TO&FQ: Book 2 - Epilogue (RAW)

Epilogue

He was so utterly exhausted.

Ibn had once believed he understood suffering, yet this forsaken place had redefined it entirely. Here, in this echo of a history that had never occurred and would never occur, he had come to know only war and anguish—a Trial of the Goddess Avaria.

A goddess whom did not worship, nor even believe in. Yet before him was a challenge to his faith; this very place being a glaring statement of her existence.

Ever since Ibn had arrived in this distorted reflection of reality, his mistress, Lady Seraphina, had given him two unwavering commands and one sacred absolution. The first command had been clear and brutal: slay the great Lord General Ma. For eight agonizing years, Ibn had pursued this singular goal, pushing himself to the brink of madness and exhaustion, always seeking to corner and conquer the elusive invader.

The second command had bound him as surely as iron shackles—he must wield only one weapon: the sword gifted to him by the Lady Seraphina herself. This elegant, single-edged blade had become an extension of his being, perpetually at his side, a constant companion in every desperate battle.

But Lady Seraphina had also granted him absolution, his memory of her whispering assurances that absolved his soul from the countless sins staining his hands. She had promised him that none of this was real, merely a grand trial he must overcome. The lives he had taken, the sacrifices he had made—all were meaningless except as stepping stones toward the ultimate purpose she had entrusted him with.

Lady Seraphina was his sole beacon, radiant and pure. Her image, her voice, remained vivid in his thoughts, undiminished since his youth. Each day, each painful hour, he had endured by the strength of her memory alone. 

Ibn’s sword had become not merely a weapon but a manifestation of his devotion, tempered by the fires of endless conflict.

His time here had been spent drenched in blood and sweat. Initially fighting alongside the scattered resistance, then rising through the ranks of the regular army by sheer force of will and battlefield prowess, he had earned the title of General through victory and valor alone. Martial accolades hung heavy about his shoulders.

Caina approached him now, her slender fingers holding a report bound with a strip of rawhide. Ibn’s gaze lingered briefly on her delicate features. She was a rare figure among the ranks—a woman who held authority and respect, and more so, one whose bearing faintly echoed Lady Seraphina. Slender of body, slight of chest, she had eyes of pale blue instead of Seraphina’s vibrant emerald; she stirred in him both comfort and longing. She served him not only as adjutant and aide-de-camp but also as occasional lover, a solace during the merciless demands of war.

A noblewoman herself, Caina acted as a critical buffer between Ibn and the arrogant highborn commanders. Her presence eased tensions, softened commands, and made his orders more palatable to men who otherwise bristled at obedience to a Hazagadami—a man marked by the hated blood of his mother’s people. Even here, in this surreal imitation of existence, prejudice was as real and sharp as the sword at his side. His crimson eyes, vivid symbols of his lineage, forever marked him as other.

Yes, Caina was a convenience.

Ibn’s gaze sharpened, tracing over the map spread out before him. It was a carefully inked parchment that outlined hills and rivers, forests and plains, their positions marked with colored tokens signifying the movements and deployments of troops. The enemy’s known positions glared at him, bold and taunting, their suspected positions like faint shadows dancing at the edges of certainty.

Strategy was always one of calculation and the realm of probability. At times, he wondered if he should have taken up a career in gambling with all the risks he had taken thus far.

Tomorrow’s battlefield was but one small step on his relentless path toward General Ma's demise. Every skirmish, every charge, every blood-soaked field—all were merely pieces in the grand puzzle leading to Ma’s eventual death. The nobles around him believed Ibn fought gallantly to defend their homeland, but in truth, he cared little for territory or patriotism. His battle was personal, intimate even. His strategy always leaned toward aggression precisely because his objective was singular: corner General Ma and end him.

He felt his aide’s presence shift beside him and watched as she tentatively moved one of the wooden markers on the map, indicating a position she believed suitable for a trap.

“We could lure them here,” she ventured cautiously, her slender finger resting lightly atop the carved token. “It’s defensible terrain, ideal for an ambush. Ma’s forces would find it irresistible.”

A faint smile curved Ibn’s lips. He gently reached forward, his own scarred hand brushing hers aside with a practiced, quiet authority. “Almost,” he murmured softly, voice low and thoughtful. “But Ma is cautious and cunning. He will sense your intent. A simple trap will never tempt him.”

Caina’s brows furrowed slightly as Ibn began rearranging the markers with calm, deliberate motions. Each new positioning was carefully considered, revealing what appeared to be a subtle yet exploitable weakness in their own ranks. The formation he created would look genuine, accidental, the sort of vulnerability a seasoned tactician might quickly exploit.

Confusion flickered briefly in Caina’s eyes. “You’re deliberately exposing our flank? How can you be certain Ma will take the bait? It seems too obvious a trick.”

“Because I know him,” Ibn said, voice tinged with a quiet intensity. His crimson eyes burned fiercely beneath lowered brows. “I have studied Ma for years, dissected his every victory and defeat. I know the rhythm of his heart better than a lover would. He will see through the first feint easily enough—but the second, subtle misdirection within it... He will sense it, suspect it deeply, yet he will not resist.” Ibn leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he stared intently at the imagined battlefield laid before him. “The prize will look just too sweet, too perfect to ignore. He’ll convince himself that he can seize it swiftly enough to avoid the trap.”

