those baleful eyes, and let the peace of the town wash over him. No need to dwell on the impossible; focus simply one what you yourself can do. You cannot save everyone, but you do not need to save everyone. Rather, save the people you can see. Touch not briefly the lives of the infinite people who will never see you again, but rather tenderly hold close the lives of those you see everyday. Help them, guide them, protect them. That is the oath you swore.

"Is that why I let her go?" Troy asked himself softly. Perhaps; Sakura did not strike him as a bad girl, and he was rather wealthy, fixing a carpet would be no problem at all. Well, at least his wife was wealthy; Noel's restaurant brought in people from all over the place, from this town, and whatever was nearby. A small smile crept upon Troy's lips as he remembered days long since gone, when he had not been married, and Noel had been managing the business on her own.

People often called his wife a whiner; truer words were never spoken. She had complained incessantly about the all the complications of management; all she wanted to do was cook food. So, as Troy had been brought up by a merchant family, had helped her out on his time off. In fact, his father's genius in economics seemed to be genetic (his father was wealthy on a completely different scale than Noel), and he had turned his wife's restaurant from a simple diner to a thriving business. And then he had married the girl, and been forced to work two jobs. Full time town guard, part time manager. Still, he was apt to the task, especially since his duties as Captain of the Town Guard were extremely light. Besides, the girl had been in love with him for a very long time, and he with her (though his quiet and calm demeanor didn't often show it).

Troy's study was simple, but at the very same time, a bit awe-inspiring. Ten slender bookcases, each of the same five by eight make, were laid out across the east and west walls. The bookcases were made of fine oak, the deep rich color of the wood reflected nicely off the light from the window. A desk, made of mahogany, was placed at the south wall. Well built, and capable of holding a good number of papers within its drawers; Troy spent much time at that desk. He often had to bring his work home, and he spent a good deal of hours polishing the brass handles of the drawers.

The north wall held several paintings, all of various calm landscapes, as well as his window. There was an empty spot at the center wall; he had been debating for quite some time what to put there, to date he remained undecided. Perhaps another piece of art? That would do, but as that area would be the centerpiece of the room, he felt it should be something special. So, for now, that spot would remain barren.

Upon his desk lay several letters; his first act as town guard had been to forge good relations with all the other nearby city's law enforcement. Sakura had told the truth; a murderer was on the loose, and rumor was that it was indeed the Saint of Swords. Two swords, god-like skill, and magic blades. Who else could it be?

At least a hundred other people came to mind; Althanas was full of such people. Troy himself was rather skilled with a blade, but he had always found two blades to be disdainful. His motto had always been: if you cannot do it with one sword, why do it at all? As for the magic blades, parlor tricks such as that were in no short supply in a magical world such as Althanas. Troy himself had a few, but he loathed to use them. He took pride in his skill with the sword, and felt the use of magic sullied his blade.

Still, Saint of Swords or not, this killer was a problem. Using the information he had managed to gleam from the other towns, Irenes was definitely within the killer's base of operations; this was not something could afford to ignore. He had to protect the people he saw, and from his window, he saw all of Irenes.

The killer only struck at night, so the natural thing to do was to increase the number of guards on the night shift. That wouldn't be a problem, a murderer on the loose would be more than enough reason for a few guards to put up with a schedule change. The people in this town loved their family, and Troy was no exception. As he tapped his fingers on his window sill, mulling over other courses he could take, the door to the study opened.

"Hello? Troy? Dinner's ready," his wife chirped, "are you coming downstairs?"

His wife was not a pretty woman, there was no arguing that. Short and skinny, with blonde hair that was closer to dirty sand than gold, and green eyes that held little sparkle to them. Her voice was squeaky, and her mannerisms were rarely endearing; one of Troy's friends had ranked her as a four out of ten on his woman-watching scale. Still, she always brought a smile to Troy's lips, and she had relentlessly pursued his affection in a manner as only a girl very much in love possibly could. That had been enough for Troy Priam to fall in love with her.

"In a minute, let me gaze a while longer," Troy replied as he stared back at the setting sun. His wife obliged him on the condition that he would wrap his arm around her and let her share the view, which he did. He even threw in a soft kiss upon her cheek, causing the woman to blush slightly. Small bits of affection from Troy, she had learned, were the equivalent the over-the-top passions of other husbands.

Dinner had consisted of roasted pheasant, with a mushroom-based sauce topping. To the side of the bird had been mashed potatoes, and the couple had opened a fine bottle of chardonnay to go with the meal. Afterwards, they had moved t the living room, as they often did after dinner. Irenes had nice weather, but the nights tended to be colder than most places, and a nice fire and a blanket went a long way. Troy often spent an hour or two reading after his evening meal; his wife did the same, but her reading was time spent poking her nose over the cover of her book, and staring longingly at the spot next to Troy. He would eventually sigh, and lift up his blanket. Noel would then scurry over, wrap herself up next to him, and prevent all further reading by talking incessantly.

"So what happened to that girl? The one who broke into our home and tried to stab you?" Noel asked as Troy set his book aside. The fire danced a dance that matched the town; soothing and warm.

"I let her go. She was not a bad girl, and I saw no reason to detain her further," Troy responded softly.

"Except she pulled a sword on your wife!" Noel squeaked in a tone of hurt. "What kind of husband just lets someone like that go?"

"Noel, you yourself told me to go easy on her. Right after I knocked her to the ground with Guy's training sword," Troy muttered; had he used a real sword, he would have cut the girl in two.

"Well yeah, flat-chested girls like us have to stick together,” his wife answered, “we can’t all have the vast mountains and peaks your sister was blessed with.”

Ever self-conscious of her own pitifully small breast-size, any woman who shared her disabilities was automatically given a pass in Noel’s Book of Life. People like Troy’s sister, Rebecca Raven, who were blessed with great beauty (and breasts that men yearn to lay their heads on), not so much. The fact that Rebecca often picked on Noel didn’t help either, but that was one battle that Troy was not willing to fight.

The rest of the evening was spent talking about various things, all of them unimportant in the grand scheme of life. But that did not matter to Troy, what mattered to him was that the town was peaceful, the people were happy, the fire was warm, an his wife was beside him practically purring in contentment. Therefore, the course to take involving this so-called Saint of Swords was obvious.

It was time for Troy Priam, soft-spoken Captain of the Town Guards of Irenes, to once again pick up his sword, and protect that which he held most dear.

[Disillusioned]

"I don't see why you have to be the one to go!" Noel whined loudly as Troy saddled his horse. He rolled his eyes; the two had stayed up late into the night, talking about all the reasons he had to go.

"For starters, it is my job," Troy muttered as he packed a few more dried foods into his saddle bags, "I am in charge of the town guards. The safety of the town is my responsibility."

"But but but but but! Can't you send someone else?" Noel continued to whine in the exact same manner she had last night.

"Who would you prefer I send? One of the young men who has never left this town, or one of the old men who hasn't left this town in twenty years?" The townsfolk of Irenes were not one for adventuring.

"You could send Regal! He's been around! He's seen things!" his wife pressed him; Troy coolly raised an eyebrow.

"You're right, Regal's an idiot," Noel muttered to herself as the man in question walked up. Ignoring the conversation completely, the white-haired town guard stepped right in front of Noel (and on Troy's foot), and slapped his friend on the back.

"Taking off for a spell?" Regal asked (though Troy had told him just this morning), "I can understand that. Man's gotta cut loose now and then; get out and clear his head. Especially from the old ball and chain." If Regal noticed Noel, or her furious (at at the very same time extremely pathetic) attack on his leg, he did not pay it any mind.

"I am not taking off for a spell," Troy muttered as he leapt up onto his horse, "I am away on business. It will most likely take a week, maybe two. In the mean time-"

"And I'm in charge in the meantime. Yeah, yeah, I get it, I get it," Regal dismissed Troy with a wave of his hand, "it's nothing we haven't done before."

"Actually, it is something we haven't done before. I have never left you in charge Regal, and I do not intend to start now. Starting today, you are on night shift," Troy ordered as he adjusted the reins on his horse. Durandal, Troy's favorite horse (he had three), was a brown and white thoroughbred. Durandal was fast, agile, and wasn't too temperamental either.

"Hey! Not cool! Why am I on night duty? I'm the senior officer!" Regal exclaimed loudly while Noel continually tried to make herself noticed; she was for the most part utterly ignored.

"No, you are anything but the senior officer. You have the least amount of seniority, therefore by rights you should be the first pick for night duty. However, even if you did have the most seniority, you would still be on night duty," Troy finished as he moved his horse about. He wanted to be on his way while there was still daylight, and at this rate such a thing would be nigh impossible.

"And give me just one good reason as to why!" Regal demanded; Troy quickly obliged.

"Because there is a killer on the loss who only strikes at night. Therefore, it would be prudent to have the town's strongest fighter out at night, correct?" Troy answered firmly. Regal scratched his head as if in deep thought (but everyone knew that he wasn't), and then nodded in agreement.

"Yup. Makes perfect sense. You can always count on Troy; Troy has good ideas," Regal said, mostly to himself. He then walked off with a satisfied expression upon his face, much as if he had just discovered the meaning of life, or had just eaten a very good meal (both things were pretty much equal in Regal's mind).

Troy then bid his farewells once more to his wife, promised to return, and made to set off. On his way out of town he passed by many people, all of whom wished him well. He thanked them, and silently prayed that he would be able to wrap up this mystery for their sake, and not for his. He did not need another adventure, what Troy needed was the certainty that his home would be safe.

But there was one person he had to talk to before he went on his way, more than anyone else. In truth, this one person was probably more precious to him than any other person on the planet. But, it wasn't as if he had to seek her out. She was already waiting for him at the exit to the town.

"I heard you were leaving Troy," said the woman waiting at the wooden fence that signified the end of the town of Irenes. Her hair was long and brown, the same shade as Troy's own. Her skin too, was the same pale color, though hers had been touched up with make-up. Her eyes were blue like Troy's, but whereas his were the color of chilly ice, hers were more akin to the dark blue of the deep sea.

Rebecca Raven. Troy's little sister, member of the Town Council of Irenes, and wife to the Saint of Swords, Karel Hector Raven.

You don't deserve her, brother. Troy thought, but did not say. In truth, he would be hard pressed to say that anyone deserved his sister. She was beautiful beyond words, smart, charming, fun, and full of live and love. However, he was smart enough to know that he was simply being an over-protective older brother. Surely, somewhere out there, someone could make his sister happy. But the Saint of Swords was not that person.

After all, where was the man now? A killer was about, using the Saint of Sword's name, not fifty miles from Irenes, and Karel Hector Raven was off in God only knew where, chasing down some sort of fiend. Or God. Or whatever. Troy's brother was the type to protect the world, as long a he was shining in the spotlight, or so Troy had always thought.

But what about the people who love you Karel? Would you protect them? If so, where are you now, when she needs you the most? No doubt his sister had heard the rumors about her husband going mad, and running about killing people. Did she believe them? No, of course not. After all, if she did, then what would that mean?

It would mean that the person she loved, a person who had brought little but pain and problems to her home and friends, was nothing but a killer. If that was the case, than all her love was for naught, for Rebecca Raven was well aware of how much people put up with Karel, only because she loved him.

So no, the Saint of Swords could not be a murderer, for if he was, then everything was wrong. People in this simple town stomached the whirlwind of unwanted adventure that was Karel Hector Raven for one reason alone. People here loved Rebecca, so it was only natural to love the man she loved. So she had to love that man, or else there would be one misplaced card in her fragile house of cards, and it would all come tumbling down.

