Symphony Of Violence

A Garden's Solace, A Warrior's Burden

Luca Altmann tended to his modest garden, surrounded by the serene beauty of the secluded woods. The verdant foliage and vibrant wildflowers created an atmosphere of tranquility, a stark contrast to the violence that had once defined his life.

The forest was alive with the gentle rustling of leaves and the melodic calls of birds. A small stream burbled nearby, its soothing sounds adding to the peaceful ambiance. Altmann moved methodically through the garden, his calloused hands coaxing life from the soil with a practiced touch.

At 41 years of age, Altmann's tall, lean frame belied the power that still resided within. His grey hair, shot through with streaks of silver, framed a face weathered by time and experience. A large, jagged scar marred the tanned skin of his right arm, a permanent reminder of battles long past.

This humble sanctuary, nestled on the edge of the forest, was where the once-feared Swordmaster had sought to find atonement and peace. His modest abode, a simple wooden hut with a small workshop and a stable that housed a lone horse and a chicken coop, stood as a testament to his desire for a quiet, unassuming life.

The soft creak of the front gate interrupted the serenity, alerting Altmann even as he worked in the garden. He straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow, and turned to see his young apprentice, Halduin, hurrying up the worn path.

"Master Altmann!" Halduin called out, his voice tinged with apology. "Forgive me for my tardiness. I was delayed in the village."

Altmann remained silent, his face a stoic mask as he turned and silently retrieved a wooden sword from the stable. With a fluid motion, he tossed the practice blade to Halduin, who caught it with a startled yelp.

"Begin," Altmann commanded in a low, even tone, his piercing gaze fixed on his student.

The two warriors launched into a well-rehearsed sequence of strikes and parries, the dull thud of wood on wood echoing through the clearing. Altmann's movements were economical and precise, his years of experience evident in every fluid motion.

"How fares your wife and child?" the Swordmaster asked, his words clipped and measured as he pressed his advantage.

Halduin grunted with the effort of deflecting Altmann's blows. "They are well, master. I was able to earn some coins from a goblin-hunting expedition with my fellow adventurers." He spun away from a particularly vicious strike, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Altmann's response was a terse nod, his eyes betraying no emotion as he continued the relentless assault. The practice went on for hours, the sun dipping low on the horizon, until finally, Altmann lowered his sword.

"Go home, Halduin," he said, his deep voice tinged with a rare note of warmth. "Your wife and daughter await you."

Halduin bowed deeply, his face flushed from exertion. "Thank you, master. I shall see you again tomorrow."

As Halduin gathered his belongings and departed, Altmann turned his gaze to the setting sun, watching the golden light filter through the trees. With a weary sigh, he made his way to the small hut, preparing a simple but nourishing meal.

~~~

After eating, Altmann settled himself in front of the fireplace, a worn photo album resting in his lap. He slowly turned the pages, his calloused fingers tracing the images with a reverence born of deep sorrow. The photographs captured happier times - Altmann standing alongside his beloved wife, Lisha, and their young son, Zild, beaming at the imagery.

Altmann's eyes lingered on the image of his family, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. A deep, aching pain coursed through him, a wound that had never fully healed. With a shuddering breath, he closed the album and placed it aside, allowing the weight of his memories to pull him into a restless slumber.

~~~

The sudden, insistent pounding on his door jolted Altmann awake, his senses instantly alert. Grabbing the sword that hung above the fireplace, he moved silently to the entrance, positioning himself behind the door.

"Help!" a desperate voice cried out from the other side. "Please master, help us!"

Altmann's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he flung the door open, ready to confront whatever threat had brought this stranger to his doorstep.

The sight that greeted him shattered his composure. Halduin, his young apprentice, stood on the threshold, his clothes soaked in blood. Cradled in his arms was the lifeless form of his wife, her eyes closed and her skin pale.

"Master Altmann!" Halduin gasped, his voice ragged with anguish. "They... they attacked us. Please, you must help!"

"What happened?" Altmann demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kenzo's eyes were wild with fear and desperation. "Knights from the Veraci Family... they were attacking the village. I... I couldn't save her." Tears streamed down his face as he cradled his wife's lifeless form.

Altmann's jaw clenched, a flash of fury burning in his eyes. The Veraci Family, a noble house notorious for its ruthless disregard for the common folk, had struck once again. He had heard whispers of their exploits, their knights roaming the countryside, terrorizing and plundering at will.

The Veraci were not the only powerful noble family in the region. Their longstanding rivalry with the Grimwald and Paineaux families was well-known, with each house vying for greater influence and resources. These conflicts had taken a heavy toll on the smallfolk, who were often caught in the crossfire.

Halduin's body suddenly slumped, the lifeless form of his wife slipping from his grasp as he collapsed to the ground. Altmann's eyes widened with shock as he saw the arrows protruding from his apprentice's back.

Outside, three knights in the livery of the Veraci Family stood at the gate, their swords drawn. Two archers crouched in the trees behind them, their bows drawn and aimed at the doorway.

Without a word, the knights rushed forward, their heavy armor clanking as they charged. Altmann gripped his sword tightly, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to defend himself.

The knights struck first, their blades flashing in the fading light. But Altmann's movements were swift and precise, effortlessly parrying their attacks and slashing with his sword. One by one, the knights fell, their heads rolling on the ground.

The archers, panicked by the ease with which Altmann had dispatched their comrades, switched to their short swords and rushed forward. But Altmann was too quick, his sword a blur as he beheaded them in a single, fluid motion.

The last archer, his vision dimming as Altmann's blade cut through his neck, could only marvel at the Swordsman's incredible skill. "A wind..." he gasped, "a mist..." before his lifeless body crumpled to the ground.