A strength he knew would not be enough.
He joined her, standing side by side, quietly admiring the sunrise of a world he might never see again.
“I take it, introductions and explanations are redundent?” Archangel Lauriel, one of dozens of celestial beings currently undertaking the Calling, asked.
“Yes.” Aaron answered simply.
“Then, may I ask you some questions?”
“Of course,” Aaron answered, suppressing his mild surprise tinged with amusement.
“How did I die?” she asked, her gaze still fixed on the cityscape of Vienna. Her voice was soft and crisp, transcending accents or dialects.
Aaron sighed, the memory of an armoured Archangel, her snarl of fury masking her desperation, the absence of hope. A sword swing halted as she was pierced through the gut, the shoulder, and finally the heart. Wings tattered, halo dimming, yet still standing amidst the horde, as if refusing to fall. “You died… Well.” He paused. “...on your feet, before many of the others fell, if that’s what you were wondering?”
She exhaled, his answer likely settling an internal debate. “Do you believe we can win?”
“I have a method. Most of it depends on the first hour, the first day, and then the first month. If I can stop our biggest, earliest losses, then we have a chance,” Aaron said. Though his voice was light, his eyes were hard, seeing beyond the skyline to a future even the celestial beside him couldn’t comprehend.
“Very well.” She answered, whether or not he had been convincing or his plan reassuring, Aaron could not tell. Her piercing silver eyes turned towards him. The air hummed with a latent power Aaron had not felt since his first life.
“Aaron Hueber, son of Errol Heuber and Elspeth Wohler. The heavens have borne witness to your trials and judged your deeds as worthy. Your expertise is exceptional, your character beyond question. You have been called to Sainthood, to fight alongside the guardians of civilisation across realms in the Bellum Existentiae, to save reality itself from the horrors of malice and chaos that consume all worlds. Do you accept the call?”
“I accept,” Aaron said, retrieving his pocket chronograph. The final seconds counted down to the moment he had long since prepared for. Twenty years of relentless training, sculpting his body to its peak, studying under dozens of experts in fitness, martial arts, real-world and competitive combat, as well as two Olympic Fencing gold medals. All to ensure he had the qualifications to prevent a catastrophe.
Welcome to Sainthood, Aaron Hueber. As a newly Anointed Saint, you qualify to become:
- Saint of Time
- Saint of Duels
- Saint of Ends
- Saint of Fists
- Saint of Rebirth
- Saint of Swords
The interface overlaid his vision, barely appearing before blinking away, as he made his choice.
Your selection of Saint of Swords is contested. Do you consent to challenge your rival to a duel? Or select another option? Warning: all duels are to the death unless forfeited.
Aaron consented.
The world around him vanished.
Choose a weapon. After announcing your readiness, the duel will begin.
Instead of a Gothic fifth-floor balcony overlooking Vienna, Aaron stood upon a stone plinth, surrounded by mist and darkness. He was naked apart from a loin cloth covering his modesty. The duelling ring was no more than ten metres in diameter. In front of him stood a rack of swords, dozens of gleaming weapons of all sizes and weights, each blade off-gassing ghostly mist as if made of dry ice.
?Aaron selected two identical swords, each with a blade length of three feet. These were estocs, a type of sword prominent during the European Renaissance, characterised by their straight, often edgeless blades designed exclusively for thrusting.
The versions he held featured sharpened edges on both sides of a diamond-shaped cross-section, providing the rigidity necessary to penetrate mail or plate armour. The combination of a basket guard and cross guard offered enhanced protection to the hands, deflecting strikes while maintaining the weapon’s balance. By keeping the centre of gravity closer to the wrist, the design allowed for greater control, precision, and rapid point adjustment.
Aaron preferred these weapons for their effectiveness against armoured opponents and their suitability for dual-wielding techniques. Their lightness complemented his speed, their reach sufficient to keep enemies at bay, granting him both offensive precision and defensive control in close-quarters combat.