"I will be back before long. I simply want to wrap up this nonsense about Karel being a killer," Troy said without a trace of doubt or concern in his voice. Was that wrong? He loved his sister dearly, so did that make him one of the main parts in this farce called love, or was he just a bit player? A simple side act to the love story of Rebecca and Karel Raven?

If he was, then why was she crying?

"The last time you said that, you vanished completely. Everyone said you died," Rebecca whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks. She was right; once upon a time Troy had been a knight in service of his country. But a dead friend was a dead friend, and wars didn't seem so worthwhile when a man whom you had known since childhood died to save you.

No, I delude myself. I thought I should have been the one to die. I couldn't bare the guilt, nothing more. I simply didn't want to look his family, and my family, in the eyes, and tell them he was dead. Nothing more. Troy reflected. But such reflection served him little now. Here and now, his sister was crying.

"But someone simply refused to believe that. A stubborn girl refused to believe her brother had died, didn't she?" Troy asked as he dismounted, and gently wiped away his sister's tears.

"You promised..." Rebecca muttered softly. "Promised to come back."

"So I did. A promise poorly kept, I admit. But the stubborn girl sought me out anyway, and dragged me back. Have I ever told you how much that meant to me?" Troy whispered softly. Rebecca nodded, and gave her brother a fierce hug.

"I love you brother," she whispered into his ear, "more than anything."

"And I you, sister," he whispered back softly, "so do not cry. I will solve this mystery, clear Karel's name, and return. Take care of Noel for me in the meantime?"

"Only because you love her," Rebecca chided, her beaming personality had returned with only a sniffle or two, "she doesn't deserve you, just so you know."

"So blunt," Troy muttered as he leapt back up on his horse, "at least my spouse can cook. More than Karel can say."

"True. Did I tell you about the last time he planned a romantic dinner for two?" Rebecca asked, smiling sweetly. Was it a real smile, one of honest joy of a woman in love? Troy hoped so.

"No, but there's no need. I distinctly remember him telling me he burned dinner, and asking to borrow money," Troy said with a smile.

"Burned is a polite way to phrase it. Scorched beyond recognition is more appropriate," Rebecca muttered as she brushed out her long, silky smooth hair.

"Well, at least he gave it is best. Right?' Troy asked as his horse let out a whine; even the animal knew he had dallied too long.

"I suppose he did. Thanks Troy. For everything," Rebecca whispered as she blew her brother a kiss. Troy smiled, and gave his sister a wink. Then he was off, to find the Saint of Swords, or the False Saint who would profane that sacred title.

[Disillusioned]

It was time again. Time to fight. Time to hurt. Time to kill. Tonight's target was a local crime lord; a far cry from the last victim. Still, that was how it had to be. No one was safe, no one was secure. From hero to villain, and saint to sinner, all were at the mercy of the Saint.

Katana and wakizashi gripped tightly, the Saint's breathing steadied. Night had fallen, and the moon cast its luminous rays upon the town of Themis. Day was forbidden, but the dark shadow of night cloaked the Saint's equally dark intentions. Tonight, the Saint knew that a man by the name of Malfred Visory (Mal to his friends, of which he had very few) would enter the second most western alley of Themis in order to oversee a drug deal. Malfred dabbled in many vices: drugs, prostitution, gambling. He was not a man who would be much missed by the good folk of Themis, but those that indulged in such vices would be very put out.

There would be an escort with Malfred; they all had to die as well. Not too hard of a task, three men was the usual number of guards, sometimes as much as five. The Saint not only had magic swords, but would also have the element of surprise; that should be enough to compensate for being outnumbered (the Saint always fought alone).

The drug deal was over; the time to strike was near. The Saint leaned up against a nearby wall; Malfred's group was the first in, the other group would be the first out. The Saint had considered killing that group as well, but there wasn't much point in in it. After all, someone had to tell the tale.

A cricket chirped in the night. Footstep after footstep passed by the alley the Saint hid in. One, two, three, four. That was the first group. Blades gleaming in the moonlight, the Saint took one final breath. Malfred's group was almost within range; time to go.

"It's the Saint!" screamed one of Malfred's guards. That was the name the people of the tiny region had given the killer who struck at night, slaying left and right. Was it really the Saint of Swords? Perhaps; whoever it was certainly fought like that man.

The katana struck true; these simple guards were no match for the Saint's skill or audacity. One, two. To the rhythm of a beat that only the Saint could hear, the katana cut the throat of the first guard as soon as he screamed the alarm, the wakizashi was plunged into the armpit of the second guard two seconds before the man was able to draw his sword. The wound was fatal; the Saint withdrew the bloodied blade, and let the man fall to the ground, writhing in agony. He was not a threat, the remaining two guards were.

One of them ran of screaming; no need to chase, he too could tell the tale of the blood spilt tonight. Only one guard left; the Saint faced the man down. A rapid attack from the man's rapier, a quick parry with the wakizashi. Cling, clank, slash. The battle ended in three moves when the Saint's opponent misjudged the range of the katana. The man fell to the ground as the contents of his stomach spilled outwards; the Saint approached Malfred.

"Shadowy figures are a coin a dozen nowadays," Malfred muttered as he lit his pipe. He was in his fifties, with a patch of grey hair, and a bit of a belly. He dressed himself in fine robes, not magnificent by Althanas standards, but quite fine for this area. "Pain in the ass if you ask me."

The Saint, dressed in the same attire as always (black robes, black clothes, a hood to cover the face), said nothing. What words were needed? There was blood on the swords, blood on the ground, and blood on the Saint's shadowy face. The killer's intentions were obvious, but Malfred allowed himself a slight grin. He hadn't survived this long by being a total fool.

"Hey! Crow! Time to earn you're keep!" Malfred spat; another figure emerged from a nearby alley. The Saint did not say anything aloud, but cursed inwardly. Whoever this was, nothing was known about him. Such a thing was never good.

Analyze the situation quickly and accurately. The man, named Crow (most likely not his real name), was perhaps a bit under five feet and nine inches. He had a muscular build, but was lean as well. A few scars on his face; he wore an Akashiman kimono, and wore his black hair in the topknot style. A ronin perhaps? But, if so, then why did the man wield a bastard sword, a weapon anything but Akashiman?

"Oi. Boyo!" Crow hefted his large blade over his shoulder, grinning widely as he stepped out from the shadows, "are you really the Saint of Swords? I be a dead man if you are. Course, with all those black clothes you wrap yourself in, you might just be a girl with tiny tits...which means I ought to have said girlo...oi, that doesn't really have the same ring to it, does it?"

The Saint's only response was to take a fighting stance. Crow had moved in-between the Saint and Malred, blocking his charge as any good bodyguard should. The Saint made a mental note; eight feet to Crow, another four to Malfred, who's pipe offered the dark sky a faint orange glow, and gave just enough light to reveal the crime lord's yellow teeth.

"Crow here's cost me a pretty penny, but he's worth it for nights like this. He's stopped five attempts on my life so far, make it six tonight Crow. Bring the killer in alive if you can, there's a pretty bounty on the Saint's head," Malfred ordered as he blew a few smoke rings, completely unconcerned with the upcoming battle.

"Tall order to bring down the Saint of Swords, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Ready boyo?" Crow asked as he gripped his bastard sword with both hands, the Saint's only reply was to point the katana at the man's chest. Crow let out a chuckle. "Methinks that's a yes."

The Saint cleared the distance in no time; black cloak billowing in the cool night air, the Saint swung the katana at Crow's neck. But Malfred wasn't lying, the crime lord's bodyguard was good for the price paid. Crow jerked his head to the left at the last instant, causing the katana to trim a few centimeters off his left ear. As the Saint's blade continued its arc, Crow swung his own sword at the Saint's side. The bastard sword was far too heavy for the wakizashi to block completely, but the shortened sword was made well enough to soften the impact. The Saint would be bruised, but not beaten.

But a bastard sword is not known as a hand-and-a-half sword without good reason. It can be swung with one or two hands, and Crow was skilled enough to control the sword with either one of his hands. Leaving his right hand to finish the swipe, Crow balled his left hand into a fist, and sent it straight at his foe's face. With the wakizashi blocking the bastard sword, and the katana still finishing its arc, there was no defense left for the Saint but turn cheek, and accept the punch at full force.

"That's the way!" Malfred cheered as the Saint rolled away, now on complete defense. But as the Saint rolled, Crow followed. Not with his sword or fist, but with his foot. As the Saint finished rolling, Crow slammed his left foot atop the wakizashi. A loud clang echoed in the night; the bodyguard may have worn a traditional Akashiman kimono, but on his feet were the sturdiest of steel-toe (and heel) boots.

The Saint had no choice but to drop the wakizashi; Crow was a good five inches taller than the Saint, and had at least a good thirty pounds advantage when it came to weight. To do anything other than abandon the weapon would only cause the Saint to be pulled into the dirt with the wakizashi.

With only the katana left tot fight with, the Saint switched tried a different tactic. This time, when Crow swung the bastard sword (once more towards the side), the Saint dove to the right. The bastard sword cleaved the air, almost whistling as is parted the slight fog that had begun to set in over the town. And as the fog parted, the Saint took a swipe at Crow's exposed side; even if the man could wield his sword with one hand, he couldn't punch away a sword with his bare hand!

Clang! The noise struck the ears of the combatants; the shrill of steel on steel screeched in the night. For some fighters, the thrill of an intense fight brought smiles to their lips. Not the Saint. Never the Saint. Only intense hatred poured forth from the Saint's shadowy eyes.

Part of Crow's kimono fell away to reveal the steel arm guard he wore on his forearms. Though the bodyguard certainly could not punch away a sword; he could very well block it. Such a move left Crow with the advantage; both in stance and in the mind, how many more tricks did the man have (quite literally) up his sleeve?

The bastard sword descended upon the Saint; there was no choice in the matter. Now too was the katana abandoned, leaving the Saint weaponless, and stumbling backwards, narrowly avoiding a deathblow. Malfred's yellow teeth formed a cruel grin amidst the burning embers of his pipe, as faint wisps of smoke polluted the air.

"Finish it," he ordered as the crime lord continued to enjoy the fine tobacco in his pipe. But rather than press the attack, Crow instead took an awkward stance, gripping his blade with both hands while he held the sword diagonally downwards near his head.

"Oi! Boyo!" Crow said with a mischievous grin upon his face, "you ain't the Saint of Swords without those saintly swords of yer's, are ya?"

Through the night the blades of the Saint flew, contained by neither warning nor hesitation. Called in an instant, they hovered before the Saint, answering their master's call. Fast they flew into the night, no more than streaks in the air. Two blades the Saint had summoned, and they sped towards Crow, who grinned the way only a man who had danced the razor edge of life and death many times possibly could.

With a shout of defiance, Crow swung his blade in a rapid motion, first downwards, than immediately to the side. There was a sound akin the flapping wings of a humming bird; the Saint showed no surprise, but Crow was certain that the killer was nonplused. Off the magic blades went, deflected to the sides, and then those magic swords vanished just as quickly as they had been created, beaten by nothing more than Crow's simple bastard sword.

"Took me a while to learn that particular trick," the bodyguard said with an ever-widening grin, "but methinks it was worth the time. To cut away a projectile is no easy feat, but when accomplished, well, t'is a pretty pretty sight, eh boyo?

"A Saint of Swords with no swords left," Malfred grinned as well, though his grin was markedly crueler, "now that's an irony I love. End it Crow."

At that last remark, the consummate killer that was the Saint, smiled.

The Saint's hands were extended, as if about to embrace a loved one. Two more swords materialized, but this time in the Saint's hands. The shadowy figure gripped the two swords, ready to fight once more.

