He had heard sounds like these all his life: the clang of metal and shouts of battle. He had also smelled these scents all his life: the metallic and tangy smell of blood and wasting and decaying bodies lying on the war-torn earth. He had seen the scene before him all his life; it was dark, with far too little color to consider this a forest or a field; it was war, always that and never anything else.
And yet, a feeling he had never felt was fear. Fear was a foreign concept to him. Unsheathing the katana on his hip, a black blade was revealed, majestic, and yet it had another significant impact on Antares van Schattenheim. It made his average looks and aura become way more deadly, giving off a feeling of being seconds away from death itself.
He rushed in, his crimson hair billowing in the storm brewing on the battlefield. He belonged to no one, and nobody knew him whatsoever. Or rather, they didn't know about his background; no one knew where he came from. No records. No name. It was as if the battlefield had given birth to him.
Masterfully slicing through all the Samurai-like warriors in his way, he flowed like a river while exploiting the weakness of that armor, the joints, to deliver swift death and revel in the pleasure a good kill can give a person with a warrior's soul. He was akin to a blur, a red blur of death, inescapable, inevitable, and widely believed to be an invincible demon of the blade.
Antares van Schattenheim didn't care; he only cared to advance his skill and kill, kill, kill.
Using a technique where he slices downward, upon finishing the initial swing, he aims at the torso with an upward swing of his sword; he cleaves through a person and gives himself enough time to pull his sword back and stab right above his own shoulder, a gasp the only confirmation of enemy presence behind him as he advances with a grin worthy of a demon.
Antares was perfectly human; it was war that shaped him into what he was. He loved fighting, war, and swinging his katana till he died; this was the only way he could be happy.
After he had finished about 50 more people, he retreated to his place and went to sleep off the exhaustion like any tired person would.
Awakening after a good night's sleep, Antares rose and looked at himself. He was tall and had average facial features. He had black eyes, and crimson hair fell down his back. He was dressed in black robes.
Finishing his lookover, he strapped his sword to his hip and moved out; slaughter was waiting.
Out in the woods, he felt himself loosening up and growing more eager for battle by the second, his face-splitting grin spreading across his visage as his killing intent began to show; it was as if one could see a haze of red take shape all around Antares; it was terrifying to say the absolute least.
Rushing off in a burst of speed, his naked feet trampled the earth beneath them as he made his way towards the beautiful sounds of battle. Ah, it is truly magnificent; how can something be so? How is it that something so dark can be so beautiful? He couldn't explain it at all. Trust him; he tried.
Once he finally arrived just outside the battlefield, he inhaled, the war air filling his lungs as he entered a zone, a zone where every factor was irrelevant as long as it wasn't tied to battle, slaughter, or swordsmanship.
His black katana unsheathed, he sprung into the fray, hacking and slashing with technique and fervor. He tried developing his style more, using multiple thrusting moves at once or using multi-stage attacks, where he combines a multitude of killing blows in on themselves to create something akin to a sure-kill move.
He had warmed up now, having killed his daily mandatory amount of 15 Samurai. He went to an area he knew well, an area where another clan was battling their rival clan.
Once he arrived there, he searched the mass of fighters and weeded out his target, a Samurai, who unfortunately was physically superior and used his huge, hulking stature to his advantage. Their last bout left him fairly wounded and discouraged.
Yet it had been quite a few years since they had fought; things should be different, right?
Rushing in, he kicked the man and destroyed the formation of the 25 samurai around the hulking beast of a man, who was Antares' target. He went on to slaughter all but the big guy and two of the soldiers closest to the man; he then turned to face the hulking guy, whose name he didn't know yet; his ego forced him to take that man's life.
Without a word, he rushed in, his sword glimmering with the blood of his enemies as he attacked with a three-stage thrust, flashing to the right, then behind him, finishing with a frontal assault.
The man simply let the first one graze him as he avoided it; then he jumped forth to evade the one from behind and swung his huge, long sword from above onto Antares as the final slash came.
Antares wasn't a one-trick pony, so he used his immense speed to pierce through armor and then through the hip as he successfully landed his attack and avoided harm.
With the man injured, his job became easier, so he leapt in with high speeds and delivered a seamless flow of consecutive killing blows and finished the guy with a decapitation.
He ended his day by picking up the Huge Man's long sword and chucking it right through one of the remaining samurai's heads; the only sound leaving the man was a gasp, followed by a splattering noise as Antares van Schattenheim left the Battlefield without looking back.