Chapter 20: The Echo That Hunts
Two days after Andrew made his choice, the people of Caedros gathered in the streets.
Not to protest.
Not to riot.
But to celebrate.
Banners flew with a silhouette of a sword wrapped in silver flame. Children wore black cloaks and wooden swords. Markets rang with new songs—stories of a boy who walked with shadows, but used them to shield others.
The hero had chosen to stay.
And the world felt… hopeful.
But the Crown? The King?
They felt something else:
Fear.
In the High Council chamber, voices clashed.
"We cannot allow a sword like Ashren to remain unbound!"
"He defied the throne!"
"And yet the people kneel to him, not us."
The King sat unmoving, staring at the throne opposite his—still empty.
Until a quiet knock echoed through the marble.
A courier. Bloodied. Shaking.
He held out a scroll sealed in black wax.
"From the eastern rift. From… the skies."
They opened it.
Only five words were written in perfect, inhuman ink:
"He walks. We follow. Prepare."
That same night, in the quiet of the old training grounds, Andrew trained alone—Ashren now reforged, its flame dancing with both light and shadow.
Every swing carried more than strength.
It carried purpose.
But just as he exhaled, ready to rest—
He froze.
The shadows around him bent unnaturally.
Twisted.
And then he felt it.
Not a presence.
But a memory made flesh.
A figure stepped from the dark.
Tall. Armored in silver-black obsidian. A helm shaped like a dragon skull. A voice like cracked bells.
"You walk the path of balance."
"I am here to break it."
Andrew raised Ashren without hesitation.
"Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head.
"I am what you left behind."
"A shard of the Endblade that refused to die."
"I am Veyrux, the Echo King. Your shadow. Your failure. Your sin."
"And I've come to remind the world…"
"…what you truly are."
Their blades met once.
Just once.
And it tore the sky open.
The next morning, every corner of the continent of Arkaia reported the same omen:
The moon had cracked—just a hairline fracture, glowing black.
The gods did not speak.
But everyone knew:
Something old was coming back.
And Andrew?
He wasn't just a champion anymore.
He was the front line.