He straightened slowly, confidence firming his expression into stone-like certainty. “And then, Caina, we will strike him. Tomorrow, Ma's confidence will be his undoing.”

***

It was time to do battle. Command flags snapped high, signaling feigned panic and carefully orchestrated indecision among his ranks. Ibn was well aware that Ma's spies lurked unseen within his camp, observing and reporting every move. Thus, he had crafted a layered strategy, subtle and complex enough that even Ma’s sharp mind would fail to foresee it. The trap was set, poised to spring.

If only commanding men was as instinctive to Ibn as wielding his sword had become. Some spoke of him reverently as a Swordmaster, whispering that he deserved the illustrious Mantis Mark, yet Ibn felt acutely aware of his shortcomings, still far from such an exalted honor. In his soul, he knew he still so very far from such lofty heights. Nevertheless, his blade had truly become an extension of his very will, responding to his thoughts with seamless precision.

Ibn smiled faintly, reflecting on the inspiration behind the martial techniques he had painstakingly developed. While most masters sought to emulate animals or mythical creatures, Ibn had chosen a far superior muse: Lady Seraphina herself. In her unmatched strength and grace, he discovered his own path—a sword style anchored in the devastating power of an overwhelming blow and decisive first strike.

From Seraphina’s practice of "yoga," those strange exercises that had once stirred youthful distractions within him, Ibn had uncovered profound spiritual and physical truths. With disciplined focus, he united mind, body, and spirit, a harmony that he was sure the Lady Seraphina had effortlessly mastered long ago.

Yet these insights had not only elevated him spiritually but practically as well. The disciplined movements of yoga enabled Ibn to perfect his lunge, extending his reach with lethal effectiveness, rivaling even the thrust of a spear. 

Unity of the mind, body, and spirit had opened his eyes to the energies of “Kai, ”the mystical energy accessible only to those deeply versed in the martial arts

Coupled with his rigorous exploration of "Kai," Ibn had crafted a unique technique.

Rather than channeling Kai directly into his blade, Ibn harnessed and compressed it within his scabbard, letting it grow in power, tightly coiled and waiting. Then, in a single lightning-fast draw, he would release this accumulated energy in a slash so powerful it seemed to strike with divine wrath. Cutting the Trees, some of the soldiers called it. This singular technique, fierce and unstoppable, inspired awed murmurs that Ibn might indeed be worthy of the sacred title: Swordmaster.

Ibn glanced up as distant horns echoed from across the field. Enemy cavalry had begun their maneuvers, archers shifting position behind advancing infantry. He casually issued orders to counter each movement, his voice calm and measured.

Satisfied that the initial engagement was firmly under control, Ibn turned to Caina and handed her a final set of orders. Her eyes widened as she read them, and she shook her head sharply, her expression incredulous.

"You're going to the frontlines again?" she chided, disbelief and concern coloring her voice. "That's not the place of a General."

The General met her gaze steadily, determination etched deep into his features. "It is precisely because I fight at the front that my men follow me. I am the nail, Caina; the army is the hammer behind me. Only by being there can I pierce their lines and slay Ma."

"It's a dangerous gamble," she warned softly.

He gave her a faint, weary smile that belied his young age. "All life is a gamble."

Without hesitation, Ibn mounted a sturdy warhorse, galloping swiftly to the frontlines. The din of battle grew louder as he approached the chaotic front on thundering hooves. Judging he was close enough, he swiftly dismounted, giving the reins of the horse to a sergeant. Ibn knew full well that his lethal techniques were more effective when delivered on foot.

He drew his blade slowly, the polished blade gleaming ominously beneath the sun. Enemy soldiers closed in rapidly, their segmented armor plates overlapping atop tunics of thick cloth and leather. The heavy, rounded helmets protected their heads and necks, while oval shields emblazoned with intricate symbols of rank and allegiance covered their left flanks. Spears bristled in tight formations, a deadly forest of sharp points, while swords hung at their hips, ready for close combat.

His men flowing behind him like water bursting from a damn, the General moved with serene purpose into their ranks. Each strike was precise, targeting vulnerabilities in the enemy's armor—beneath armpits, the gaps at elbows, the narrow slits between helmet and chest guard. With meticulous efficiency, he dispatched foes swiftly, his blade sliding seamlessly through fleeting gaps.

The enemy pressed forward, confident in their numbers, only to falter as Ibn’s sword flashed brilliantly, the condensed energy of Kai erupting with every strike as his sword left its sheath. Soldiers hesitated, confusion and fear dawning in their eyes as their comrades fell around them. His measured breaths matched the rhythm of his attacks, each step deliberate, each sheath, draw, stab, and swing devastating.

Gradually, the enemy line buckled under Ibn’s relentless assault. He calculated swiftly, noting the fallen among the enemy—one in ten had perished at a rough guess. It was enough. With a sharp cry, he rallied his men, igniting their courage and momentum. They surged forward, breaking the enemy’s resolve entirely.

Yet, as the enemy soldiers scattered and fled, Ibn’s triumph felt incomplete. The Lord General Ma was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the battlefield grimly, disappointment settling heavily in his heart. Ma had eluded him once more. Ibn sighed deeply, the weight of his unfinished duty pressing heavily upon him. 

His quest in this strange, merciless place was far from concluded. He hoped he would finish soon, for a life of war, he was sure, would eventually drive him mad.