"So it's a game, is it?" Crow whispered just loud enough to be heard, "what will falter first? Your swords, or my technique? Methinks, despite it all, I like this game!"

Crow charged forth, once more taking the awkward stance that allowed him to flawlessly parry projectiles. To each side the Saint flung a sword, not with magic, but with hands of flesh and blood. Through the night the blades whirled, flawlessly seeking their intended target. Once more Crow danced the razor's edge, and once more his blade deflected the blades. Off the swords spun, harmlessly into the night.

The Saint charged forth; recognizing neither the possibility of defeat, nor the agony of death. The Saint charged forward empty handed, but after no more than two steps, two more blades materialized within the killer's hands, identical to the last ones.

Crow let out a grunt of annoyance; this so-called Saint could pull out swords faster than a lifetime drunk could uncork a bottle of wine! Rearmed, if only for even just one attack, the Saint was a menace. Crow had no choice but to shift to the defensive as the Saint swung the recently created blades, but the attack wouldn't make a lick of difference as long as Crow could deflect the strike! Deflect, then skewer the Saint upon the bastard sword; the honed mind of the mercenary saw his course instantly.

Even though he never saw the blades, he heard them whirling. His finely tuned senses, tempered in the heat of many a battle, played the scene out in his mind. It was a beautiful attack, an attack truly worthy of the one the people called the Saint of Swords.

Magic blades that the Saint of Swords could control at will.

True, the first set of magic blades had been destroyed; Crow had seen them disappear himself. But what of the second pair of blades that the Saint had flung via hand? Those Crow had deflected yes, but he then paid them no more mind. After all, his foe was charging him head on, such an act demanded full attention.

But those blades had not simply disappeared, instead they had continued to spin off into the black night. Harmless, or so both Crow and Malfred thought. But as he heard that whirling noise, Crow instantly knew what it was.

...could control at will.

So what if the blades had been deflected? They had not been destroyed. Arcing back in perfect unison with the Saint's own charge, the deflected blades whirled towards Crow's exposed back. It was a simple matter to dodge those blades, but there was just one problem.

The timing was utterly perfect. As the deflected blades came at his back, the Saint charged Crow head-on. To defend his back would leave him to be pierced in the front, and to defend the front would leave his back exposed to those magical blades. He could attempt a dodge, but that was the immaculate beauty of the attack. The Saint had planned the charge down to a timing as precise as the razor edge Crow danced upon; nothing was left to chance. A second too early with the charge, or a second too late, and Crow could have rolled to the side, but if it was timed perfectly...

"Beautiful boyo," Crow whispered as he was skewered, "as beautiful as the last sunrise a man sees."

To his credit, Malfred kept his cool until the very end. As his bodyguard fell to the ground, as the Saint stepped over Crow's dead body, as pale white fingers took the bastard sword from Crow's cold hands, Malfred did nothing but gently tap his pipe against his leg.

"My world," the Saint whispered as the bastard sword was raised, "is filled with swords."

The orange embers of Malfred's pipe fell to the dirt, extinguished to the very last flame.

[Disillusioned]

From the town of Irenes to the town of Themis, it was around a four days ride. Troy had pushed his horse as fast as he could, and had managed to make it in half that time. He gently stroked the main of Durandal as he led the horse into the stables, and whispered for the horse to rest up; he had certainly earned it. After fishing out an apple and feeding it to the animal, Troy gave a polite nod to the stable boy, and headed towards the headquarters of the town guards of Themis.

Though both Themis and Irenes were extremely tiny towns in the great and wide world that was Althanas, there was a difference between the two towns. It was simply almost impossible to find Irenes on any map; Themis would at least appear as an extremely tiny dot. Therefore, while Irenes was watched over by no more than five town guards, plus a captain, Themis had at least a dozen. Probably twice that much, but it had been a while since Troy had visited this place.

And yet, as much as things changed, just as many things stayed the same. The last time he had visited Themis, probably around a half a year ago, he was greeted by a hearty handshake from the Captain of the Town Guards, Deraj Onirasec.

Gripping tightly the hand of his friend, Troy exchanged greetings with the man. A round of pleasantries were exchanged; yes Troy was doing well, and yes he was still married to that stick of a woman, and no, comments like that would not get you invited to dinner.

"Sorry sorry!" Deraj apologized immediately, "she might not have looks, but everyone knows your wife can cook. A fair reason to marry a girl, if there ever was one."

At the age of forty-five, Deraj was very much in shape. He took his job seriously, and made it a point to excersise both his mind and his body daily. For that very reason, he was well-built, smart, decently charismatic, and an all around good man to have on your side. With a smile, Troy accepted a cup of tea as he sat down in Deraj's office, which was at least three sizes bigger than Troy's.

"Got your message," Deraj began, moving away from pleasantries such as if Troy would be willing to send him some a batch of Noel's cookies, "and I can't say I blame you for your concern. Truth be told man, I'm pretty sure the Saint is in Themis."

Troy coolly raised an eyebrow, and motioned for his friend to continue. The reason Troy had come to Themis was, after drawing a line between the Saint's known places of activity, Themis had been next in line. He had not guessed wrong.

"Had an incident last night, a crime lord was found dead, along with a few of his men. Was about to chalk it up to a turf war, but then one of my boys found a guy drowning himself in booze, mumbling about that 'demonic wielder of swords.' Decided to take it a bit more seriously," Deraj muttered as his light brown hands reached into his desk, and pulled out a file. He leaned forward, and tossed it to Troy.

"Hey, man to man. You think the killer is your brother?" Deraj asked softly, his brown eyes pouring into Troy. He had to hand it to the man, Deraj did not beat around the proverbial bush.

"No," Troy responded just as bluntly as he leafed through the file containing all sorts of incidents about the Saint's supposed actions, "the Saint, as you so dub this person, is not Karel. If it was Karel, there would be no mystery about it. If my brother goes on a killing spree, he will be certain to let the world know that he is the one doing it. He is quite attention starved, that one."

One had to give credit to Troy of the three brothers, he was the only one to refer to his brother-in-laws as family with any regularity. But, if a person knew Troy, such a thing would come as no surprise. The man valued family above all else; if his beloved sister wanted Karel and Vladimir as family, then they were family. End of story.

"Fair enough," Deraj muttered, "you would know best, after all. In any case, I've gone ahead and sealed off the entire area, no one in or out."

Troy allowed himself a soft chuckle; he would never have been able to get away with such a thing in Irenes. Then again, Irenes had not yet been victimized by this phantom killer, which was exactly how Troy wanted it to stay.

"No one's tried anything yet, and I've kept my men at a distance, but I intend to change that tonight. We'll sweep the area clean, looking for anything or anyone suspicious. It's a problem area in general, so I've quite a few reports about what and who is already there. Anything out of the ordinary, I bag 'em for questioning," Deraj finished while he tapped his desk, and gave Troy a look of slight embarrassment, "I wouldn't mind an extra hand."

Though he would never brag about, Troy was extremely skilled with his sword. At the least, he was good enough to match his two brothers, which was saying quite a bit. After all, Karel Raven and Vladimir Sigma were legendary with their skill with the blade. Troy was just as good, though there were no legends about him.

"I would be happy to help. According to the reports, you still have the crime scene mostly intact. Might I be allowed to see it?' Troy asked politely; Darej gave him an impatient nod of confirmation.

"Of course you can Anything the brother of the Saint of Swords wants, he gets, yeah?" Darej offered as Troy bristled slightly at the well-meant compliment; he preferred to win things on his own merit, not upon the stardom of his brothers, "you wanna talk to the snoop?"

There had, according to the reports, been exactly one person found at the scene of the murders. That person was kindly being referred to by Darej as "the snoop."

"If you do not mind," Troy began as he stood up; best to get to work right away, there would be time for rest later.

"Course not," Darej led him towards the cell area," though we didn't get much outta her."

"As it is necessary for me to ask, just how thorough were you in your questioning?" Troy asked as his friend held open the door.

"Very," Darej finished as he motioned towards the third cell down; Troy gave the man a harsh look. The woman in the cell was hunched over in the corner, with a bleeding lip, and sniffling as she clutched at her oversized grey coat.

"Don't give me any shit Troy," Darej muttered before any words of protest could be said, "I've got a killer running a round. A killer who is completely indiscriminate; scum to saviors, it don't make a lick of difference; he'll kill 'em all. So yeah, I was a little rough with the girl. You'd do the same, if she was your only lead."

"As you say," Troy whispered, he had no valid counter argument, "though you said he'll kill 'em all. Does that mean you have discerned the Saint's gender?"

"He, she, or it. Don't give a damn. The townsfolk are scared, and with good reason, but I intend to catch this guy Troy; so yeah I roughed up that girl. Sorry pal, but tough luck for her. She shouldn't have been poking around a crime scene."

"I suppose so. Did she tell you anything?" Troy asked as he gazed at the prisoner.

"Not a damn thing. I was about to let her go, in all honesty," Deraj answered as he brushed his short black hair about, "want to talk to her?"

"If you do not mind," Troy answered. Deraj gave him a I-don't-give-a-damn shrug, and opened up the door.

"Not at all. Hey, you!" he shouted at the girl who did her best to hide in the corner of her cell," it's your lucky day! This guy here vouched for you, so I have to let you go! Bet you don't know it, but this guy can kick a man's ass three ways from Sunday!"

Darej left Troy with a wink, along with the afterthought of "I'll meet you at the crime scene when you're done." Troy shook his head, but thanked his friend anyway. Deraj Onirasec wasn't a bad man, he just wanted to protect his town, and that was something Troy could identify with. Still, at the very same time Troy could not help but feel an invisible hand pluck at the strings of his heart.

"I believe you said it was not an everyday thing for you to be arrested," Troy began as he sat down on the single resting spot of the cell, one molding bench that was missing half a leg.

"What brings you to Themis, Sakura?" Troy asked the girl before him.

[Disillusioned]

"Hey, it's the handsome guy from Irenes. You on vacation? Got yourself a nice suite with a view?" Sakura gave Troy a week grin as she fiddled with something in her hands; it seemed to be a locket of sorts, one worn down by age and time. Though the small item might have once glittered gold, it was now tarnished and shined no more.

"No, I took a cozy room in an inn just a little ways from here. And might I say, I am not too happy to meet the little trouble maker I let go. Did you attack another person's wife?" Troy asked as he looked for an area to sit down on; there was only one rotting bench that looked dangerously unstable. He decided to remain standing.

"No way! I was just minding my own business, inspecting the corpse of some guy who got stabbed, and then BAM! I'm in prison being asked a bunch of questions via fist to my face! I swear Mr. Priam, you might be the very last gentleman in the world," Sakura muttered as she touched her swollen lip. Troy shook his head, and reached into his travel pack.

"Hold still," he whispered as he took out a small bottle, and applied it Sakura's lip. She winced slightly, but did as she was told.

"There," Troy finished, "that should help with the swelling."

"Golly gee, you're the best!" Sakura exclaimed with a hand clap, "you sure I can't seduce you? If I had my way, I'd lock you up and make love to you all night long!"

"Gods no. Just get out of here," Troy squirmed uncomfortably as he motioned towards the exit, "no wait. Tell me why you were snooping around, and if you found anything. Like that locket perhaps?"

"EHHH! Fraid not Troy, this locket belongs to my sister, I've had it for a while now. At least you still got your looks!" Sakura joked, Troy coolly raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you said you had no family," Troy responded calmly. Sakura instantly froze up.

"I don't. Shoot, I said belongs didn't I? I should have said 'belonged.' My sister's died on Black Isle," she answered with a pale look on her face. Troy was fairly adept at reading people (a necessary requirement if you had brothers like he did), and he was certain Sakura's pale look wasn't caused by a lie. She was pale because she missed her sister dearly, and would have given anything to have her back.

