As the arrows fell from the sky the warriors fled into the hills for cover. Behind the trees, they hid, waiting for the enemy. They were silent, they were invisible.

Stalkingly, the enemy approached. Silent, they crept into the forest. When from seemingly out of nowhere a sword fell upon an archers neck; severing his head from the rest of his body. His head rolled down the hill before stopping at the foot of his brother.
A yell ripped through the hills as a hundred swords fell. One after another arrows were shot into the bodies of warriors. While swords ripped the flesh off right down to the bone. The entire scenery was filled with the blood of men. Grass stained a dark red, limbs lying yards away from bodies to which they were attached. The dying groans of men filled the air.
From the horizon a man rode his steed with the speed of lightning. His horse must have been blessed by Poseidon himself. He was The Great King Mikael III. He was said to have no foes, for none could defeat him. He stood over 6 feet tall and could crush his enemies with his deathly glare.
With his sword he tore the flesh and broke the bones of a score of his enemy. Almost god-like he fought with the power of 30 of his soldiers. Men cowered at the sight of his sword, for it stood larger then the rest. It glistened in the sun and was red with blood. It was the sword of his father, King Mikael II. And was hand crafted by the best blacksmiths in the world. It was as strong as diamond and as sharp as a razor.
He was said to have no foes, for none could defeat him, until today. In all the chaos, one other man stood out from the rest. He was a warrior; tall and strong, he held his sword like a king, and swung it like a mad man. His name was not yet known, for he was but a peasant; only a warrior because of pure chance. He spoke very seldom, but fought with pride none the less. When his gaze fell upon The King he knew his fate. And that was the impossible; to kill the immortal, to kill The King…