With the chance to determine the moment he was ready, Aaron took the opportunity to adjust his mindset and prepare his body. He rolled his shoulders and wrists, feeling the comforting weight of the weapons in hand. Then he bounced on his knees, testing and stretching his calves, ankles, and hips. His warm-up was a study of countless injuries, lessons paid for across two lifetimes in pain and blood.
Then he swung once. Twice. And on the third, Aaron focused.
The ghostly edge hummed with something alive, an otherworldly resonance that keened through the air. A howling whine he could scarcely manifest on Earth.
His vision blurred as the swing completed, his eyes crossing from the sheer mental strain. The unnatural toll left his mind fractured, his legs weak. It took several moments of measured breathing to steady himself, to force the world back into focus.
"I’m ready," he announced to the void.
The weapons rack disappeared.
Ten paces away, a figure stepped out of the mist. Aaron recognised him, a man he might once have called a friend. A man who, at this moment, had no memory of their shared history. A man Aaron knew would ultimately betray them all at the most pivotal moment of the final battles against the demons.
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Gregor the Humble.
Seven feet tall, with slabs of muscle. Dirty-blond hair pulled back into a warrior's braid, exposing a hard, pale face with a mouth too wide and sharp eyes too close together.
Once, he had been the Saint of Swords, a larger-than-life figure, able to cleave through entire armies with a single swing. A terror to his enemies and, in the end, to those who had once called him an ally.
Aaron remembered vividly the pitying smile Gregor had worn when he killed Magda.
A simple slash, her back turned, was all it had taken to announce his betrayal.
Aaron understood why Gregor had betrayed them. He had seen their cause as hopeless. A rational calculation. At the time, survival no longer seemed possible on the side of the righteous.
But understanding was not forgiveness.
Unlike Aaron’s toned physique, built for agility, speed, and precision, Gregor appeared as a brute. He strode forward, dragging a five-foot-long greatsword behind him. The impossible weight of the weapon scored the ground as it scraped along in a Tail Guard.
Aaron lowered his stance. He waited.
The mist curled around them, thick and heavy, muffling sound. Gregor stood at the edge of it, a looming shape in the half-light, his great sword dragging behind him. He did not lunge. Did not charge.
A slow breath. A confident step forward.
Gregor advanced in measured strides, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His two-handed grip on the sword was loose, casual. But Aaron wasn’t fooled. Gregor was never casual.
Aaron shifted his stance, keeping his center of gravity low, his reach just outside Gregor’s range. His off-hand sword angled low, ready to guide a strike aside. His main-hand blade hovered near his centreline, tip steady, waiting to strike.
Gregor’s sword flicked forward after he assessed his opponent, a casual, almost lazy feint. A lie.
Aaron didn’t react. He read the movement, the lack of commitment in Gregor’s wrist, the slight delay in his stance.
The real attack followed, a sudden, snapping thrust.
Aaron’s body moved before his mind registered it.
His off-hand sword angled into a slanted parry, steel meeting steel at a glancing edge. Instead of stopping the strike, he let it slide, guiding the force away from his centre. The greatsword swirled the air as it passed, its weight pulling it just wide.
Aaron felt the air shift.
Gregor twisted the blade mid-motion, rolling his wrists to redirect the momentum. The greatsword snapped sideways, turning the failed thrust into a sudden diagonal cut.
Aaron barely had time to intercept.
A step back. Not far. Just enough.
His off-hand sword tilted, catching the blow along its length. Another slanted parry, not stopping the swing, but absorbing, redirecting. The moment the force passed him, he stepped in again.
Gregor was fast. Deceptively so.
His sword arm recoiled, flowing seamlessly into another cut, low, rising, meant to disable Aaron mid-step.
Aaron angled his main-hand sword down, meeting the swing early before the full force of it could develop. His wrist turned, his blade carving a shallow path against the greatsword’s flat, easing its power away from his knee.
The impact buzzed up his arm, sharp and precise, but not overwhelming.
Gregor smiled just a little.
A testing strike. A probe. He had drawn blood from hundreds, thousands of men this way. Letting them believe they had escaped a strike, only for the next one to land.
Gregor stepped in.
Aaron stepped back.
