Far off in the distance, a cloud of smoke tore through the sky, darkening the day even more. Meten watched it from a high hill. It came from the sacking of Titia.

  That frozen valley was as wide as the hips of a young woman, so the rumors of battle barely reached that point. Still, the mounted warlord could easily imagine the rampant looting his hordes were carrying out in the city. In his mind, the sounds of horror from the locals were clear—for them, it had not been a good day.

  Though each passing minute brought him closer to his foretold death, Meten had fought in many battles by then.

  This is just another one, and is already dying. Somehow, he knew it. With most enemies already dead, his soldiers were surely now hunting for loot, and taking the most beautiful women for themselves.

  Many hours earlier, he had entered the city’s cathedral in triumph—a massive building filled with stained glass windows depicting profane gods. Clad in his obsidian-black armor and riding his stallion, he had gone there to count every last coin in the treasure.

  Indeed, mountains of gold had been hidden in the temple’s crypts. At that moment, he was richer than he had ever imagined. But it meant little. He would have traded every last coin for more time—more time to roam the steppes and raid the lands of the cowardly city dwellers.

  The smuggler standing beside him on the hill approached in silence.

  "The horses will be here in less than two days, my lord," he said, looking timidly at the ground. Few men could hold Meten’s gaze. "Every last one you requested."

  "And the hay? We'll need to feed them."

  "That’s also on its way, my lord, though it may take one or two days more." The man looked uneasy. "As your lordship can understand, the carts are slower. The rains have made the roads a miserable swamp."

  Meten turned again to look at the smoke rising above ruined Titia, feigning indifference to the traitor’s report. The man had the face of a scoundrel—ruthless, dark-bearded, long-haired—who had chosen wealth over defending his people from invaders. Unknowingly, men like him were the downfall of his kind. Yet to Meten, they were useful.

  How far can greed take a man? he thought, watching the smoke in the distance.

  By now, he wanted nothing more than to leave that cursed frozen valley. His spies spoke of warmer, more favorable climates for him and his men—dense forests with foliage for the horses. Yes, it was true he now had more gold than he’d ever dreamed of, but he had to use it wisely if he wanted to sack Anen, the most powerful country in the world. There was little use in staying in a wasteland of ruined cities.

  The chieftain of the Cursed Horde turned to the smuggler with a murderous glare.

  "They’d better get here soon, if you value your neck, smuggler. I’m sick of this damn rain."

  "Of course, my lord. I wouldn’t dare displease you. Not after seeing what your hordes are capable of."

  Cities of skulls and ash had risen in his wake. That was the best war strategy: an irrational fear that would drive other cities to surrender without resistance.

  But such destruction also comes with a price, Meten thought, watching the smoke slowly dissipate above the city. News of such devastation must have reached the heart of Anen by now. Hundreds of armed men must be on their way to face us.

  Although local peasants and spies reported that Emperor Valtorius was facing troubles, Meten would take no chances. He was up against an empire—for better or worse—and he couldn’t move forward blindly. They were mercilessly destroying one of its vassal states, and sooner or later, its well-supplied armies would retaliate. He needed to reach the capital before they had time to react. Urgency flared within him.

  "Damn you, turncoat!" he said, scowling. He barely remembered the man’s name and had to restrain himself from drawing his... demon sword and slitting his throat right there. "I paid you double to reduce the delivery time! And now you give me this nonsense about muddy roads? You’re testing my patience!"

  Meten felt rage beginning to overcome his reason, but he held back. Killing that fool would gain him nothing—not yet, not until the horses and the hay arrived, which the man had promised. Besides, he had already satisfied his bloodlust earlier that morning, when his army had stormed the city.

  And that smuggler was the only pasture pirate who had dared to trade with him. The rest had chosen to die or vanish into the mountains, burning their supplies rather than deal with the invader.

  Nearby were the few riders accompanying the smuggler. Meten could sense their levels—low, like beginners. He could easily slaughter them with his cursed blade. But he had seen enough blood for one day, and they were more useful alive.

  "I truly apologize, my lord," said the large man, eyes to the ground. Behind that face was someone just as wicked as himself, but thoroughly broken by Meten’s power. "But the weather is always a nasty surprise in Ilar. That’s why I’ve secured more horses at no extra cost, to make up for the delays."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The man's words calmed him. Meten fell silent, watching the red glow of the fires on the city walls in the distance.

  "Very well, smuggler. But you’ll remain my guest until those supplies arrive. Pray to the gods they arrive within your promised time. You have no idea what I’m capable of when tested."

  The pasture pirate clearly disliked the idea of being a hostage, but nodded firmly. Meten’s guards led him toward the main camp on the outskirts of the ravaged city.

  Meten, meanwhile, continued riding around the ruins of Titia to clear his mind, his fierce escorts trailing behind.

  Mounted on his black stallion, the warlord of the far steppes of Klurtz galloped through the damp hills of central Ilar.

  With the skill of someone who had ridden horses since birth, Meten circled the area under a light rain, reflecting on the next step in his campaign of destruction.