"Wait, Black Isle? Are you a survivor of that-" Troy was about to say tragedy, but he hadn't the time. Sakura was already on her way out the door.


"Anyhow, I got nabbed before I could figure out anything, but I'll be more careful next time," Sakura said with the wink of someone dedicated to causing more trouble, "and you know the reason I was snooping around! I've got to find the Saint of Swords! Thanks a million Troy! Let me know if you ever get a divorce! Or are feeling adventurous!"

"Not bloody likely," Troy muttered under his breath, doing his best not to smile on the way out. True, the girl was a bit of a hassle, but she had a certain charm to her that was hard to resist (or at least not smile at). Besides that, if she was a Black Isle survivor...well, that would explain quite a bit. After all, wouldn't you want to meet one of the men that brought about the destruction of your home and, if her sister had died there, killed your family? Maybe ask him why? Punch him in the face? Stab him in the back? It seemed to Troy that Sakura had little chances of either, but the way she stumbled through life was, if nothing else, admirable.

Though, it would probably be better if she didn't run into Vladimir. Scratch that, it would definitely be better if she didn't run into Vladimir.

Brushing such thoughts from his mind, Troy made his way to the scene of the Saint's most recent activities. Deraj had already told the guards (who had managed to cordon off roughly one and a half square miles rather well) to let him pass, so it was an easy matter for him to find his way. Troy found his friend patiently waiting in one of the alleys.

As any good investigator should, Deraj had left the crime scene completely intact. There were three men slain close to a branch-off towards another alley, while one man lay impaled upon a large bastard sword at the far end. In the middle of the alley was another man, dressed in Akashiman clothes, who had been pierced both in the back and in the front.

Troy began his investigation with the three men near the branch-way, reasoning that they were the ones killed first. If the Saint had ambushed these men, and all reports said that the Saint always ambushed, than these three were most likely among the first slain. Malfred would likely have been the last, as he would have been the protected one, and the body in the middle showed signs of a fierce battle via a dance of imprinted footprints.

“We’ve a guess at the length of weapons that killed those three. One was killed by a blade roughly twenty-five inches long, two by a blade around thirty-three inches long. A pair of blades, one large one small. I’m thinking katana and wakizashi, though it could be something else. A gladius, for example, paired with a dagger. But, seeing as the killer is based of the Saint of Swords, I think the katana-wakizashi pair is the most likely,” Darej finished his explanation with a slight puff of his chest; the man had done his research, Troy had to give him that.

“In that case, it is definitely not my dear brother,” Troy muttered, managing only a slight amount of annoyance in his tone, “he actually wields two katanas. Thank the heavens for small favors, my sister...”

He let his words fade into the air. His sister had a hard enough life being married to a man reviled by half the world, and worshiped by the other half. A man so concerned with his vainglory, that he spent his time adventuring, rather than taking care of his family. A man who had brought destruction to his own home, killing countless of innocents due to a stupid feud that should have been settled years ago. A man who...

Troy cut off his thought process, there was no point in such thinking. Karel Raven was his brother, end of story. He turned his attention to the corpse at the far corner.

“Not hard to determine the cause of death for that one,” Troy said as he appraised the one. Stabbed in the chest; the man must have bled out fairly quickly.

“Yeah, a bastard sword to the heart’s pretty fatal. Figuring it was this guy’s weapon,” Deraj motioned towards the corpse in the middle, “this guy was found weaponless, but the wounds on every other body don’t match that bastard sword. Hey, wanna see something cool?”

Deraj Onirasec pulled from his coat pocket a small vial, containing a purplish powder. Troy let out a soft chuckle; his friend had always been interested in magical trinkets and the like. Troy himself had always found such things to be no more than parlor tricks at best, but he let his friend have his fun.

“I bought this from a trader who sold goods from Corone. It’s popular with the mages there,” Darej explained as he uncorked the bottle, and poured a bit of the powder into his hand, “they use it for... magical rituals.”

“Naturally,” Troy acknowledged, “what other possible use could such a powdery substance be used for?”

“Shut up and watch,” Deraj said with a glare, “this stuff’s purple, but if applied to an area that has magical residue.”

He tossed the powder upon the wounds of the Akashiman; it instantly began to sizzle and change to a greenish color. Deraj smiled in satisfaction.

“That occurs. It’ll change different colors depending on the magic used, but there’s no need to go into that,” Deraj explained; Troy was fairly certain that his friend had no idea what the different colors meant, but said nothing.

“I used this stuff on each corpse here, but only this one had a reaction. Four wounds, all caused by a magical force. Saintly blades of magic at foot?” he asked as Troy leaned down, and carefully turned the body over.

“That, or some other parlor trick.” Troy muttered as he inspected the body; the wounds were decidedly different than the wounds on the other bodies. He closed his eyes, imagining the corpse in his head.

“Four wounds, two in the back, two in the front,” Troy muttered to himself as he tried to reenact the man’s death. There wasn’t much to go off of, but...

“The footprints clash here, so they were close to one another, but how can that be? An attack from the front cannot also occur at the back, unless magic is involved. Which it is. Did the killer create the swords behind his enemy, and fire them at his foe‘s backside?” Troy asked himself. If so, the Saint was an even better magician than Karel; even the true Saint of Swords could only create swords next to him. Could the Saint’s blade creation possibly be on such a level? If so, why even use the real swords at all? To impersonate Karel?

Troy turned his attention to the footprints in the dirt. Most were a mess, but it was a fairly simple task to concern that there were two separate pairs. One belonged to the dead man wearing the Akashiman clothes, the other was decidedly smaller.

“Two swords is unwieldy, though I’ll grant the use of a weapon to parry,” Troy whispered as he stood up, “two katanas is just plain cumbersome.”

“Come again?’ Deraj asked with curiosity as Troy slowly paced around the crime scene, following the dance of the footsteps in the dirt.

“My brother Karel, he uses two katanas. It is a difficult style, to say the least,” Troy answered as he flexed his sword arm, “even wielding one blade requires a decent amount of strength. Wielding two in unison is even more taxing, which is why most people who wield two weapons opt for a smaller weapon in their off-hand.”

“Naturally my dear brother just has to be different,” Troy muttered as he continued to play out the nighttime battle in his head, “Karel just has to use his two katanas, a difficult feat, even for one who has good strength in both hands. The Saint, as you have told me, uses a smaller blade; a more traditional style of fighting.”

“Is this about the killer not being your brother? You already kinda pointed that out,” Deraj said to no avail. Troy was in his own world now.

“Swords of smaller make, smaller shoes, and according to the reports, the Saint always fights hunched over, making it hard for survivors to remember their opponent’s true height,” Troy mused as he tapped his chin in thought. Whoever the Saint was, they certainly were smaller than Karel, and were doing their best to hide that fact.

“Tell me, is it possible the killer is a woman?” Troy asked his friend. Deraj just gave a shrug.

“You tell me, he’s your brother. How bad is he with the ladies?”


"He is terrible, not that such a thing means anything. The man burned down an entire island, or in any event caused it to be burned down, due to some silly grudge. Still, this killer is obviously small, for a man trying to impersonate the Saint of Swords in any case. I need to think, how long until you begin your operation?"

"You've a few hours, if that's what you mean. I'm not going to sweep this area til nightfall," Deraj broke out into a grin, "go visit your friend."

"Beg pardon?" Troy asked, completely confused.

"Don't be bashful; I won't judge. My men saw that girl I released cause of you heading towards your inn. Noel will be simply heartbroken, but I won't say a word if you bring me some of her cookies!" Deraj let out a loud laugh as Troy clenched his fists tightly.

"Gods...be...DAMNED!" he swore as he stomped off towards the inn he was staying at.

[Disillusioned]

She should feel bad about this. Breaking into places was bad enough (though she had been doing it lately with an alarming frequently), but breaking in to the room of a man who had time and again been nothing but nice to you was really bad.

Ordering room service and charging the bill to his account was just plain wrong.

"But, I'm sooooo hungry!" Sakura whined as she picked up a pair of chopsticks, and viciously attacked the beef bowl she had ordered. Along with the pot stickers. Plus the chicken on the side. There was some green tea to drink too.

"Ack!" Sakura gulped as a hand roughly, and at the exact same time remarkably gently, lifted her up by the collar of her coat. She slurped up the noodle she had been working on, and batted her eyes.

"Um, so I know how this looks," she began as Troy gave her an icy glare, "but if you'd just hear me out..."

"Ow ow ow ow ow!" Sakura whined as she was tossed out of Troy's room, and onto a very hard and uncaring wooden floor. She stood up, rubbing her butt as she did so, and made to talk; he quickly slammed the door on her.

"Oh come on Troy!" she shouted, "are you seriously going to throw me out like this? A lone girl, with no one to ask for help?"

Nothing.

"A lone girl who just got beat-up by the townguards?" Sakura rubbed her hands together nervously, people were starting to stare. That, and she really didn't have anywhere to stay.

She heard a loud sigh from the other side of the door. A sigh so loud, and so exasperated, it was as if the very heaven's themselves stretched out their hands, and whispered, "oh lord, when did the universe decide that I would be the target of every ill-mannered mooch on the planet?"

"You're so cool!" Sakura beamed as Troy opened the door, and motioned for her to come inside. He then motioned towards the table, and told her that she had ordered the food, so she might as well finish it; the girl was all too happy to oblige.

"So I was thinking," Sakura began, in-between her very un-lady like eating, "you're chasing the Saint. I'm chasing the Saint. Maybe we can work something out?"

"Yes, and while we are at it, you can leech off me even more. Thank you, but I will have to decline your generous offer," Troy muttered as he sat down across from Sakura, and poured himself some tea.
"Aw come on! Don't you know the saying 'two heads are better than one?' I can help! Really, I can!" Sakura whined as she slurped up more noodles; an impressive feat.

"Do not take this the wrong way, but I very much doubt that talking will solve this problem. This matter will be decided by swords, and as cliche as it may be, you would be in my way," Troy said flatly, leaving no room for argument. Sakura gave him a sad look.

"You're not that good, are you? This person is supposedly up there with the Saint of Swords on stabbidy-death level. How do you intend to deal with that?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. Troy responded with a careless shrug.

“I have a few of those parlor tricks myself, but I put faith in my skill. After all, it‘s worked before.” As soon as he finished speaking, Troy cursed his tongue. Sakura was staring at him with very wide eyes.

“You beat Karel Hector Raven! The Saint of Swords! In a fight? How?” she shouted, shooting out of her chair and knocking her bowl onto the floor, creating a mess and further increasing Troy’s bill.

“Er. Once upon a time,. With a sword of course,” his face grew red with embarrassment, for Sakura was looking at him in a very hero-worshipping manner.

“Hey! If you beat the Saint of Swords, even once, then that makes you the Saint of Swords!” Childish glee ensued, despite Troy’s best attempt to divert the girl’s attention to the two remaining pot stickers; in his defense, such a tactic would usually have been super effective.

“No, no, a thousand times no! Get that idea out of your head this instant!” he spat at the girl, his distaste for that title being associated with him as clear as ever, “I am not the Saint of Swords! I assure you, I was quickly annihilated roughly fifteen minutes after my victory by Karel, so I am no Saint! Stop staring at me like that!”

“Awww,” Sakura frowned, “would have been cool if you were, not that you’re not on my A-list already. But if you lost to Karel then-”

“I won’t lose,” determination stronger than anything man could ever hope to invent flowed from the brother of the Saint of Swords, “not to this False Saint. Too much is at stake here. I promised my wife and sister that I would-”

She was looking at him expectantly. Troy blushed slightly, and shook his head. No point in going into private matters with this girl.