The reach advantage was a wall between them, every step forward countered by a step away. If Aaron rushed in now, he’d eat steel before he reached striking distance. Gregor knew it.
His eyes gleamed with amusement even while Aaron's stoney visage revealed little.
Aaron shifted his off-hand sword slightly, breaking the rhythm, baiting an attack. Gregor obliged.
The greatsword swept forward in a wide arc, meant to herd Aaron left, to set up a finishing blow.
Aaron twisted and ducked, taking half a step forward instead. A flicking thrust with his main-hand sword, quick, aimed at Gregor’s shoulder.
Not a real attack. Just enough to force a reaction.
Gregor batted it aside with an easy sweep of his greatsword, shifting his weight forward as he did.
It was what Aaron had waited for. He stepped in once again with a fencer's lunge, and Gregor swung to punish him, an arcing horizontal cut meant to catch him mid-movement.
Aaron didn’t stop it, he redirected it.
The base of his main-hand sword met the greatsword’s middle, guiding it with a fraction of the force.
The angle was perfect.
The tip of the greatsword was carried past his ribs instead of through them, and now he was inside the guard.
Aaron’s blade punched out. A quick jab with his off-hand, just below the collarbone. Gregor twisted to turn the strike into a glancing blow. The wound was shallow, barely puncturing his lung, but the point had been made.
Gregor backpedalled, his stance lowering while raising his sword for another strike.
Aaron didn’t let him reset. Mid-tempo, with his main hand released from its guard, he struck again.
Not with steel, but something more.
His main-hand sword hummed, a vibration turning into a howl of sharpness. He didn’t swing the blade so much as release it. The edge carried beyond the steel, a phantom arc snapping forward in a flash of light.
In the single millisecond he had left to react, he twisted his hands to parry, just as Aaron had expected.
Gregor’s eyes widened.
Aaron’s sword never needed to reach him as its intent carried forth.
Gregor’s right fingers separated at the knuckles. His left hand split at the wrist.
The wounds were too clean for pain to register immediately.
His hands stopped working, and the greatsword clattered to the floor. Drops of dark blood littered the stone.
Near delirious with mental exertion, Aaron raced forward on jellied legs, closing the final distance.
Gregor tried to retreat, but between the shock of losing his fingers, his missing blade, and his punctured lung, his mind and legs were slow.
His body had realised what his mind had not.
Aaron gave him no time to understand, no chance to plead or forfeit or save his life.
The main-hand sword cut across Gregor’s neck in a clean, brutal arc.
This time, there was no magic. No intent beyond the steel of the blade itself.
A final slash ended the man who had betrayed them all, righting the first of so many wrongs in the Bellum Existentiae.
Gregor’s head fell, his body followed.
The mist rushed in to swallow him.
Aaron exhaled, still on guard; his hands were shaking, both blades dripping red.
The swords disappeared, and Aaron was returned to his balcony.
Congratulations, newly anointed Saint of Swords. You have one hour before convocation at the Calling of Anointed Saints.
Upon his balcony, Aaron reflected on the duel as he regained mental clarity. Had Gregor been at his prime, with the knowledge and experience he possessed towards the end, Aaron doubted he would have won. However, as Gregor had been now, a terrifyingly canny swordsman at the pinnacle of mortal ability, yet with little understanding of the higher-order concepts of ascended sword arts, he was simply not Aaron’s match.
Beyond that, Aaron had planned for this specific duel for years. After Gregor’s betrayal in the final years of his previous life, Aaron had chosen to adopt the mantle of the sword despite being unable to become its saint. He had been fortunate to find ascended swordsmen to learn higher-order concepts and focus them into real-world effects.
This ability to project the edge of a sword beyond its physical boundary, in either a slash or a thrust, was known as Sword Intent. There were multiple levels of increasing proficiency and destruction, and even after a second lifetime of training, Aaron could only just consistently scratch the first.
Out of his many goals and objectives in this second life, his journey to mastering ascended sword arts had to be paramount. As, after all, there were far too many people he needed to save, far too many monsters he needed to cut down.