  I must move now and reach Anen’s capital before they can prepare. Otherwise, I won’t stand a chance.

  All the reports arriving in his command tent said the same: the bulk of Anenite forces were in the far south, deep in the jungles.

  But he couldn’t risk a siege at the heart of enemy territory—not without a solid supply line.

  Meten was crossing a nearby stream when a familiar voice invaded his thoughts.

  "Stop being so rigid, son. You don’t have to anchor your army to a city already in ruins. You’ll lose too much time."

  "Shut up, damn sword. I’ll call on you when I need your opinion. Until then, keep silent," he muttered, so his distant escorts wouldn’t spread more rumors that he was losing his mind. "If you keep this up, I’ll hand you to my blacksmith and have you melted down."

  "Oh, no you won’t, my lord of horses," said the voice mockingly. "You’re too smart for that. You know you need me as much as I need you."

  Meten could feel the heavy blade strapped to his back. It was unbelievable that an inanimate object could drive him to the brink of a nervous breakdown.

  It would be so easy to just leave this cursed blade behind in this desolate land. Why do I still carry it? he wondered bitterly. But the voice returned.

  "You carry me because I made you the richest man in the world—all thanks to my humble advice. And this is just the beginning."

  Meten kept riding, trying to calm himself. He could feel the wind on his face. The smoke above Titia was now barely visible. The fighting had ended.

  This damned thing is right, he thought, regardless of the fact that the cursed sword could still read his mind. Every piece of advice it had given him had helped expand his horde and his treasury. So why do I hate it?

  A laugh echoed in his mind.

  "You hate me because you can’t stand the fact that something is smarter than you," the voice replied. "But relax. As long as I stay sheathed, I can’t do much beyond whispering my suggestions."

  Meten slowed his stallion to focus on the conversation.

  "If you’re so smart, then tell me: what should I do now, you chunk of scrap? Risk invading a powerful enemy country with all my gold and men, and hope I don’t get surrounded?"

  "Sometimes you must take calculated risks—and trust your own abilities," the voice said calmly.

  Meten knew the soul trapped in the infernal blade belonged to a dark archmage who had died thousands of years before, in a lost time, or at least that’s what the cursed voice claimed.

  I wonder if all this “calculated risk” talk is real, or if this thing just wants a new master.

  "If you’d actually listen to my plan, you’d know it’s nothing outrageous, my lord," the voice continued. "It’s time your horde stopped advancing like a massive, sluggish beast. Divide it into smaller battle units."

  "Explain yourself, old man."

  "Until now your army has moved like a forest: majestic, but slow. That strategy worked in the endless steppe, which favors your horsemen. But you’re about to enter a jungle world. It’s time to adapt."

  It made sense—at least in theory.

  "Split your men into mobile squads," the sword continued. "Send your smartest and bravest first to begin reconnaissance and early raids into Anen. Let the rest follow gradually. By the time Emperor Valtorius notices, his country will already be infested with riders appearing ‘out of nowhere.’ Leave it to me, and I’ll tell you who should go first. After all, I’m in your mind—I know every one of your soldiers."

  Meten shivered as the cold of the frozen valley crept through his armor. It terrified him that someone—or something—held such knowledge of his forces. If that sword ever fell into the wrong hands… no, that was unlikely. He was the most powerful man in the world—perhaps second only to the emperor himself, something soon to change. No one else would wield that sword, not until he was dead.

  "Very well, you piece of tin. You win."

  He spurred his horse and galloped toward the camp. In minutes, he reached his massive tent at the center of the camp, surrounded by wooden towers built by prisoners and slaves.

  The fire from the burning city reflected off the tent’s white fabric, giving it a reddish hue mixed with the rays of the setting sun.

  "No one interrupts me. Not for several hours," he told the burly sentries at the entrance.

  Seated in his command chair, he began memorizing the names of the men who would form the initial raiding squads—the first to enter Anen like a raging flood—while examining the enemy map on the wooden table, showing the few cities already explored.

  But after a while, an explosion snapped him out of his careful planning.

  He rushed out of his tent, looking toward the center of the enemy city—or what remained of it.

  As he watched the half-destroyed buildings consumed by flames, a series of notifications appeared before his eyes:

  You have destroyed the Ancestral Cathedral of Titia!

  150.000 experience points for the Horde.

  25.000 experience points for each soldier.

  The mission “Total Destruction of Ilar” has been completed successfully.

  200.000 experience points for the Horde.

  15.000 gold coins deposited in the interface bank.

  New Mission: Dismantle the Anen Empire by destroying its three major cities.

  Reward: 500.000 experience points for the Horde.

  25% extra experience for every warrior.

  Meten felt a surge of satisfaction when he saw he now needed less than one hundred thousand experience points to reach the long-coveted level 300. If he reached it before dying—unlikely—he would unlock the ultimate ability: Rebirth.

  Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

  Hurriedly, he returned to his tent. He had to finish designating the vanguard squads that would strike Anen. Now more than ever, time was gold.