Escape from Alamut

Aryan recognized the banner.

Two years ago, the entire Gulen family, numbering in the dozens, departed the Western Kingdom, crossing the desert en route to the unknown lands of Central Asia. Along the way, they hired numerous workers, one of whom carried the banner of the Golden Roc. Though this man was neither their guide nor their servant—never engaging in menial tasks—he consistently walked at the front of the caravan, maintaining a cautious yet aloof distance from his employers. Even the mule handlers and laborers regarded him with a subtle, uneasy respect.

The journey to Central Asia was tedious and uneventful. Yet one detail burned vividly in Aryan's memory: during the nearly month-long trek, their caravan suffered no attacks from brigands. This seemed to validate Lord Gulen's assessment of the Central Asian political climate, but in truth, it was due to the silent protection afforded by Alamut Castle.

Once the Gulen family's protector, Alamut Castle's actions now deepened Aryan's confusion. Why, in the span of two years, had their guardian turned executioner? Could it be that the marauding Falcons had made an egregious mistake?

The two flag-bearers halted. A lone black-clad knight rode forward, stopping about ten paces from Sinan. He dismounted gracefully, set his bow aside, and moved with a calm air, as if greeting an old friend he had chanced upon by happenstance.

"A swordsman of the Great Snowy Mountain visiting the domain of Alamut Castle—what a rare sight indeed," the knight remarked.

"A lone assassin from Alamut Castle stepping into the fray—just as rare," Sinan retorted.

"A necessity. Still, I've managed to learn a thing or two about combat over the years."

"I am Sinan, of the Snowy Mountain's Tan Duofeng."

Sinan clasped his sword with both hands, its tip angled idly toward the ground.

"An honor, an honor. I am but an unworthy pawn of Alamut Castle, nameless and of no account."

The assassin drew his weapon. Unlike the curved blades favored by bandits, this dagger-straight sword was no longer than two feet—slender, precise, like a needle next to Sinan's broad, commanding blade.

As the gap between them narrowed, the gathered crowd held their breath, awaiting the clash that would determine life or death.

Aryan's heart thumped in his chest, a mix of anticipation and dread. He yearned for the Snowy Mountain swordsman to prevail, his mind resolved not to interfere, no matter how Sinan might deal with the two youths at his side.

The assassin and swordsman moved closer—within three steps, yet neither acted. A single step separated them; still, neither struck. They stared at each other like strangers exchanging a perfunctory nod on a crowded street.

Aryan's tension grew unbearable. Though he had seen countless duels, even participated in a few, combatants always assumed stances well before engaging, adjusting tactics as they drew near. Never had he witnessed two such opponents face each other with so little pretense, without the faintest aura of menace.

The assassin and the swordsman now stood shoulder to shoulder, less than a step apart. As they turned to lock eyes, the atmosphere shifted. The murderous intent, concealed until that instant, exploded between them like a sudden storm. In the blink of an eye, blade and sword flew into action.

Despite their vigilance, the onlookers flinched instinctively, recoiling as though the deadly strikes had been directed at their own throats.

The assassin retreated even faster than he had attacked, vanishing five steps away—precisely at the edge of Sinan's reach. Sinan, too, withdrew his strike, pulling back before the energy behind it dissipated.

The first exchange seemed inconclusive, but Aryan felt Sinan held the advantage. Even so, he harbored doubt. His father, Gulen, once imparted an insight that now lingered in his mind.

Gulen had always indulged his youngest son, never forcing him to train rigorously. Yet on one occasion, when Aryan dared to critique another's technique, Gulen had been uncharacteristically stern. Pointing first to his eyes, then to his hands, he'd said, "A keen eye is rarer and more valuable than a strong hand."

Aryan had dismissed the advice at the time, but now he understood.

