The Grass Swordsman

### **Prologue (Expanded)**

The peaks of the Unreachable Mountains pierced the heavens like jagged teeth, their icy breath carrying whispers of ancient secrets. Far above the world below, nestled among cliffs too steep for mortal men, lay the hidden village of the Goatmen. Here, in the shadow of towering peaks, the Sherpa assassins thrived—keepers of an ancient and deadly art passed down through generations.

It was here that Trill grew up, a child of unknown origin. Found swaddled in leaves at the edge of the cliffs, he was taken in by Granny Gruff, the fierce matriarch of the Goatmen. Her curved horns and weathered face betrayed an age older than the stones of the mountain, yet her eyes gleamed with an untamed fire. She raised Trill as one of their own, shaping him into a warrior whose grace rivaled the wind and whose resolve was as unyielding as the earth beneath his feet.

Granny Gruff was not one to coddle. "The mountain spares no one," she'd say, her staff striking the rocky ground as she paced. "Strength is survival, and survival is duty." Under her tutelage, Trill learned to wield a blade with deadly precision, to blend into shadows, and to control the living green that sprouted in the barren heights. The vines, mushrooms, and roots obeyed his call, bending to his will as if he were their creator.

But for all his talents, Trill could not escape the nagging void in his heart. The wooden medallion around his neck, carved with strange symbols he couldn't decipher, was his only link to a past he could not remember. Granny Gruff never spoke of where he came from, and the Goatmen treated his origins as an unspoken mystery.

---

On the eve of his twenty-third year, the tranquility of the hidden village shattered. The Goatmen's old nemesis, a powerful sorcerer named Malgrin the Unbroken, found their sanctuary. His army of twisted mercenaries stormed the cliffs, and the sorcerer himself, clad in darkened steel and surrounded by an aura of crackling magic, unleashed a command curse. The spell slithered through the air like black smoke, binding the Goatmen in chains of shimmering light.

The battle began in a chaos of shouts and ringing steel. Trill fought alongside Granny Gruff, the old assassin wielding her staff with uncanny speed and precision.

"Hold your ground!" Granny Gruff roared, striking down a soldier twice her size. "They may have the numbers, but we have the mountain!"

Trill spun, his sword a blur of motion. With a wave of his hand, vines erupted from the ground, ensnaring two attackers. He dashed between them, slicing through their throats in one fluid motion.

"Granny, behind you!" Trill shouted.

Granny Gruff ducked just as a bolt of dark magic screamed over her head. With a growl, she jabbed her staff into the chest of a charging soldier, sending him tumbling over the cliff's edge.

"Good eyes, boy!" she barked. "But focus on your own fight!"

Trill turned in time to parry a heavy axe, the force of the blow nearly knocking him off balance. The mercenary sneered, his scarred face twisted in a grimace.

"Pretty boy thinks he's a warrior," the man snarled.

Trill smirked. "I don't think—I know."

With a flick of his wrist, a cluster of mushrooms sprouted at the mercenary's feet. They released a cloud of spores, and the man staggered back, coughing violently. Trill didn't hesitate; his blade flashed, and the mercenary collapsed.

Suddenly, the air grew thick with malevolence. Malgrin stepped onto the battlefield, his voice echoing unnaturally. "Enough!" he bellowed, his words laced with magic.

The Goatmen froze, their weapons falling from their hands as golden chains coiled around their bodies. Trill felt the spell's pressure but remained untouched.

"Granny!" he yelled, panic creeping into his voice.

Granny Gruff, trembling but defiant, turned to face Malgrin. "You'll regret this," she spat.

Malgrin chuckled darkly. "You should have stayed hidden, old goat. Now, your kind will serve me."

With a wave of his hand, a bolt of black energy struck Granny Gruff. She staggered, her staff clattering to the ground.

"Run, Trill!" she gasped, her voice a desperate plea.

"No! I can fight him!" Trill shouted, stepping forward.

"You are not ready!" she hissed, her eyes blazing even as her strength faded. "Go, boy. Live."

Tears stung Trill's eyes, but he obeyed her final command. He turned and fled, his sword in hand and his heart heavy with rage and grief. As the screams of the Goatmen echoed behind him, Trill swore an oath to the mountains and to himself:

"I will free them. I will avenge her. And I will find the truth."

The journey of the Grass Swordsman had begun.