“Magda, please protect the elf.”
That was all Aaron managed before pandemonium broke loose.
The air rippled beside him.
He lunged.
His knife drove into shifting flesh. The demon was still forming, its body flickering between dimensions. A grating squeal as the wound sealed around the steel, fusing it into the creature’s half-formed chest. He tried to wrench it free, nothing. The demon had completed its translocation, and now, Aaron's dagger was part of it on a molecular level.
As expected, but still infuriating. Losing a custom-made knife worth sixty thousand US dollars this quickly stung more than he cared to admit.
With no time to dwell, he spun as the demon assassin’s axe came down, a crude but brutal slash.
Aaron pivoted left, intercepting with his off-hand sword. A slanted parry, just enough to deflect the heavy blade, its momentum carrying it past his shoulder. The instant the opening appeared, he struck, drawing his second blade in a seamless Nukitsuke, the cut flowing straight from the draw.
His main-hand blade slid upwards in a brutal arc, cleaving through throat, jaw, and face in a single, ruthless slash.
A guttural wheeze. The demon staggered, clawing at the ruin of its face, its features little more than shredded flesh and exposed bone. His off-hand sword punched forward, burying itself deep in the creature’s chest.
With a sharp kick, he wrenched the blade free as the demon crumpled, thick, tarry blood bubbling from its mouth. The air was already thick with the stench of sulphur, burnt hair, and something acrid, coating his tongue with every breath.
The corpse had barely hit the ground before another demon assassin took its place.
This one was brutish, thick-limbed, its hunched body a mess of tumours and scar tissue. A sneer twisted its jagged, sharklike teeth. Crude armour, hammered together from uneven plates, covered its chest, but despite its bulk, it moved quickly.
It lunged. The mace came down. He angled his off-hand blade, ready for the downward mace strike.
Aaron met it with a rising, rotating block, deflecting. The sudden shift opened the demon’s guard just enough.
He struck.
A probing thrust, just a flicker of steel, enough to make it hesitate, to backpedal, off-balance.
As its balance shifted to its back foot, the mace dragged low, now uselessly out of position.
Rapid thrusts, each one flowing into the next. Powerful, precise, making use of the opening, littering its torso with wounds.
Another presence slashed from the side, and Aaron blocked before stepping in, pivoting smoothly into a low lunge. His main hand drove into the inner thigh of the approaching demon, slicing through thick grey flesh. With his sword withdrawing came a spurt of steaming blood.
He didn’t stop.
Left-right-left. Each thrust deeper than the last, each blow more certain, turning its chest into a sieve of bubbling, viscous blood.
The demon stumbled, knees buckling. But even as it fell, it mustered the strength to raise its weapon once more.
Aaron’s thrust drove through the side of its throat. The blade carved through arteries, then sliced outward, severing the side of its neck. The creature shuddered, then went limp.
He barely had time to pull his sword free before movement behind Cassandra caught his eye.
A dagger, mid-plunge, the assassin’s blade, aimed for the Saintess of Life’s exposed flank.
Aaron’s Sword Intent ignited.
Grey light flared along his blade, the whispering, ghostly edge extending beyond the steel.
His arm snapped forward, and the slash, far brighter and faster than any he had produced before, was released. The spectral strike blurred across eight yards in a blink, passing an inch away from Cassandra’s shoulder. The assassin didn’t even have time to register the attack.
The glowing edge sheared through wrist, forearm, then cleaved from collarbone to hip in a single, seamless stroke. As the pieces of body tumbled to the floor in a bloody heap, Aaron blinked, bracing for the familiar wave of weakness, the trembling in his legs, the disorienting toll such strikes usually demanded.
For a moment, he stood there, stunned, marvelling not just at the kill but at the fact that he was nearly unfazed by the mental exertion. He caught the terror-stricken eyes of the elven saintess.
A whistle of air, then a war mallet slammed into his forearm from the side.
His space-age armour absorbed much of the impact, dispersing force across its structure, but the sheer weight behind the strike still sent him reeling. His feet barely found purchase, the ground tilting beneath him as he twisted mid-air. He landed hard, rolling just as the next strike came down.