“Suffice to say I have to defeat this person. So I will win; that is all there is to it,” he finished, gently tapping his saber for reassurance as he did so. She gave him a questioning look.

"Are you going to kill the Saint?" Sakura asked softly, "I know whoever it is definitely has it coming, but still..."

"You expect me to just let a murderer go when I see one?"

"Isn't that what you do anyway? I mean, Karel and Vladimir are...don't hurt me...way worse than the Saint, aren't they If even a forth of the stories are true, their combined kill count is way higher than the, what was that term you used? Way higher than the False Saint will ever achieve," the girl countered meekly, raising her hands defensively. Troy kept his cool, but was grinding his teeth all the same.

"So you can be clever when you want to be," he muttered softly, "but, setting Vladimir aside, I thought you liked the Saint of Swords?"

"I do! I really do!" she chirped back, "It's just, I think it would be cool if...you know..."

"No, I truly do not," Troy answered, "so you had best get to the point."

“I’ve always wanted to be like my big sister,” Sakura whispered; her fingers played with her old locket while her eyes took on a very distant look, “she was really cool, my sis. She was smart, had a sort of refined look about her. I think it was the way she smiled that made her look so sophisticated. She was always calm, always collected.”

Troy made an almost imperceptible noise. It was almost nightfall, and he had to meet up with Deraj, but the little girl before him looked so happy when she talked about her sister. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

“We’ve got the same features too! Though, she always did a better job with her hair than I ever could. That’s why I always bugged her to do my hair, so it wouldn’t turn out like this,” Sakura laughed as she pointed to the mass of tangled black webs that was her hairstyle, “our eyes are the same shade of violet too, which is really cool color, or so I say. We both even had the same pitifully small breast size...”

Well, that is about enough of this. Troy thought. He stood up, but Sakura just kept right on talking.

“She saved our lives on Black Isle. Me and mom, we were so useless, but not Sis. She got us through it all, kept us going. Saved me so many times...”

Sakura looked at Troy longingly. She longed to go back to that time, a time where everything was so much better. A time where life was sweet and simple, where her father would pick her up and put her atop her shoulders. A time where her mother’s cooking was a daily treat, and a time where a day spent playing in the yard was a day well spent.

“My sister died on Black Isle after saving me, and my mom...well, I’d rather not talk about it. But, if I could be like Sis and save someone,” her sentence went unfinished. She just shook her head, and wiped away a bit of water that had somehow begun to trickle down her cheek.

“Is that why you want to see the Saint of Swords?” Troy asked softly.

“He’s a hero who can save anyone, and I...er, well, I sort of. Um, it’s kind of hard to explain,” she found herself mumbling as she played with her hair. Troy just gave her a kind smile.

“Then I wish you luck, but for now I must depart,” he gave a polite bow, which was so very Troy in Sakura’s mind, and stuck his hands into his pockets.

“That’s right! You have that meeting with Mr. Are-you-gonna-talk-yet-bam-punch-owie!” Sakura exclaimed as she picked up her belongings. She had overheard Deraj talking about how he was going to sweep the area for the Saint, and so naturally, she had to tag along.

“Overheard that did you? Good, this will make everything much easier.”

All she heard was Troy’s voice, followed by a blinding white flash that was either Troy’s coat, or an aftereffect of gorging herself. Either way, she looked to her hands, which were now cuffed to the bedpost.

“Whoa. Is that how you play?” Sakura gave a tug on the handcuff; save for a bit of steel biting into flesh, nothing happed. She shook her head. “You wine and dine a girl, talk to her, get her to tell you her tragic tale, and then cuff her to your bed, and have your way with her?”

“Ah, no! No no no!” Troy immediately began to explain himself.

“That’s kinky Troy. Really kinky,” Sakura licked her lips, “I’m so down. You want me to struggle? Call you a vicious brute?”

“No, no NO!” Troy shouted, denying this particular accusation even more vehemently than when she had called him the Saint of Swords, “I am doing this to protect you! I do not want you running around-”

“I noticed,” she laughed as she gave the handcuffs another tug, “you obviously prefer your women to be a bit more submissive. Didn’t figure you for the type. Fits though.”

“Runing around after that blasted False Saint!” was shouted at the top of Troy’s lungs, “You’ll get hurt!”

“Hey, if that’s what you want to tell your wife, fine by me. I’ll watch your back. I mean, obviously you‘ve been watching mine...both in the metaphorical and physical sense,” Sakura giggled.

“I’m leaving. Good bye now. Stay out of trouble!” Troy shouted as he quickly stormed out the door, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Oh Troy oh Troy oh Troy,” Sakura let out a sigh as she shook her head, “this is Althanas. Not only does a beautiful damsel-in-distress invite almost every form of calamity imaginable, but you really should have thought this one through.”

With a huff Sakura reached into her shirt, and pulled out a lock pick. Back in Irenes they had confiscated at least three of the things, but Troy had been so embarrassed he had left without doing a precursory search. Not that it would have mattered, Sakura very much doubted Troy could bring himself to search her bra. It was a convenient hiding spot in so many ways. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was actually filling the damn thing out.

“Sniff. Made myself sad,” she cried as she tossed the handcuffs onto the bed, and made to follow Troy.

[Disillusioned]

"So...how did it go?" Deraj asked as politely as he could manage, which in all honesty, wasn't very polite at all.

"She cost me yet another fifty gold," Troy muttered with a glare. Deraj wondered if he should press the issue, then realized he may very well die tonight, so there wasn't much to lose.

"Huh. She looked like the type that would have paid you," he muttered just loud enough for Troy to hear.

"Are we all set here?" Troy ignored his friend's previous comment, and gave the area a once over. The sun had set amazingly quickly, almost as if the world itself was in a hurry to bring this act to a close. An eerie light fog began to roll in, a common event in Themis; hopefully it wouldn't interfere with the mission too much.

"Yeah," Deraj nodded, all business now, "I'd like you to meet my second-in-command, Dref Li."

A man in his late twenties gave Troy a respectful nod. Dref's face was grim for a man his age; his blond hair was short, and his brown eyes were hard. He did not strike Troy as the funny type, not that anyone would blame the man given the circumstances.

"Dref here hit up on what I think to be a good idea," Deraj continued as he hefted up a large sheet of metal. No, that wasn't right. It was a large circular piece of metal, and it was a shield. A simple design, but enough to cover most men's entire body if the balled themselves up enough.

"We don't know the piercing power of those magic swords, but we're hoping a wall of these will be enough to stop the sword shower," Deraj offered Troy the shield; he hefted the object and gazed over it with an appraising eye.

"I cannot say for the False Saint," Troy answered, using his newfound term for the killer, "but this would stop my brother's swords. It should be enough."

"Excellent," Deraj handed the shield to Dref, and motioned for the man to carry on as the plan was explained.

"I'm going to sweep the entire area at once, save for one spot. That's where I place Dref and my best men. I'm hoping to lure the... False Saint does have a nice ring to it...the False Saint there. Make it seem like an open escape, you follow?"

"Dref and his men will be in a great deal of danger," Troy whispered softly, Deraj nodded in an agreement.

"Yeah, I know. I did my best to use only volunteers for that assignment, but it's not like I expect them to stop the guy. If anyone finds the False Saint, they do this," as soon as he had finished speaking, Deraj pulled out a tiny white bead. Troy assumed it was another piece of a magical gizmo, or something to that effect. He was not wrong; Deraj crushed the bead in his hands, and flung it straight up in the air. A brilliant flash of white light erupted over the two of them, and remained there for a good while longer, as if it were a firework that simply refused to believe it's moment of awe was already over.

"I blew my expense account to shreds, and got one of those for every single guard. Anyone sees the False Saint, they hid behind their shields, and throw that in the air."

"And what then?" Troy asked.

"And then? I was hoping you would show us some of your mad sword skills," Deraj said in a tone that was all too serious.

"As you wish," was Troy's cool response.

*~*~*~*~

A brilliant flash of light lit the sky, and remained there. The Saint took a deep breath; now was the time. Katana and wakizashi gripped tightly, the Saint emerged from hiding. It was dark out, so very dark out; a beautiful cloak of night to wrap up equally dark intentions.

Shouts and screams echoed throughout the town. The guards were being rough in their sweep of the area, no doubt due to the rumors that surrounded the target of tonight's operation. One had to wonder what method they were using to determine the identity of the killer? It would have been easy for the Saint to throw off the infamous black garb, and don something entirely different. But no, that was not how it could be. The Saint had to appear tonight, there was no other option.

That first light in the sky must have been the signal for the operation to begin. The guards were moving fast, but almost sloppily. An escape route lay to the left, but of course such a thing was out of a question. Most likely some trap awaited there, but it wouldn't matter if there was nothing there save an exit and freedom. There was only one exit, and it lay over the bodies of as many guards as possible.

The Saint took a deep breath, and stepped forth from the shadows.

*~*~*~*~

He heard a death cry, it was an unmistakable sound. Dref was on his way to the predetermined area, but the cry was so close. He had his orders, but what if the Saint didn't run? Every single guard had orders to throw up the signal if they spotted the target, but what if they were ambushed, and did not have the time? The Saint always ambushed, if a rookie had been caught off guard...

It was time to make a tactical decision. Dref weighed the odds, and decided in favor of checking the area. If he was wrong, he would only be a few minutes behind schedule. If he was right, then he would make his stand there.

His foot stumbled over something heavy. He looked down to see the corpse of a fellow guard, one he occasionally had beers with after work with. Dref gritted his teeth, and looked ahead. Swords danced about in perfect unison against a spear that was constantly missing steps.

Fate or luck or whatever trick of the gods had decreed in the Saint's favor. The wielder of the spear, another guard, could do nothing more than defend himself from the whirlwind of attacks the Saint was unleashing; the man had no time to attack, let alone send up the signal.

"Throw up the light! Shields up!" Dref ordered; instantly his men huddled together, locking their shields in a defensive wall. Dref himself took out his bead, smashed it, and flung it into the sky.

"Dref!" the guard facing down the Saint shouted; a rookie mistake if there ever was one. Without a single word, the black-robed assailant flung a wakizashi into the man's neck. The guard gurgled a cry as he fell, clutching a fatal wound.

"Bastard!" Dref heard one of his men shout. The killer only had a katana left, but raised it expectantly.

"Hold your ground!" Dref ordered. Now wasn't the time for rash mistakes, or hasty vengeance. His men did as they were told; a good thing too, for dark swords soon raced across the sky towards them. Dref allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction, each and every one of those magical blades bounced harmlessly off his shield.

The bead burst into a magnificent light, illuminating the entire area. The Saint, so use to working in darkness, instinctively stepped back. Angrily, three more blades flew out of nowhere, but just like the last volley, each blade was rendered useless by the shield wall. Dref heard a curse as the Saint slammed the katana back into its sheath, and prepared to...pray?

Well, that's what it looked like anyway. The killer stood there, sword in its sheath, and placed a hand over their heart. Dref couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle, despite himself.

"Do you really think praying will save you?" He muttered as he raised his spear, his men followed the unspoken order. The Saint was whispering something, Dref hoped it was a prayer of mercy; that would be wonderfully ironic.

"Yes," The Saint answered softly, "this is my prayer."

Dref and his men froze in their tracks as the last line was finished.

"In my world filled with swords..." whispered the Saint. Dref screamed.

*~*~*~*~

Troy and Deraj raced through the dark night, the two of them had gone on ahead to the appointed area; Troy had reasoned that he could get their faster than a group of men. He had reasoned right, which was why he was nowhere near Dref's group when they set off their signal. Both men cursed their attempt at foresight as the ran as quickly as their legs could carry them.

