Escape from Alamut

Two years ago, upon arriving at the borderlands of the Western Kingdom, Aryan had heard countless tales of Alamut Castle and the "King of Assassins." At the time, he was captivated by the fabled assassin order, renowned throughout Central Asia. Offhandedly, he had once expressed his desire to witness the legendary figure in person, earning the ridicule of his elder brother.

In Central Asia, the Gulen family had little opportunity to cross paths with Alamut Castle, and references to the "King of Assassins" were rare. Yet, on the night when the masked men invaded the estate, his father and brothers repeatedly mentioned "the Butcher," who was, in truth, a figure known as "the Wanderer." Gulen had already suspected Alamut Castle harbored ill intentions toward the estate, which was why they had deliberately sent his sister and younger brother away.

That it was Alamut Castle bent on annihilating the Gulen family left Aryan bewildered. The Gulen clan had spent the last two years in near-isolation from outsiders in Central Asia. How could they have provoked the "King of Assassins"?

The sound of hooves echoed in the distance. A lone chestnut horse emerged from the northern pass, bearing a rider cloaked in gray. At first, the bandits' faces lit up with anticipation, only to quickly darken in disappointment—it wasn't the person they were waiting for. If not for the prohibition against crossing the boundary, someone would surely have already stepped forward to demand a toll.

The gray-cloaked rider appeared unfazed by the gathering of fierce-looking men on the roadside. Without hesitation, he urged his horse into a trot.

Suddenly, a dagger whizzed through the air toward him. Though men couldn't cross the boundary, their weapons could.

The rider's cloak billowed like a passing cloud as he raised his right arm, catching the dagger mid-air. With a casual motion, he tucked the weapon into a leather pouch. "Received."

As the cloak shifted, it revealed a long sword hanging at the horse's side.

"The Swordsman of the Great Snowy Mountain!"

Someone in the crowd shouted, and nearly a hundred bandits seemed to fall under a spell, retreating two steps in unison. The man who had thrown the dagger dared not make another sound. The captives, though many were ignorant of the rider's identity, were swept up in the palpable fear that rippled through the air, instinctively shuffling backward.

Aryan, standing at the very back, was nearly knocked over by those in front of him. Rising on tiptoe, he tried to peer over the crowd. He had never heard of the "Swordsman of the Great Snowy Mountain" and couldn't understand why everyone seemed so terrified.

Ahead of him stood two boys around his age. They clearly understood the fearsome reputation of the Great Snowy Mountain and ducked their heads, hiding behind the adults.

The rider smiled faintly, his sunburned and wind-chapped cheeks glowing red. His squinted eyes, accustomed to the glare of snowfields, seemed always in search of something unseen.

"Step forward, members of the Falcon Gang," he called out.

His voice was neither loud nor forceful, yet it carried an unyielding authority. Aryan saw Falcon, the scar-faced bandit, turn pale.

The Falcon Gang was a meager faction of six men—hardly deserving the title of a "gang." Yet, as their leader, Falcon couldn't simply cower in silence.

"Falcon is here," he declared, his voice raised. "This is Alamut Castle's territory—what can you possibly do?"

The rider glanced back at the empty wasteland. "You're one step shy. Besides, when have you ever heard of a man from the Great Snowy Mountain fearing the Butcher King?"

Aryan's heart leapt. So the "King of Assassins" had adversaries after all. He had always assumed Alamut Castle reigned unchallenged across Central Asia. If that wasn't the case, then perhaps there was hope for vengeance. He resolved to find a way to align himself with this faction from the Great Snowy Mountain.

Falcon's face darkened further, and the unease among his men was evident as they gripped their weapons. The land east of the road belonged to Alamut Castle, and as bandits, they dared not cross the boundary, nor could they expect protection.

Clenching his teeth, Falcon bellowed, "Brothers, are we of the Eighty-One Gangs of Xorazm so disunited? Will no one speak up when we're bullied?"

The other bandits exchanged uncertain glances, none stepping forward. They were small-time factions, scraping by for survival, and this was the first they'd heard of any "Eighty-One Gangs of Xorazm." There was no shared camaraderie, let alone a sense of obligation to draw their blades.

The rider let out a cold laugh. "The 'Eighty-One Gangs of Xorazm'? Quite the grandiose name. I'm truly terrified. But I'm only here for the Falcon Gang; this has nothing to do with the rest of you."

This reassurance seemed to set the other bandits at ease. Not only did no one offer support, but they retreated further, widening the distance between themselves and the Falcon Gang.

Falcon knew he was cornered. Yet, as a seasoned bandit who had survived the "golden era" of rampant outlaws more than a decade ago, he retained a stubborn ferocity. If retreat was not an option, he would fight head-on. Begging for mercy was futile.

Spitting one last glob of phlegm, Falcon leapt from his horse and drew his blade. His men followed suit, forming a line, their six curved sabers gleaming with an immaculate brilliance that sharply contrasted with their filthy attire.

The rider's smile deepened with satisfaction. He removed his cloak and draped it over the saddle before dismounting. From the horse's side, he unsheathed a long, heavy sword.

