The enemy drew closer.
Luke moved first.
He knew he couldn't win a fight so outnumbered.
Instead, he vanished — leaving behind false trails among the trees and brush, taking down crossbowmen one by one in silence.
The forest was his home, his battlefield, his cloak.
Experience had made him precise — but survival had made him ruthless.
For him, life and death weren't strangers. They were daily companions.
He used sticks, stones, and broken branches to fake his movements and locations, but the rain grew heavier, washing away his deception, shortening the amount of time he can buy.
Each drop blurred his fake footprints… and his chances.
One of the reinforcement finally caught sight of him.
Two more followed.
After playing a cat game of chase and run, one mercenary finally cornered him.
The first mercenary swung wildly — the wet ground betrayed his footing as his sword missed by inches. Luke countered instantly, slashing low and cutting through the man's leg.
Not deep enough to kill — just enough to stop him.
He ran again, slowly getting himself draint he wanted to hide. But he knew more reinforcement would just catch up to him.
The deeper he went into the forest, the sharper his mind became. He could almost feel the rhythm of the land beneath his boots.
Now only two enemies trailed him — a swordman and a crossbowman.
Luke climbed into the trees, blending into the branches. He muttered under his breath, frustrated:
"Who in their right mind hires this many men for an empty forest?"
The crossbowman stopped directly beneath him.
Luke froze, holding his breath.
Then — *snap.*
The branch gave way.
He landed perfectly between his feet… right in front of the man. He wanted to attack first.
But... The crossbow was already drawn.
Luke swung his sword, deflecting the line of fire — but his effort was too late.
The bolt tore through his left leg.
He staggered back.
Behind him — a valley.
Not deep, but steep enough that even a roll would take minutes to reach the bottom.
As his balance faltered, Luke grabbed the crossbowman by the leg and pulled him down with him.
They tumbled through mud and stones, disappearing into the roaring rain.
The knight above tried to follow, but the storm thickened, and his vision faded. He could barely see his own boots, let alone bodies below.
He hesitated — unsure if there was even anything left alive down there, as the rain's fog swallowed them until their trails were traceless.
---
Wind howled through the valley.
Deep within, an ancient structure lay half-collapsed — stone pillars and arches eroded by time.
And beneath its shadow… something stirred.
A spirit.
Its wind moved like a living thing — a thousand eyes and ears hidden in every gust.
The spirit had long been a collector of stories.
From kingdoms and continents afar, it listened to tales carried by its wind: of heroes and prodigies, chefs and scholars.
But it's now filled with boredom as there's no unique story he could find.
So, one day, the spirit sent a fragment of its wind to fly freely— just to witness a different kind of story.
By chance, the wind drifted into a noble castle.
There, a queen had just given birth to her second son.
The king gazed upon the child and said:
"I shall name you… Luke. Luke Rutherford."
The spirit watched him grow — a bright, gifted boy.
Smart. Energetic. Loved by all.
It stayed for a while to observe the castle and later the whole kingdom. But it had yet to found something that can piqued it's interest.
the spirit sighed.
Then the wind turned away…
Years later, the wind fled back to the castle's gate, to find the very same beloved boy standing outside as if he had been set aside. the boy was exiled from his own home — cast out by the very blood that once adored him.
The child was born to be a prodigy, but forced to became the failure.
He wandered through cold nights and hunger; his endurance alone was already impressive. He lived by hunting, ate what he could, and slept under the open sky, never knowing what might attack him at any moment. Until one day, desperation led him to the life of a mercenary—fighting not for glory, but for bread.
He served four long years in the same platoon, surviving countless battles and carrying scars that told stories of their own.
He abandoned his last name.
He was simply Luke.
He told his backstory once. No one believed his noble origins.
To most, he was just a man with a mediocre skills, but a formidable experiences.
His comrades teased him endlessly:
"Luke, the noble's blood!"
Only his commander and lieutenant knew the truth.
He never corrected the others. What good would it do?
His name — Rutherford — was now nothing but a wound that refused to heal.
And so the spirit kept watching.
For years, it listened to Luke's quiet struggles… unseen, unheard.
Until now.
Until this moment — in the valley, beneath the storm — where that same spirit found him again.
---
Luke lay in the mud, half-conscious, bleeding fast.
His breathing shallow, his pulse fading.
A voice reached him through the rain.
"You look hopeless," it said softly. "Yet your eyes still hold a glimmer of hope."
Luke forced his head up.
"What — who are you, what are you doing in a place like this?"
His voice was hoarse, trembling.
The spirit smiled faintly. And told him it's name while deliberately ignoring his question.
"Just call me… Aisle."
Luke stare at the spirit with a confused look, still trying to grasp the situation.
"Luke Rutherford, captain of splatoon 8." the spirit smiled
The spirit's eyes gleamed.
"I've heard stories of you. Perhaps… you could tell me more?"
Luke exhaled slowly, his vision blurring.
"How do you know my —more over you're not after me are you?"
"No, we just 'coincidentally' meet here."
Luke let's out a breath he had been holding since who knows when. At the same time hus body grew weaker.
"So, are you going to tell me more about yourself?"
Aisle insist.
"I have no story worthy of sharing, except if you want to know how it feels to be standing in front of death's door... I wouldn't know what to tell."
His words faded into silence. As darkness took him away.
The spirit watched him — still, peaceful, a faint smile carved into his face.
"A lot," Aisle murmured. "You could tell me… or show me."
She took a human — a girl body as a new form and placed her hand over Luke's chest.
Wind began to spiral around them — fierce, alive.
Rain turned into storm.
"From this moment on," Aisle whispered,
"I will stay by your side."
Aisle leaned closer, it's voice echoing like a whisper carried through ages.
"To you who sleep… but never dream."
---