Sinan had, in a few strikes, dispatched six hardened bandits. The assassin before them had slaughtered the entire Gulen household without a sound. Though this assassin may not have been directly responsible, his skills could hardly be far from comparable. These two were undoubtedly masters, their moves pared down to a brutal simplicity—a thrust, a slash—akin to the timeless effectiveness of old Sabir's unchanging spear technique.

By contrast, Aryan himself had learned multiple styles of unarmed and armed combat, could expound at length on the myriad martial arts of the Western Kingdom, yet had been powerless against the simplest of thieves. His father's verdict echoed in his thoughts: decorative but impractical.

The assassin and the swordsman clashed again. This time, neither approached cautiously. They sprang forward like taut arrows, their collision resonating in a shriek of metal as blade and sword met.

Once more, the assassin was first to retreat—this time to ten paces—his tension palpable, every fiber of his being alert.

Sinan followed with another strike, stepping boldly forward.

Aryan's breath quickened, certain the Snowy Mountain swordsman would press the attack and deliver a fatal blow. But Sinan halted after a single step, maintaining his position. A stalemate ensued, the combatants frozen in place like statues.

The prolonged silence unnerved the audience. No one dared to cheer prematurely, lest they side with the wrong victor and invite disaster.

"the Mercy's Dust," Sinan suddenly murmured, dropping to one knee. He still gripped his sword tightly, but now it served as a crutch, no longer a weapon.

Aryan knew nothing of this " the Mercy's Dust," and he was not alone in his ignorance. Yet the onlookers understood one thing with dreadful clarity: the Snowy Mountain swordsman had been poisoned.

"You swordsmen are always like this—'I should have foreseen it,' yet you remain unprepared. Hmph." The black-clad assassin's tone dripped with disdain, offering no trace of pity for his vanquished opponent.

"the Mercy's Dust"—colorless, tasteless, leaving its victim feeble and powerless—it caused untold harm in its time. Fifteen years ago, the 'King of Assassins' vowed to destroy it all and never employ it again. Yet here it is, resurfacing. It seems Alamut Castle remains as untrustworthy as ever."

"Heh. You seem to know a great deal, but you're wrong. This isn't 'the Mercy's Dust.' Thus, the King's vow remains unbroken, and Alamut Castle's reputation—especially for never leaving survivors—remains intact. That, at least, you should believe."

As the black-clad assassin spoke, he circled behind Sinan, the razor-sharp edge of his blade pressing against the swordsman's shoulder.

Could it end like this? Aryan couldn't believe it. His heart clung to the hope of Sinan mounting a heroic comeback, but such notions were mere fantasies. The idea that virtue triumphs over villainy, that honorable tactics would eclipse treachery—those ideals shattered as Sinan, too, had failed to foresee the treachery. Too many "should haves" were never realized in the face of reality.

The assassin's narrow blade slid in with deliberate cruelty, plunging to the hilt. Sinan offered no resistance, meeting death with a calm that belied the moment, his lifeless body still supporting his sword as though frozen in kneeling defiance. Nearby, the six outlaws felled by Sinan's blade lay motionless.

The black-clad killer wiped the blood clean from his blade on Sinan's garment, sheathed the weapon, and turned his gaze upon the gathered thieves. He had slain a true swordsman, his methods despicable yet undeniably victorious. Though they outnumbered him manyfold, the thieves, so bold in plundering helpless villagers and livestock, now trembled like sheep cornered by a ravenous wolf, their heads bowed, afraid even to meet his contemptuous eyes.

The killer mounted his steed, pausing only to deliver a cold, final order: "Conclude your business and leave at once. No one lingers."

The thieves, as though pardoned by a merciful deity, scrambled to obey.

Aryan's heart sank deeper into despair. Sinan's death extinguished the flicker of hope he had for avenging his family against Alamut Castle. His belief that mastering the shortcut methods of the Gulen Sword Technique would grant him strength to annihilate his enemies was now revealed as naive.