"A foolish notion to assume that the False Saint would take the easy way out," Troy muttered as his eyes scanned the alleyways. Deraj was leading him through a series of twists and turns, taking every shortcut imaginable to shave off every precious second.

"I know I know! Stupid move on both our parts!" his friend shouted back, and then he skidded to stop while reaching into his coat. Troy made to move him, but paused when he looked at his friend's face.

"What in the world?" Deraj held up the glass vial of powder he had used before. The powder was an extremely dark green, but more importantly it looked as if it was a pot in danger of boiling over. The small vial of glass only contained a little bit of the stuff, but at the rate it was bubbling...

"Holy shit!" Deraj cursed as he tossed the vial away, it exploded midair, sending glass shards every which way. Troy raised the tail of his coat to shield his eyes against the glass as he looked about. He knew little of whatever it was the his friend had purchased, but it did not take a genius to figure out that such a reaction was probably due to some immensely powerful spell.

"Blasted parlor tricks," Troy whispered as he trudged ahead; the signal had been just around the corner, "is that all that Althanas is? I swear, swordplay will be dead by-"

Even the cool and collected Troy was at a lost for words as he turned the corner. Corpse upon corpse was strewn about, everything and everyone was pierced with black swords. Some men had abandoned their shields in an attempt to escape, others had been pierced through the back. Still others had died holding their shields, poor protection against this many blades. It was as if someone had unleashed a hundred swords upon the place, decimating people and buildings alike.

And, in the middle of it all, stood the killer. The one they all called the Saint of Swords.

[Disillusioned]

Him? Why is he here? Why now? Damn it all! I can't fight him! Not now! Thoughts raced through The Saint's mind, though not a trace of emotion was betrayed upon the killer's face. Not a word was spoken, nor were any gazes met; The Saint's eyes were covered by that dark cloak worn at all times.

"We meet at last, False Saint," Troy whispered, being the first to break the silence. He stepped forth, sword still in its sheath, slowly closing the distance between him and his target. As he took his steps, the hundred swords that marred the area shattered into dust; the only testament to the power unleashed here being the corpses of all of Dref's men, as well as Dref himself.

"Long time no see, Brother!" was the cold response. Troy cocked his head to the side slightly, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"That settles it. Not only are the true Saint of Swords magic blades golden, unlike those black swords you summoned, you are certainly not my brother. He never calls me, or anyone else for that matter, brother," Troy muttered, still slowly closing the distance. When he was about eight feet or so away from the killer, he stopped.

"I thought you would be taller," he whispered softly, "I did not want to credit it, but my friend's theory seems to be becoming more accurate. Are you really some woman Karel angered?"

"I liked that title Troy Priam," was the only response given; the False Saint saw the surprise register on Troy's face when he realized whoever stood before him knew his full name, "False Saint is so very fitting."

This was not a winnable battle, the False Saint knew that to be true; little energy was left after using so much of it to defeat those guards. A retreat was in order, but Troy Priam was not about to let his target just walk away without a fight, and the False Saint knew for a fact that Troy was too good to beat head-on with just swords.

Analyze the situation quickly and accurately. For whatever reason, Troy Priam was curious about the False Saint, otherwise he would have attacked already. If he attacked, the False Saint's current condition pretty much guaranteed the swordsman from Irenes’s victory. That above all, must not happen.

I didn't want to give anything away...but I don't think I have a choice right now. I know enough about this man to know he's leagues above those guards I just killed. Once the course of action was decided upon, it was time to act.

"What matters the gender of the False Saint?" the killer whispered, "she's only a phantom, only a ghost. Even if she was a girl once, she's now just a collection of lies and legends given form. She's a sinful past come to life; a mix of rumors holding a blade."

Under the white light that illuminated the entire area, she raised her right hand. Two swords, each as black as coal, appeared before her. As Troy had stated, the False Saint knew that the Saint of Swords attacked with golden swords, her black blades were an obvious contradiction to the legend. That was why she used them only in the dark, and always made sure to have what survivors she left focus on the fact that she could summon those blades, not on what color they were.

Black blades flew through the sky, aiming for Troy's heart. The False Saint was certain he would be able to dodge the attack, but doing so would cause the man to take his eyes off of her, if only for a moment. That was all she needed; just a brief moment to make her escape.

The False Saint was not allowed to fall here. There was still much left for her to do.

Blue blades made of the purest crystal froze her in her tracks. As her two black blades sped forth through the sky, two expertly aimed blades matched their speed and accuracy. Whereas the False Saint's blades were black and cruel, these blades had an almost uncaring quality to them. Just as the wind is both simple, pure, and at the same time so very neutral, so too were these blue blades.

The four blades met in air, each one shattered into dust. Blue and black mixed only for the merest of moments, twinkling like battling stars under the artificial light that shined upon the field of battle. Then, just like every other time, the wind came, and no trace of the magic blades could be seen.

"The Holy Swords of Saint Knu," Troy whispered as he lowered his right arm, "the most renowned attack of the Saint of Swords. Only he is able to use the true golden blades, but even I can cast the spell."

The False Saint actually heard herself swear out loud for the first time in ages. Once Troy had departed from Irenes, she knew she would have to face him someday, but she had very much hoped against it. After all, the man was both very skilled, and very determined; an extremely deadly combination in an enemy.

But even more than that, deep down inside, the False Saint liked Troy Priam.

NO! She swore vehemently at herself. I am the False Saint! A creature who has thrown away everything to be the Saint of Swords' dark shadow! I'm just a phantom given form, just a ghost from the past! Throw it all away, and stand alone!

He came at her, crossing the eight feet in no time at all. Troy's sword was still in its sheath, and that meant only one thing. The False Saint studied all her enemies well, and Troy Priam was a master of iaijutsu; a form of fighting that relied on quick-drawing the blade from its sheath, and striking in the same move. Not only that, but Troy was very, very good at it.

She was able to draw her wakizashi just in the nick of time. The only flaw she could find in Troy's form was that his quick-draw had to come from whatever angle he held the sheath at; as long as she focused on that, she could predict where the attack would come from. By striking at that spot, assuming she wasn't too slow or fast, she could block it.

Of course, Troy Priam was so fast with his sword, it was impossible for her to be too fast. The False Saint just swung as fast as she could.

A second too slow! The man’s speed was incredible! The wakizashi was only a moment behind the saber, but that moment was all that mattered. The attack was not a direct hit, but the sheer force of the attack sent her reeling. He seemed to have all the while been aiming for the wakizashi, and not any vital areas; not out of kindness, but rather technique.

The wakizashi whirls off into the night, landing ten feet from the two combatants; it is irreclaimable. The False Saint only has her katana left to fight with, but she not yet even drawn that sword. There is only one option for her, she must dodge the upcoming attack. If she succeeds, she can fight on. If she fails, then she will fall. Troy swings his saber at her.

He is surprised. She can see it on his face, read it in his eyes. Troy Priam was certain of his victory; a man of his skill should have no problem defeating an unarmed foe. He underestimates her, that is his mistake.

CLANG!

A black sword materializes instantly in her hand, and blocks the blow that should have ended everything. Troy’s ice blue eyes are stunned; even Karel Hector Raven is incapable of this. The true Saint of Swords only fires off his magical swords like projectiles, but not the False Saint. To her, everything is a sword. From her mind, to her body, to complete strangers and the loved ones she threw away, all there is are swords.

Because of this, the False Saint is never without a sword.

He is forced to retreat. The skilled swordsman from Irenes is caught off guard, pursuing now would be too dangerous. He is limited in his pursuit because he is not allowed to die. People are waiting for him to return; his sister, his wife, his friends. They are all eagerly awaiting the day Troy Priam returns home, he cannot disappoint them.

The False Saint does not have this weakness. People she loved, friends she cared about, her own feelings; all have been forged into swords. Because of this, she can press on. Because of this, she will never give up. Because of this, tonight she can beat Troy Priam.

The black sword is swung at Troy’s head; he parries the blow. The sword turns to dust before him, but he cannot attack. The False Saint raises her hand; as fast as she creates the idea, he realizes her plan. Four black swords appear before her, four blue swords appear before him. The two warriors lock eyes; Troy gasps.

Black swords race towards Deraj, who is memorized by the power being unleashed before him. Before they can strike him, four blue swords intercept the blades, cutting them down before they can do any damage.

“Damnation!” Troy swears as he turns his attention back towards the False Saint. She has already picked up her wakizashi, and has retreated down one of the alleys. He gives chase.

Her head hurts, this is nothing out of the ordinary. If she is to turn her body into a cold, unfeeling sword, then it is only natural for her body complain. The False Saint endures the pain, and continues to run. She can hear him chasing after her; she won’t survive another battle.

Troy tears through the alleyways, shoving and slashing aside everything in his way. His target is fast and agile, she takes many twists and turns. At each intersection, at each crossroad, he has to deduce what way she went. Each deduction costs him precious seconds.

It’s not enough, she already knows it. Her body is wracked with pain, especially her head. It’s going to catch up with her; she needs to rest, but she has no time. She must evade the man chasing her, but she cannot rely on speed to do it.

To her left is a weak area in the perimeter, she knows they didn’t have enough guards to cover that area, and the ones there are weak. Not that it matters, it is unlikely she can beat them in her current state. Still, the False Saint had intended to avoid that area, and continue on ahead. However, if she does that, Troy will catch her. Even if she takes this short cut, there is a good chance he will still catch her.

No choice in the matter. She tells herself. She takes off to the left, ducking through a seemingly random pattern down the alleyways there. She hears the man behind her keep pace with her, forcing her hand. Back to the wall, she hops a fence, drawing her katana as she does so.

The False Saint lands, and pain wracks her brain; her hood falls down, and reveals her face to the night sky.

Troy hops the fence a mere thirteen seconds later; he can still catch her. But, as he scans the area, as his eyes take in signs of his adversary’s trail, there is one thing he cannot turn away from. He wants to continue on, if he focuses on that one this one thing he is sure to lose his target, but there is little else he can do. The False Saint already knows this, she knows what path Troy Priam must take.

“Thaynes be damned!” Troy screams as he halts; the chase is over. He sheathes his saber, and quickly kneels down, picking up an unconscious girl.

“Sakura!” he shouts, touching his hand to the girl’s bruised head, “Answer me! Are you okay?”

[Disillusioned]

They were almost there.

All the fire, all the pain, all the loss; all of it was almost behind them. The three scramble forward along with hundreds of other people. Through the wreckage and carnage, while dragons burn the of Black Isle to the ground, the Hisa family have almost escaped the madness.

Except for the father, who's body will never be found.

"This way! Come on!" Ayame shouted, leading her little sister and their mother towards the boat. There are only three boats left, she knows that they have to be on one of them, otherwise they will surely die.

Across a field of flame and fallen buildings she pulls her family. Little Sakura is too frightened to do anything but follow, and their mother is too shocked by the events she has witnessed to do more than mumble incoherently.

Fortunately, the family is several steps ahead of most people. Thanks to the food brought by Ayame, the Hisa family is still going strong; the same cannot be said for many of the other families racing for the boats.

The first boat has already departed. Ayame quickly calculates the remaining distance in her head. She will be able to make it there just before the second boat leaves, the third boat will be the failsafe.

"Here! Take her!" Ayame picks up little Sakura, and hands her to one of the sailors. Tiny hands cling to Ayame, afraid to let go, but she assures her sister that everything will be okay. Sakura nods, and climbs into the sailors arms; she is so proud of her brave older sister.