The mallet cratered the stone where he had stood a heartbeat before.
Aaron scrambled to his feet.
A juggernaut loomed above him.
Scarred, lumpy flesh stretched over grotesque muscle. One milky eye bulged, the other squinted with cruel beastial cunning. Black steel armour encased its torso, jagged and warped, fused with pale, malformed skin.
At least three times his weight. Each step made the ground shudder.
The other assassins still lingered, but by now, the other Saints had engaged them. Magda now stood beside Cassandra, her arms outstretched as her arcana formed violet webs of restraint.
The juggernaut exhaled, slow and rasping, its breath thick with the stench of burnt meat and decay, rolling over Aaron like a gust of steam.
He adjusted his stance.
Off-hand sword raised high, defensive.
Main-hand blade low, aching and numb, but steady.
The demon moved first.
The hammer lifted, then plunged in a full-force slam, aiming to crush him into the stone.
Aaron met it, parrying the haft mid-fall, his precision and timing sending the immense weight off-centre. The mallet crashed beside him with the force of a boulder, splintering the ground.
He countered with a sharp, punishing thrust to the inner elbow, quick, surgical. Vein and tendon parted.
The demon’s grip spasmed. It's hammer tilted, its momentum pulling it off balance.
Aaron pressed forward.
A high slash, his off-hand blade carving across the juggernaut’s face. Not deep, but enough to blind its squinting eye.
Enough to shatter its rhythm.
Before rebirth, Aaron had dedicated himself to the sword. He had never been the strongest, never the fastest, never the most naturally gifted.
In his first life, he had been a nuclear scientist, an expert in precision, in measuring the vibrations of molecules using atomic clocks. Physical pursuits had never been more than a means to stay healthy, a secondary concern to the intellect that defined him.
As the Time Saint, his greatest ability had always been his mind. What took others hours or days to learn, he grasped in minutes.
As he prepared to become the Sword Saint, he understood that his intellect would be his greatest weapon. Over time, where his mind led, his body followed, muscle memory forged through relentless training, repetition evolving into mastery. What began as rote learning ultimately became a personal exploration into the very essence of the sword.
Aaron grew faster, the effects of Crescendo Temporis becoming ever more pronounced as the world fell away.
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From his perspective, the juggernaut now moved as if wading through molasses.
And as his offensive continued, something shifted inside him. A new, quiet presence, his Sword Soul, stirred, resonating with each strike.
His blades began to sing.
Ghostly grey light coated their edges, the air howling with every cut.
Aaron’s off-hand sword slashed high. His main-hand blade stabbed forward.
The juggernaut flinched.
Steel slid through plate, sternum, heart, then backbone.
The demon stared at him, not in pain or outrage, but with a mild annoyance as if the end of its life was less important than the notion he was beasted by someone a fifth his weight.
A gauntleted hand severed below the elbow hit the stone with a wet plop.
The monster’s knees buckled. Its hammer slipped from its grasp, crashing to the ground with a dull, echoing thud.
Aaron marvelled at how effortlessly his blade, coated in Sword Intent, slid free from the inch-thick iron breastplate. With a single, decisive cut, he beheaded the kneeling juggernaut.
Two assassins remained engaged with the others with their backs turned to him.
Before they could react to their leader’s defeat, a slash of blade-light carved through the air.
A demon’s head toppled, never knowing how it had died.
By the time the final assassin understood it was alone, Aaron’s sword had already pierced its heart.
Panic and commotion replaced the sudden end to the violence. Bodies lay strewn across the battlefield, most slain by his hand. Satisfied that no saints had been killed and the incursions had ceased, he rose from his sword stance.
With a clearer sense of the strengths and limits of his newly chosen perks, Aaron's breath came ragged. His arms burned, muscles trembled from exhaustion. Each heartbeat struck like a hammer against his skull, heavy with mental strain. He had never relied so heavily on ascended sword arts. He had not expected the demons to be this strong, this soon. And yet, this battle was only the first of many on this day of corrections.
“What are you doing?”
Magda stepped beside him as he sifted through the bodies, checking wrists, prying open severed gauntlets, searching for something. Both swords were tucked under his armpit, his wire-mesh épée mask dangling by his shoulder, still dripping with blood and bits of gore.