One truth, however, became clear—his father, Sabir, and his two elder brothers hadn't perished without a fight. Like Sinan, they had fallen victim to insidious schemes.

The assassin urged his horse westward, disappearing into Alamut Castle's domain. Two banner-bearers flanked him, resembling lionesses following the victorious king of their pride. Those left west of the crossroad—observers, outlaws alike—were no more than cowering jackals.

"Conclude your business and leave." Aryan quickly grasped the grim meaning behind those words and realized, with a shiver, that he had become merchandise.

Not long after, a caravan emerged from the northern pass—a lengthy procession of travelers, some mounted, others driving laden carts, a medley of attire and voices numbering in the hundreds.

Here, along this treacherous road, a silent accord existed between merchants and thieves, traditional foes turned temporary partners. The thieves laid out their spoils—plundered goods and captured souls alike—like novice traders hawking wares to seasoned merchants. Most couldn't name half the treasures in their hands.

The merchants delighted in such transactions. The prices were low, and fortune occasionally rewarded them with rare and priceless artifacts from the oblivious brigands. More importantly, this crossroads was safe. Even the most ruthless bandits suppressed their greed, knowing the merchants had paid a hefty tribute to Central Asia's ultimate marauder—Alamut Castle—for guaranteed passage.

Amid this frenzied trade, the scent of freshly spilled blood quickly faded, swept away by the bustling throng. Aryan's eyes returned to the swordsman's lifeless form, now slumped over, his sword vanished, the bodies around him stripped bare.

Despair gripped Aryan. The mercenaries he traveled with—now lifeless—were no longer his protectors. Only Aryan, along with the captured youths shackled beside him, remained.

Sensing opportunity, the captured children began gnawing at their bonds. Their neighbors soon realized the guards—those vile thieves who'd treated them as chattel—were among the dead. Freedom dangled tantalizingly close.

Yet hope's fragile light was swiftly extinguished. Several merchants strode toward the captives, commanding their servants to cut the ropes binding them. Their actions were not charity. The captives were merely commodities, changing hands from one master to another.

Some resigned to their fates, following their new "owners" without resistance. Others resisted with cries of indignation. "I am no slave!" Aryan bellowed at a bearded merchant advancing toward him, while the two boys ahead shouted in another tongue. Language was irrelevant—the response was the same. Raucous laughter.

The merchant pocketed his blade, seized Aryan's arm, and began to drag him toward a cart. The boy, consumed with rage, mustered all his strength to kick his captor. Aryan's training was incomplete, but his kick carried enough force to draw a sharp cry of pain.

The merchant's response was swift and brutal—a heavy fist drove into Aryan's abdomen, sending him staggering. His prepared counter was forgotten as the world blurred with the impact. This merchant's blows were far harsher than the sparring slaps of Gulen's guards.

As the merchant raised his hand to strike again, another spoke harshly, admonishing restraint. "Don't kill the slaves," Aryan guessed the man had said. "They're goods just purchased."

Though thwarted, the merchant was far from forgiving. Dragging Aryan to the wooden bars of a cage, he deliberately slammed the boy's head against the enclosure. Dazed and disoriented, Aryan found himself thrown inside.

Within the cramped space, he landed atop another. A startled scream followed, and he was kicked aside. It took Aryan a moment to recover his senses and take in his surroundings. The caravan was on the move once more, headed west under the banner of the golden eagle.

Caged oxen with colossal horns pulled the wagons. Harsh-featured riders flanked the convoy, their watchful eyes roaming. Looking around the cage, Aryan counted over a dozen children curled up amidst the straw, their wide, frightened eyes fixed on him.

One thought consumed him—hope had been a mirage. His dreams of reaching the Great Snowy Mountain had crumbled. Resigned, he reached into his clothes for the white silk, the talisman promising salvation.

It was gone.

A deafening void filled Aryan's mind. Panicked, he searched every inch of his clothing and the surrounding straw, but the precious silk was nowhere to be found.