The blade was nearly as wide as a man's palm, its tip touching the ground, while the hilt rose to the rider's chest. The edges bore signs of wear and tear, as though the weapon had been used not just in battle but to split firewood.

--

Falcon understood that he had fallen into an inescapable predicament, but being a seasoned bandit, hardened by the brutal "Golden Age" of banditry over a decade ago, he possessed an unyielding, stubborn ferocity. Retreat was not an option for him; surrender was useless.

He spat one last mouthful of filth, the final residue of his defiance.

Dismounting swiftly, he drew his blade, and his five comrades followed suit. The six of them lined up, their curved knives gleaming menacingly in the pale light. The pure white blades contrasted sharply with their filthy attire, creating a stark visual of their crude yet lethal presence.

The Great Snowy Mountain knight smiled with approval, shedding his cloak and draping it over his saddle. Then, he dismounted and drew a long sword from the side of his steed. The blade was nearly as wide as an adult's palm, the tip scraping the ground, its hilt rising to the knight's chest. The blade bore marks of wear, as though it had been used to chop wood rather than cleave through enemies.

"I am Sinan."

"What does your name matter? You're from Great Snowy Mountain, so it's life or death between us," Falcon growled, leading his men forward, slowly spreading them out in a semicircle to encircle the knight.

"I must let you know who it is that will kill you."

Sinan grasped his sword firmly, the tip still resting on the earth.

The six men of the "Falcon's Gang" moved ever closer, accustomed to Alamut Castle's ruthless tactics—no formalities, just kill first, ask questions later.

Aryan, however, felt a peculiar respect for the knight named Sinan. He stretched on his toes to see better, but the two young boys in front of him were terrified, crouching low behind the adults. Bound by the same rope, Aryan could not stand upright and was unable to see the scene clearly.

A sharp command echoed through the air, the clash of weapons rang out twice, followed by an eerie silence. To the onlookers, the scene seemed strangely subdued, as if a blacksmith was idly tapping away at his tools.

But to the bandits and captives, the sound was chilling.

Aryan leapt, barely clearing the heads in front of him, just in time to witness Sinan raise his sword high. Of the six men from the "Falcon's Gang," only Falcon remained standing, his curved knife dropped on the ground as he raised his left arm defensively in front of his face, as though his flesh could stop the strike of a blade.

Though it was only a fleeting glance, Aryan etched the image into his memory, one he would never forget. What stayed with him most was not the divine, sword-wielding figure of Sinan, but the sight of Falcon, trembling in utter helplessness, his will to resist completely broken.

At that moment, a thought abruptly crossed Aryan's mind: Killing a man was so much easier than he had imagined. There were no intricate moves, no evasions, no elaborate techniques—his own learned combat skills, once honed with such precision, now seemed juvenile and farcical.

Before he could think further, the two young boys in front of him yanked him down, and the boy nearest to him glared, silently warning him to stay still.

The dull thud of the sword striking something heavy reached Aryan's ears, and then the sound of bodies hitting the ground.

"The Great Snowy Mountain's Sinan. If you seek revenge, come to me, now or in the future."

No one made a move to avenge the "Falcon's Gang." The bandits were only concerned with one thing: avoiding conflict with the man before them. Falcon must have been mad to make an enemy of him.

The captives fidgeted nervously, and Aryan caught a glimpse of Sinan approaching their group, his sword still dripping blood from the tip as it scraped the earth.

Was he going to kill the captives too? Unlike the others, Aryan did not fear; in fact, he felt a strange thrill. He was determined to reveal his identity to Sinan, to speak of his bitter vengeance, perhaps even to beg him to take him under his wing and seek the aid of Great Snowy Mountain.

What Aryan didn't anticipate was how difficult it would be. He had believed Sinan's arrival was part of some divine plan.

Yet the two boys in front of him seemed to collapse under the weight of their fear, nearly toppling the others in the process. Aryan watched in shock as the trembling boys seemed to comprehend something he did not: Sinan was headed for them. Their panic revealed everything.

In Aryan's mind, Sinan was the quintessential hero, the type who defended the weak and struck down the strong. But why were these boys so terrified? It puzzled him deeply.

Sinan approached slowly, and as his gaze swept over the crowd, everyone instinctively lowered their heads. When he reached the end of the line, he paused.

To Aryan's surprise, the two boys suddenly straightened, standing taller than even the adults in front of them, their eyes locked on the knight with unwavering resolve.

Sinan's eyes narrowed further, his expression unreadable, but his hands lifted the long sword higher.

At such a close distance, the blade seemed even more imposing, its sheer weight alone enough to kill anyone without the need for sharpness.

With a single blow, it could sever several heads. Yet, just as the sword descended, Sinan altered his course mid-swing and turned, slashing behind him instead.

An arrow snapped in two, falling at his feet.

"An ambush. These are the dogs of Alamut Castle's 'King of Assassins,' aren't they?"

"Bold and reckless. And the one holding the sword is but a worm from Great Snowy Mountain."

A black-clad rider emerged from the northern mountain pass, followed by two more knights, each carrying a large flag adorned with a golden Falcon embroidered on a black background with red borders.