In the minutes since the fight, Aaron’s jellied legs had regained their solidity, steadying with each long breath. The throbbing in his skull had dulled to a manageable roar.
A crowd had gathered, saints, saint squires, Magisterium officials, servants, and administrators, all native to this realm. Those who had fought huddled around the Saintess of Life, the elf at the centre of a makeshift triage for the unlucky, foolish and the brave.
In contrast to the many unarmed, unarmoured saints in ball gowns and dinner jackets, Aaron was already dripping in blood.
“Looking for something,” Aaron muttered, rifling through pouches and belts, his senses still on edge for another ambush.
“Is it this?”
Magda swung an enchanted bracelet around her finger. Woven from ivory and leather, at its centre sat a metal brooch, silver filigree and demonic runes coiling around an obsidian ruby.
Aaron chuckled in wry amusement. “Why yes. May I, ” He reached for it.
She snatched back the artefact. “And what exactly do you intend to do with this… interdimensional translocation transponder?”
Aaron met her gaze. “There’s someone else we need to save.”
“We?” Magda’s coy smile faded at the prospect of teleporting straight into a demon-infested stronghold.
“It would be… easier with your help.” Aaron tried, knowing full well that without Magda’s sensitivity to certain magics, finding who he needed to find before time ran out would be nearly impossible.
“And why in Morgathor’s name would I help you, mister mysterious Saint of… swords?”
“Knowledge and power?” Aaron offered, half question, half promise. “That should lead to a demon staging post. If we infiltrate successfully, you may have the opportunity to find demonic journals, texts, whatever scraps of forbidden knowledge they’ve hoarded.”
“Drat! Right in the heart.” Magda harrumphed, clutching her chest, likely feeling put out for having her weak spot exposed so easily. “What’s the plan, exactly?” She folded her arms, scepticism clear in her posture. “Despite how capable you may seem, I don’t see us surviving a headlong charge into wherever this beacon leads. And let’s say we do succeed, how do we return? From what I recall, this transponder only offers a one-way trip.”
“It’s the Saint of Space,” Aaron said. “Somehow, their arrival at the convocation was intercepted. Now they’re trapped, under siege, and likely to soon die if we don’t get to them. If we rescue them, then they can teleport us back”
“They can can they?”
“Probably.”
“And if we arrive only to find out that they’re already dead?”
Aaron shrugged. “Then we do as much damage as we can while searching for another way out.”
Magda’s gaze lingered on him, her thoughts unreadable but likely weighing the risks. The silence stretched, only broken when another voice cut in.
“How is it that you know what you know?”
Aaron turned, the high elf approached, her supernatural hearing likely catching every word of their conversation several yards awat. At first glance, she seemed ethereal, otherworldly. But as she drew closer, the impression faded. Too many details, too many subtle imperfections, her tension, her weariness, made her feel real in a way no celestial being could match.
Her pale hair spilled like quicksilver. Her eyes, sharp, watchful, were guarded, measuring, concern threading through their intensity.
The pointed ears marked her as elven, but even among elves, she moved with unnatural poise. She carried herself like someone who should be untouched by violence, yet everything about her said otherwise. White gloved hands stained with faded blood, the tightness in her shoulders, the twitch of her fingers before she stilled them, the careful set of her jaw, her wariness woven into every movement.
“Your arm?” She continued. Without hesitation, the elf reached out. Her touch was light, but almost immediately, a cool, soothing sensation spread from the point of contact. Within seconds, the bruising and hairline fracture from the juggernaut’s hammer strike faded. A moment later, the relief spread further, dulling the throbbing migraine that lingered behind his eyes.
“That’s handy,” Aaron murmured. “Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you. Those assassins, that juggernaut, they all came out of nowhere. And yet you appeared forewarned.”
Magda’s gaze flicked between them as if watching a tennis match, interest plain on her face. Behind the elf, members of her retinue had drawn closer. The ring of onlookers, saints and Magisterium alike, had stilled. Their conversation hushed.
Everyone was waiting; the question hanging in the air was one they all wanted answered.
