The Knight

From time immemorial, demons hunted humans for sport, food, and the demands of instinct. Faster, stronger, and better in every way—against them, humans could not hope to flourish. Now, they only live on the eastern tip of the continent of Lykas, protected only by the insistence of demons who required humans for their survival.

For nutrition. For reproduction. They were just free-range livestock in their eyes.

"Humans thrive best when they have their cities," went the odd advice of the demon nations. "You should give them adequate territory so they may multiply. They will be ready for harvest between every 100 and 200 years."

Humans did not take this lying down. Many great empires rose to oppose the demons, fielding great armies of millions at a time. Entire civilizations of sword and magic, of gunpowder and rifle, and even deviants of biotechnologies, fought massive wars of extinction against the cyclical onslaught of the demons who came to reap their harvest.

But they were simply too many, and the humans, too few.

Even with forbidden powers of nuclear cannons and world-rending spells of destruction, the demons always had a nullifying counter. Even when humanity sent champions to kill the demon kings—what was one slain king among the hundreds who stood behind him?

Total annihilation met them each time, with only some seeds spared so that the next season may yet again be bountiful.

***

150 years had passed since the last cycle.

A scholar, of sleek-black hair and youthful composition, was accompanied by an aged knight, whose fiery red hair flowed across her back, concealing the greatsword that hung there.

They stepped before a great seal to the Royal Palace's vault.

[Identification in progress. Please remain stationary for scanning.]

A woman's voice announced. It was lifeless, just like the records said. A stark light shone on the two, and neither dared to open their eyes—thus written were the warnings that one might lose their eyesight.

[Unknown personnel detected. Please enter the authorization key.]

A console opened beside the bunker door.

"Please wait here," the scholar asked of the knight. He walked to the console and tapped on the keys.

[Authorization confirmed. Welcome back, Trystan Lee. Welcome, Commander Vinhilde.]

"What is all of this?" the knight asked. In front of her, the vault parted left and right, the ancient mechanisms churning to move thousands of tons of some unidentifiable metal of legend.

"The explanation will be easier inside," Trystan replied. "Now please—come."

The corridors were wide, and were of smooth steel. The floor, too, was a steel grate. Never had Vinhilde seen so much steel, and merely for construction, not armor.

"This is an ancient construct that has been protected by the royal family for many generations," Trystan explained. "Our ancestors have fought the demons for millennia, and through many losses, we have accumulated this."

They came to a cavernous space, where the shouts of men echoed at least ten times. The men were tiny from their vantage point, like ants marching in lines. They were working at the feet of giants—mechanical knights, robust cannon carriages, and even ships that sailed through the air.

"The arsenal of our ancestors?" Vinhilde asked. "Our ancestors had all of these, and yet they could not be victorious?"

"On the contrary, they did not use them," Trystan explained, only leaving Vinhilde more confused.

"Why could they not have used them? When they are such mighty weapons?"

"They are mighty to us, but not to the enemy."

Vinhilde had fought many demons before—incursions of lower-ranked demons, mostly. They were creatures who were simply too keen on snacking, breaking away from the rest of their pack. Even then, they would leave entire villages emptied, and it took many knights to kill a measly one.

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Vinhilde herself, powerful as she was, could only give the order to retreat when faced with a mid-ranked demon. Perhaps the machines in front of her could easily dispatch a mid-ranked demon, but faced with a higher-ranked one? How many high-ranked demons were there, anyway? They would need far more weapons than these to stand a chance.

"I see," she replied. "Why show a false hope to me, then?"

"There is a matter for which I require your consent."

Trystan beckoned her deeper into the corridors. They were not winding, but they were long; standing from one end, the other was but a mere vanishing point.

There were some people here and there, wearing robes much like Trystan. However, Trystan's was black and adorned with noble crests, while those here were white and plain. They exchanged what Vinhilde only assumed to be sagely words, not giving either the scholar nor herself any attention as they passed each other in the halls.

Finally, Trystan stood in front of a door, and it opened upwards. He led her into the vast chamber on the other side, where there were lined hundreds of suits of armor, each as tall as two men.

"What are these?"

"They are Spirit Guardians."

Each armor was unique, as if crafted to suit a specific individual. Many held swords and glaives, but many still held cannons and missiles. Most were crafted from common or arcane metals, but there was one that was wooden like an emperor tree, aged and sagely, but not one to be awoken unless there were an emergency.

Vinhilde peered into one of them. Inside, she saw a pair of sleeping eyes.

"Are they… entombed warriors?" she asked.

"They are merely sleeping. They are alive."

"Alive?"

"Yes. These are all ancient warriors, waiting for humanity's call to arms."

"Again, why are you showing me this?"

"A long time ago, humanity decided that it could not win on its own strength. However, one daring man proclaimed that that was only true of those men who had only lived and died in their short lifetimes. What if humanity built its arsenal over long millennia? Over each cycle of death and rebirth, what if each empire could add its legacy to the Arsenal of History?"

"And this… is that Arsenal?"

Why? Why are you telling me this? Her eyes pleaded, though she stood fast.

"A part of it, but that is besides my point."

Trystan stood beside Vinhilde and, with her, admired one of the Spirit Guardians, whose silver armor remained untarnished despite millennia.

"I would like you to consider becoming a Spirit Guardian," he said. "It does not have to be immediately, but humanity would suffer if, for example, you were killed on a patrol one of these days."

"I would be ranked among these warriors?" she asked. It sounded like a badge of honor, but also… like some kind of self-administered curse to go to sleep, and then wake up to fight a distant war, for comrades she did not know, and for countries she hadn't pledged allegiance to.

"We are the accumulation of millennia of grief and loss. Your rank as a warrior is of no consequence. As long as you feel that you must strike down the hated demon one last time and end it all—we will be the blade edge of that emotion."

Vinhilde stood there. For a long time, she pondered on her mother, father, and siblings. For a long time, she pondered on making farewell love before she would seal herself in an ancestral coffin, to sleep and wait for an indeterminate war of the future.

"There are many things I must first do," she said, "so please, wait for me."

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