Martin entered the room behind Bellarine to find Belisarius, Roen, and Diemo already gathered. The air smelled faintly of sterilised metal, ozone, and Belisarius's signature cedar oil. Roen looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"So," Martin began, shrugging off his outer coat onto a chair, "why am I here?"
"An wandering artifact has forcefully contracted Roen," Diemo explained, her voice cool and even as always.
Martin blinked, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned toward Roen, who shifted under his gaze with wary embarrassment. "Artifact contracts are usually mutual," Martin said, his voice calm but edged with sharp curiosity. "Who was desperate enough to take you without consent?"
Belisarius prompted tersely, "Show him."
Roen sighed, rolled up his sleeve, and turned his wrist outward. On the back of his hand was a dark, stylised tattoo—a sword encircled by jagged runic chains. It pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
"Ironshade," Belisarius stated.
Martin's eyebrows rose a fraction. "Ironshade. Felling of the Sky Demon." He tilted his head, analysing the faint rune flicker. "An undesirable artifact. It merely focuses and amplifies energy. It's not even sentient. Why would you pick this?"
Roen winced. "It was hovering in the training grounds. I… touched it when it began leaking mana."
Martin exhaled a short, mirthless laugh. "Ironshade is only famous because Ikki used it to fell Anzor and its horde of sky-bound beasts. The blade itself is nothing special without its wielder's mad stamina and will." His gaze sharpened. "It requires a stable mana feed. Did you resist it?"
Roen rubbed his temple with an exhausted groan. "I may have… panicked."
Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're screwed. Ironshade isn't picky; it just needs power. You've sealed any opportunity of wielding another artifact for the next twenty years, minimum."
Roen slumped further. Diemo looked at him silently, her mismatched eyes flickering with faint sympathy.
"Can you remove it?" Belisarius asked.
Martin folded his arms, thinking for a moment. "I could," he said at last. "But forceful removal will damage his meridians. He'll lose thirty to forty percent efficiency permanently, possibly cripple him for a decade."
"I told you it's impossible to escape this penalty," Bellarine said sharply. "Any attempt risks his life."
"How about asking the headmaster?" Belisarius suggested, tone edged with reluctant practicality.
"Wasting a favour from the headmaster for something like Ironshade is a waste," Bellarine shot back immediately.
"You know…" Martin's lips curved into a slow grin, eyes glittering with cold amusement. "He could just use it."
"That's equally wasteful," Belisarius retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I intended to pass down my blade to him."
Martin tilted his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he regarded the towering ruin-bringer. "Your sword isn't an artifact," he said flatly. "It's a normal blade with your combat parameters engraved onto it. Beautiful craftsmanship, yes, but in function it's just steel and carbon with rune overlays."
Belisarius's jaw tightened. His next words came softly, with a weight that seemed to fill the room. "That blade was forged in the pyre of my fallen city. It bears every name I failed to protect."
Martin paused mid-retort. Something flickered in his gaze, an aborted response left unspoken as Bellarine's eyes snapped to him like knives. He merely exhaled, looking away.
"Anyway," Martin muttered, changing the subject with practised ease. "We have to test this thing. Summon it."
"You just want to toy with him," Diemo said, her lips curling into something between amusement and reproach.
Roen hesitated, glancing at each of them in turn, before finally closing his eyes and activating the contract glyph. Mana pulsed outward in a tight, high-pressure ring, distorting the air like heat haze. The tattoo glowed black-red before darkening completely. Shadows rippled from his wrist, coalescing and expanding into solid form.
A two-handed great sword emerged. Its blade was a brutal meter and a half of matte-black alloy veined with archaic runes, broad enough to shear through reinforced tower shields. The hilt was wrapped in midnight leather, terminating in a pommel set with a fist-sized blue jewel that gleamed cold and lifeless.
Diemo's eyes widened faintly. "It's… unsettling."
"It's crude," Martin said dismissively, though his gaze lingered on the blade's internal rune formations with grudging intrigue. "But it gets the job done." He shrugged off his inner jacket, folding it neatly over a chair, then began rolling up his sleeves with almost surgical precision.
"What the hell happened to you?" Roen blurted, eyes widening at the spiderweb of pale, puckered scars winding across Martin's forearms—some burns, others chemical etchings, still others etched with clean surgical incisions long since healed.
"Life," Martin replied blandly, flexing his hands to check grip extension. "Nothing else."
Roen swallowed, looking away.
"Stop gawking," Martin snapped. "Not everyone has healing abilities. Summons."
A flicker of obsidian light gathered at his hip before resolving into a long, menacing rapier. It measured four and a half feet from pommel to point, its dark blade glinting faintly silver along the edges as if inscribed with ghost metal. The hilt was wrapped in black leather streaked with pale vertical stripes, the guard and pommel unadorned and pragmatic.
He flourished it once with practised ease, the blade cutting through the air in utter silence.
"I'll just use this," he said simply.
Roen gripped Ironshade with both hands, feeling its immense weight drag at his shoulders. "This… is going to suck."
Martin smiled faintly, his eyes sharp and calculating. "Only for you."
Elsewhere, watching silently from a conjured scry-globe.
Letra Marlo regarded the image of Martin Kaiser standing calmly before the colossal blade of Ironshade.
"He doesn't even flinch," she murmured.
Cordovan chuckled softly beside her. "He wouldn't. It's almost disappointing, isn't it?"
Letra's silver eyes narrowed. "No. It's… intriguing.