Aaron had no interest in revealing his secrets to an audience.
“Just luck and preparation.”
Cassandra pursed her lips, disappointment deepening the furrow in her brow. She stepped close. The unexpected closeness of presence caused Aarons heart to spike for more reasons than one. She spoke, her voice dropping low, breath warm whisper against his ear.
“They were targeting me, specifically weren’t they? Several of us would’ve died without your ‘luck and preparation.’”
Despite her breathy words and intimate proximity, the firm edge to her tone made it clear she wasn’t convinced by his explanation. Yet beneath that scepticism, there was something brittle, a lingering tightness in her voice. Adrenaline, or whatever the elven equivalent was, still thrummed beneath her skin.
She continued. “But it’s not just what you knew that puzzles me, it’s how strong you seem to be, despite all being newly anointed. We are still mostly mortal, barely ascended.”
She wasn’t simply fishing for answers. Behind her questions lay a calculation she struggled to conceal. Aaron’s expression remained purposefully neutral. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t invite more questions, and he already had enough complications to manage.
“In my position,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I can’t afford to ignore capability like that.”
“Your position?” Aaron echoed, the lightness in his tone hardening, unsure whether to take her words as an invitation or a threat.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I seek allies. People I can work with. Perhaps we can help each other, I’m already in your debt.”
Aaron arched a brow. “We’re saints, not politicians. And besides, you don’t seem like the type to throw yourself into danger just to settle a debt.”
Cassandra’s jaw tightened. “Nor will I shy away from danger in search of answers. I am not one to be left in the dark while others plot with my life in the balance.”
There it was.
She wasn’t afraid of the enemy or battle. She feared powerlessness. The lack of control.
Aaron realised it then.
; So that’s what this is,’ he murmured to himself.
“You’re not just lucky. You know that which many do not.” She pressed.
He tilted his head slightly. “And you want to be in the know?”
“Yes, especially after… I wish to understand the situation,” Her voice softened, the edge of steel giving way to something quieter. “I refuse to be blind and… unprepared.”
“And instead of waiting for the Magisterium to investigate and explain things, you seek me? Why? Because you trust me? Because I saved your life?”
“Something like that.” She leaned back, countering smoothly.
Aaron studied her closely. She was cautious, guarded, a calculative mind sharpened further by uncertainty. He recognised the look; he’d seen it before. Survivors grasping at anything steady before the ground fell out from beneath them again.
Could he trust her?
He trusted Magda implicitly, but Cassandra? He didn’t know her, couldn’t have known her. Yet he did need help for what came next, even more for what would come after.
Aaron inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “Fine then. Wait here until we return.”
Cassandra’s eyes hardened. “Something tells me you don’t intend to return for sometime. No. I think I shall come with you.”
He frowned. “You do realise where we’re going? It won’t exactly be safe.”
“Given recent events, is anywhere safe anymore?” she said firmly, glancing at the lingering crowd, the blood stained floor.
Aaron met her gaze, decision made. “If you seek safety, all I can promise is blood and steel,” he pressed.
"Faith forged in steel lasts longer than prayer." Cassandra answered with the ghost of a smile.
He turned to the purple-haired Saintess, extending his hand. “Magda?”
Magda tapped her lip lazily, considering. “Hmm. One Saintess rescued, another avenged, and off we go to save a third. Busy day, Sword Saint.”
Aaron frowned slightly. ‘Avenged?’ Aaron briefly wondered. “The marble?”
She stretched out the sound as if barely interested. “Mmmmm. Its memory runs backwards. So I took a sneek peek at the ending.” Magda smirked, utterly unbothered by having just witnessed her death in reverse.
Cassandra’s expression remained guarded, but her gaze sharpened in curiosity.
“And?” Aaron pressed.
Magda sighed theatrically, slipping her hand casually into his. “Yes, yes, I’ll follow you on this errand of yours.” She prodded his armour lazily. “Just remember, you saved me first, So I’m top of the pecking order.” She turned, already beginning to walk, tugging him along lightly. “But sure, I’ll stick around… for now. Let’s go.”
“What pecking order?”
Aaron resisted the urge to rub his temple, his gloves still crusted in gore.