"Now you Mom!" Ayame shouts, shoving her mother forward; the middle-aged woman only mouths her complaints. It is obvious that the tragedy of Black Isle has destroyed their mother's mind. Still, as Ayame watches her other climb aboard the boat, she allows herself a smile.

As long as she is alive, then there is still a chance.

"Out of the way!" a man cries, and shoves Ayame to the floor. It is not done out of rudeness, but rather out of desperation; he too has a family to save. Ayame falls forward, smashing onto the deck of the boat. Her lip is bleeding, but that's a small price to pay for safety.

"Ah..." Ayame lets out the softest of sighs. She watches as her locket, a present from the father she will never see again, fall away. It is trampled into the dirt by the people still trying to get to the boat. The loss of the locket is nothing compared to being eaten by a dragon, but it is the last present that her father will ever give to her. The pain on her face is unmistakable.

"Don't worry! I'll get it back Sis!" Sakura volunteers, completely oblivious to the danger of leaving the boat. All the little girl knows is that the loss of the locket made her sister sad, so she just had to get it back!

Before anyone can stop her, Sakura leaps over the railing. She abandons safety without even knowing it, her only concern is the retrieval of her sister's precious locket. Her violet eyes scan the ground, looking for the sparkle of that dear locket. She spies it there, to the left! She takes off, scrambling on all fours.

"Sakura!" Ayame cries out to no avail, her little sister is already gone. Ayame looks to her mother; the woman wants to say something, but words fail her. All her mother can do is mouth what looks to be a name that her shattered mind is unable to piece together.

That settles it. Without a thought for her own safety, Ayame flings herself over the railing, and chases after her sister. Fortunately, Ayame only has to follow the body of a crawling little girl, which is significantly easier than finding a tiny locket being trampled on. She pushes her way through people, causing no small amount of excitement. After all, she is the only person actively trying to run away from the boats.

"Got you!" Ayame scoops up her sister, who is holding her tiny fingers painfully; they were stepped on many times. "Sakura! What were you-"

No point in finishing the sentence, words can't convey what a look can. Sakura smiles, and wraps the precious locket back around her sister's neck. Tears well up in Ayame's eyes, but Sakura just shakes her head.

"Big girls don't cry!" the little girl pouts. If her big sister cries, than how is she suppose to hold back her own tears?

"Yeah, got that right. Big girl's don't cry," Ayame whispers, as she gently kisses her little sister on the forehead, "Thanks Sakura. I promise I'll never lose this locket again...Damn! The boat!"

It's already weighed anchor, and on its way out to sea. Ayame checks the third boat; her failsafe. It is the last possible hope for the survivors of Black Isle, anyone left behind is destined to die. The boat is being swarmed by frantic survivors that cannot all be saved. There is no salvation there.

Ayame scoops up her sister, and turns towards the second boat. It is on its way out of the port, but it still has to pass by a bit of land. Perhaps, just perhaps, that sailor will help her again.

She takes off, once again running away from the remaining boat. Instead, she frantically dashes towards the second boat; it is almost out of reach. Ayame screams with all her might as she runs, holding little Sakura up. By some strange chance the same sailor hears her cry, and points towards the back of the boat. Ayame understands instantly, and runs as fast as she can.

"Sis?" Sakura asks, but it's over too soon. The sailor reaches the back of the boat just in the nick of time. Ayame tosses the tiny body of her little sister into the air, praying to anyone that will listen that the sailor will catch her. Her prayer is answered; the rough hands of the sailor snatch Sakura out of the sky, and pull her to safety.

"SIS!" Sakura screams frantically, kicking and punching in an attempt to free herself from the sailor's arms; he holds her tight. Their mother makes her way, mouthing incoherent ramble. The two member of the Hisa family on the boat watch the remaining Hisa on the land start to grow smaller. The only thing that could possibly make this worse would be the arrival of a dragon.

A terrifying roar. A sweltering wave of heat. Hundreds of death screams. Ayame curses her rotten luck, is this the price to pay for her answered prayer? If so, then that's okay with her. Her mother and sister are safe, so everything should be all right. But, her mother isn't in the best condition; can the broken woman really look after Sakura?

I can't die yet! Ayame swears, and looks around. Twin dragons are scorching the area by the third boat, roughly half of the remaining people on the land are incinerated; she can smell the stink of burning flesh from here. The rest scatter as the boat takes off, desperately trying to evade the dragon.

There are a hundred screams to be heard, but Ayame swears she can hear her little sister's clearly through them all.

She dashes further down the port. There is a collapsed building, a massive pile of rubble just ahead. Maybe, just maybe...

Sakura finally fights free of the sailor, and runs towards the side of the ship. She can see her sister running, running as fast as she can! Sakura screams for her sister to run faster, desperately trying to turn her words into the energy her no doubt exhausted older sister needs.

It's no use, Ayame will never catch up to the boat Sakura is on. The little girl is about to cry, but then a miracle happens.

As the third boat passes by the massive rubble, Ayame appears at the very top of the fallen building. That building was gigantic in its former glory; the remains are at least two stories high. Sakura screams a prayer as Ayame leaps off the top of the rubble.

She flies through the air, soaring like a bird. At least that's what it looks like to the little girl. Sakura dashes to the back of the boat; she can see things more clearly from there!

A perfect landing! Sakura grabs her mother, who is still trying to find that name, and pulls her close so the two of them can see.

Ayame stands back up as the third boat puts out to sea. She grins, and waves at Sakura and her mother, her little sister waves back energetically. The boats are heading for a nearby port; it's not too far away. The Last Knight of Apocalypse is only targeting the home of his sworn rival, the Saint of Swords, so there's little danger of the dragons following them there.

There's no record of this adventure, save for what Sakura remembers of it. She remembers all of this, and the blissful fifteen minutes that follow. The next part is burned into her mind clearly.

Sakura is waving to her sister, her sister is waving back. Even their mother looks like she is about to smile. The two escape boats are a good twenty feet away from one another, but Sakura can still see her sister clearly. The two are standing by the railings of their respective boats, playing a game they just invented. A game who's only condition for success is to wave back to your sister each time she waves at you.

A dragon roars; everyone is screaming. The people on her boat are screaming for the captain to go faster. In the panic, Sakura is knocked to the ground. She crawls forward, is her sister okay? What's happening? What's going on?

A dragon swoops down from the sky, billowing flame. In slow motion, Sakura watches a wave of fire sweep across the sky, its target is clear. Sakura holds out her hand and scream.

"AYYYYYAMEEEE!" their mother finally remembers the name she was trying to find. The mother and the daughter reach out towards the boat twenty feet away. A look of fear is etched across Ayame's face, they can see it so clearly.

Ayame reaches out towards her sister and mother, desperately wanting to hold her loved ones one more time. Then, Ayame's boat is engulfed in flames.

Sakura wakes up screaming, just like she always does. Her body is drenched with sweat, and her long black hair is a tangled mess. Desperately, she reaches out, trying to grab her sister's hand once more. Just like in her dreams, she is always too far away.

She rolls out of bed, and onto a hard stone floor. She knows not where she is, nor does she care. She slams her hand into the floor, as if in some way it could relieve the pain she's feeling.

Everything was turned to ash on that day. Her home. Her father. Her life. Her sister.

"WHY?" Sakura screams. Her head hurts, it feels like someone is shoving a sword into the back of her brain. She doesn't care. She continues to pound away at the floor, and scream with all her might.

"WHY? WHY? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?" Tears pour from the girls face as she screams, "What did we do? Why did we lose everything? My home! My father! My sister! My...my...m...mot....mothe-"

She can't even finish the word. A rage engulfs her, one of such hatred that putting it into words would be blasphemy to those who feel it.

"GOD DAMN IT!" Sakura screams, "The Saint of Swords! WHY? Why did my family have to die? Tell me! I WANT TO KNOW!"

If she could, Sakura Hisa would rip the Saint of Swords asunder. Just as she holds him to be of the greatest heroes that ever lived, she also holds him to be responsible for her family's death. Two emotions, one of hatred and the other of worship, war within her. It's a constant battle, but whenever she sees that dream, whenever she recalls that day, it is easy to see which one wins.

Sakura cries for strength, cries for power. If only she was stronger! If only she was as quick as Troy, as powerful as Karel, as deadly as the False Saint! She would take that power, and burn from Althanas's history the legend of the Saint of Swords, so that never again would anyone suffer in the wake of his story.

But she has no power. Sakura Hisa is a weak little girl, and that is all she will ever be. She is weak, and more than that, she is a coward. After all, if she wasn't such a coward, than her mother...

No. She doesn't want to think about that. She can't think about that. Anything but that!

The two searched among the corpses that washed ashore for Ayame Hisa. The finally found her, amid all the other corpses. Ayame’s beautiful hair was singed away, her pale skin was charred back. Her face was burnt off, and her delicate fingers were not but crumpling ash. The only thing that the two can find on this burnt body is one golden locket, perfectly preserved.

Ayame Hisa did kept her promise. She did not let go of that precios locket.

Sakura’s mother never recovered from the sights she saw on Black Isle. She wasted away, and died of starvation. Sakura knows this, not because she saw it, but only because she heard about it. Sakura Hisa, in order to escape the poverty she and her mother lived in, abandoned her mother.

Sakura had always loved to tinker with things. She loved to create all sorts of gadgets and trinkets. So when a traveling inventor came to the city she and her mother lived in, looking for an apprentice to carry on his work, Sakura snatched up the opportunity. She swore to dedicate everything to the man's work. The man's response was to glance at the little girl, age fourteen, and point to the woman wasting away in the corner.

"That cannot come with us," the man said cruelly. Sakura took a look at the hovel she lived in, the rotting food she was forced to eat, and her mother curled up in the corner of the room. Mother and daughter gazed into each other's violet eyes one last time.

"Fine," Sakura said. She has never forgiven herself for this, and to this day cries endless tears when she that her mother dying alone, without a single person to care for her.

[Disillusioned]

"Calm down Deraj," Troy ordered as the two paced around the office. Well, Troy was pacing, The Captain of Themis was screaming loudly, and kicking any object that got in his way.

"I will not calm down!" Deraj screamed as he angrily threw his chair across the room, "Dead Troy! They are all dead, and that little girl you're so fond of has something to do with it! I'll hang the bitch!"

"On what grounds? What has she done to warrant such a punishment?" Troy asked coolly as he picked up the tossed chair.

"She snuck through my barricade! People were suppose to stay out of there!" Deraj finished his accusation by flinging a pencil holder across the room.

"Which proves only that she is good at sneaking, or that the men you positioned there were incompetent," was Troy's response as he picked up the pencils, and placed them back on his friend's desk.

"You watch your mouth Priam!" his friend shouted, pointing angrily at the Irenes swordsman, "I lost a lot of good men last night, so watch what you bloody say!"

"I apologize," Troy offered sincerely, "I myself am upset. However, taking it out on Sakura will not solve the problem."

"Maybe it will!" Deraj countered, "Everywhere that girl goes, the False Saint follows! You may not know it, but that little girl shows up every time the False Saint does! A little suspicious, don't you think?"

"Is it? She's on the killers trail; inefficient though she is, I expect she would arrive at the scene of the crime sooner or later."

"Maybe. Or maybe she moves in ahead of the False Saint! Ever think of that?"

"No," Troy motioned for Deraj to sit down; the man did not take him up on his offer, "Because she appeared at Irenes, and the False Saint did not target it. Instead, the killer came here."

"Maybe she's a scout," Deraj muttered as he paced about, "like a partner, you know? Test out the waters, and the like. She works with the False Saint, telling which places to avoid, and what places to attack! Not all towns have an elite swordsman of badassery standing by!"

"If so, then she is a poor scout," Troy answered back, "the only reason I came to Themis was because Sakura told me about the False Saint. That seems counter-productive, warning an...as you so deem me, 'elite swordsman of badassery' about her partner."

"Then why would she sneak back into an area I already caught her at once? Huh? Answer me that, Priam!" the Captain of Themis demanded.

"She seeks the Saint of Swords, for what reason I do not truly know. As you will recall, there was some speculation as to the killer being my brother. Obviously, she is not, but we did not know that before," Troy answered calmly. In truth, he was in a hurry, the False Saint was always on the move, so too should he be. However, he could not leave Sakura alone like this.

"That reminds me, the False Saint," Deraj muttered, his whole body tensed up at the killer's alias, "tiny little thing wasn't she? Hey, Sakura's pretty tiny too, ya know?"

"Switched tactics, have you?" Troy asked with raised eyebrows, "I thought Sakura was working with the False Saint?"

"Or maybe she is the False Saint!" Deraj said as he slammed down his fist, "That would explain everything!"

"That explains nothing at all," Troy shook his head. He understood his friend's anger, but now the man was just spewing nonsense.

"Think about it Troy!" Deraj continued, "That's how she got the drop on Dref! She sneaks back in, and starts taking everyone out from behind! My men were expecting the target to be in front of them, not behind them!"

"You left out the part as to why she lingered next to her victims, allowed you to arrest her, and allowed you to hurt her. You saw as much as I did, the False Saint could have easily broken out of this place, killing everyone in the process," Troy answered back firmly.

"She...she wanted it that way!" Deraj stuttered, he knew he was losing the argument, "A ruse! A damn ruse so we won't suspect her!"

"So the killer who wants to remain unknown allows the people who saw her actual face to walk free? That makes no sense Deraj. If Sakura was the False Saint, you would be dead."

"Maybe...maybe she is, and she doesn't know it!" One last desperate attempt is made. Troy only frowns at his friend's unwillingness to accept the facts. The False Saint won, and they lost. Completely.

"So Sakura...has multiple personalities?" Troy tapped a finger on his chin as he thought, "That seems a bit far-fetched."

"This is Althanas god damn it!" Deraj swore, and kicked over his chair once more, "We have immortals, wizards who can shatter the damn air into glass, the boogeyman, tainted samurais, demons, Saints, and a goddess of blessed freaking torture! Far-fetched is the name of the game Troy!"

"It just seems too coincidental," Troy continued calmly, "She becomes the False Saint to kill that crime lord. Then, by the time you find her, she reverts back to Sakura. She remains as her for days, while you interrogate her, and even after she meets me again."

Deraj gritted his teeth. He knew the argument was a lost cause.

"Then, she turns into the False Saint, sneaks back into the crime area, unleashes some sort of attack capable of annihilating Dref's group, only to conveniently return to Sakura before she is caught? That is thin Deraj. Remarkably thin," Troy advised carefully. It certainly wasn't enough to execute a girl on.

"Fine! Fine fine fine! Have it your way!" Deraj reached into his desk, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them to Troy. The swordsman caught them gracefully, and eyed his friend.

"But I don't want that girl in Themis any longer! Since you like her so much, you deal with her! Cell D. Get a move on," Deraj ordered as he picked up his chair, and sat back down. A mountain of very painful paperwork awaited him.

"Are you not going to punish her? She is guilty of trespassing, at the least," Troy asked. His friend just let out a laugh, though it was a laugh filled only with sadness.

"Why? So I can watch you pay her debt? Just get her the hell out of here Troy. All right?" he framed it in the form of a question, but Troy knew it was anything but. If he did not take Sakura with him now, she was as good as dead.

He gave Deraj a polite bow, and walked across the hallway. The cells weren't all that far from Deraj's office, so it was a short walk. In fact, the cells were close enough that if a prisoner had good enough hearing, they might be able to make out a word or two. Especially if people had been screaming.

"Ummm," Sakura began as Troy opened her cell door, "I..."

"Silence. Come with me," he ordered, grabbing her by the arm rather forcefully. He felt somewhat bad, but despite his calmness, Troy was very upset. He had been so close to capturing the False Saint, and now he was back to square one.

Well, maybe square two. At least he knew that the killer wasn't Karel.

Sakura obeyed with a meek nod, and stumbled behind Troy. The two passed Deraj, who was scribbling away at one of the papers on his desk. He looked up as they passed.

"Watch your back Troy," he whispered softly, "Watch it carefully."

Troy did not answer, but nodded his head slowly. That was enough for Deraj, but not Sakura.

"I...I ummm," she started, "I want to explain-"

"Shut it," Deraj barked, "Your that guy's friend, not mine. That's twice he's saved you, try to actually appreciate it this time. I had your horse saddled for you Troy; Durandal's outside, ready to go."

"Thank you," Troy whispered. Deraj nodded, then set down his pencil, and glared into Troy's icy eyes.

"Dref had a mother and father, two sisters too. I have to tell them what happened, along with all the other families who won't be seeing their loved ones again," the Captain of Themis gazed at his friend.

"I...am sorry. I should have been faster," Troy said, letting some of the guilt he felt finally appear. "If I had only-"

"Don't chicken out Troy," Deraj cut him off.

"Beg pardon?"

"You find this killer, this False Saint. You find them, and you kill them," Deraj's eyes burned with vengeful fury as he spoke, "No excuses. She's a killer, as evil as they come. Don't hold back cause she's a woman, or for some stupid chivalric reason. Kill her Troy. For Dref."

The swordsman from Irenes did not respond right away. He stood there for a moment; saying nothing, doing nothing. Then, after some time had passed, he looked at his friend, and nodded.

[Disillusioned]

The two rode in silence. Troy said nothing as he pushed his horse onwards; Sakura did nothing save to cling to Troy's back as the horse galloped onwards. She wanted to thank him for helping her again, but each time she began to open her mouth, a harsh icy glare silenced her.

He needed to think, now more than ever. It was not too hard to deduce the False Saint's next target, it would be the city of Delphi. Delphi was far different from Themis, and even more different than Irenes. While Irenes did not even exist on most maps, and Themis was only a tiny dot, Delphi was a city in all senses of the world.

It had a thriving economy. It had more businesses than one could count. A large force of guards, and a crime rate that demanded such a number. It had nobility, commoners, and dregs of society. In short, it was filled with people, both good and evil.

The False Saint had only been growing bolder and bolder. Though she had started with small towns, she had been moving to ever larger targets, ever more high-profile kills. Though the troubles of small towns were insignificant to Althanas as a whole, it would not be the same for a place such as Delphi.

Were the False Saint strike at such a place, and create a lasting enough impression, Althanas would not ignore the villain any longer. Thousands of people would demand retribution, and from their cries both more heroes and more villains would arise. Those heroes and villains would seek out that dark wraith, and Troy knew what would come of that.

The peace of Irenes would be no more. People would come to that tiny place, seeking the source of this killer, and that source was the true Saint of Swords. Regardless of their intent, some of which would be good and some of which would be evil, those seekers of the Saint of Swords would shatter the tranquil life that the people of Irenes so dearly loved.

So he had to hurry, he had to stop her. He had set out from his home not to save the world; let his vainglorious brothers handle such tasks. All Troy had wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to preserve the peace of Irenes. Stopping the False Saint was essential to that plan.

But he was already behind the killer, he knew that for a fact. Troy had wasted (well, that might have been overtly harsh) time saving Sakura once again; no doubt that the False Saint was already well on her way to Delphi.

It was a three day ride from Themis to Delphi, Troy was certain he could make it two days if he pushed his horse. He might have been able to make it in even less than that, but Durandal was carrying two right now, and that taxed the horse even more.

Durandal was so much more than a horse too. He was a fast companion, a solid ally. So when Troy chanced upon one of those common roadside inns, he weighed his options. Press on, or allow all of them some rest? In the end, the deciding factor had not been Sakura nor himself, but rather the horse; the animal had done more than enough for the day.

He checked himself in; naturally he paid for the room, making sure to purchase one with separate beds. He still had enough funds left to afford separate rooms for him and Sakura, but he wanted to keep his eye on that little trouble maker right now.

Which is why they sat in their room, at a table, food untouched. Sakura was extremely hungry, and Troy had ordered more than enough for the two of them, but she was too busy fidgeting under his gaze to even pick up the chopsticks (both Troy and Sakura liked Akashiman food it turned out).

"Ummmm, so..." Sakura fidgeted, "did you know you're sizing me up like a target right now? The last time you looked at me like this was back in Irenes, which ended with me knocked out. You're...not about to knock me out again, are you?"

"No," Troy responded coldly, though his gaze never once wavered.

"So...we cool?" Sakura asked meekly.

"No," was a similarly cold response.

"Er, thought not. Where did we go wrong Troy? Where did we go wrong?" she wondered in a tone of sadness tinged with exaggeration.

"I imagine it was somewhere around the time where you decided to ignore my request and involved yourself in that fiasco in Themis," Troy muttered as Sakura let out a huff of air.

"By request you mean handcuffing me to the bed, right? If we're going to be recalling memories, let us recall them all," she answered, holding her wrists together in a mocking fashion; Troy coughed in embarrassment.

"Ah. Yes, er, I apologize for that. It was a drastic measure, and an inappropriate one...just what is so funny?" Troy demanded as Sakura began giggling.

"Oh, just your properness at such an inappropriate action against an ungrateful little brat who constantly takes advantage of your good nature," Sakura responded as she began to brush her long hair about, "Seriously, only you would be polite to me at this point. You must really have a thing for me, yeah?"

"Decidedly not."

"Damn it! Fall for my nonexistent feminine charms!"

Troy raised his eyebrows at that particular remark. Sakura, who was about to slam her fist onto the table, turned a bright shade of red. Not out of embarrassment, no, it was more out of anger.

"Sniff," she pouted as she looked down at her pitifully small chest, "made myself sad. Again. Sniff."

"Oh, enough of this," Troy stifled a laugh despite himself, "I will make you a deal. Tell me everything, and we shall be...as you say it, cool."

It was a fair deal for the girl, who had little left to rely on. In fact, she really didn't have anything left at all. Only this man from Irenes had helped her, and she had in every way been completely ungrateful to him.

So she told him her tale. How she had survived Black Isle thanks to her sister, how she had watched her sister's ship burn, and how she had found that blackened corpse which still plagued her dreams holding that locket. She even told him the fate of her mother, who she had abandoned so long ago. This time, when Sakura sniffed, it was all too real.

"I see," Troy whispered softly, "I am sorry for your loss, but I must ask this question once more, and this time demand an answer. Why do you seek the Saint of Swords?"

"I am a girl who abandoned her mother to starvation," she whispered back, "who else could save such a miserable wretch of a creature?"

Yes, deep down inside, Sakura Hisa hated herself. She was a coward, a weakling, and unable to save anyone close to her. She could not save her beloved sister, nor take care of her mother who's mind had shattered after the events of Black Isle. What she hated most about herself, however, was the thought that despite all her failings she wanted to be save.

As if someone like her could ever be saved.

Troy nodded slightly, and whispered something softly to himself. Sakura told him to speak up, but all he did was favor her with a soft smile, and told her to eat up. The two of them would need their strength if they were going to catch the False Saint. Sakura jumped for joy, made to hung him, was promptly shoved away, and then began to shovel food into her mouth in what could only be described as the "most unlady-like fashion ever."

If she would have paid more attention, she would have noticed that Troy had gone back to sizing her up as a target. He watched her closely, trying to recall every possible detail of the night he faced off against the False Saint. He had little to go one, save for one thing.

The False Saint's eyes had been a beautiful color of dark violet, the exact same shade as Sakura Hisa's eyes.