Ding… Ding…
Kael stepped into the building. His right arm hung in a plaster, resting on his chest, suspended by a belt around his neck.
"Welcome… to my humble shop," came a voice from inside.
It was a weapon shop. Kael had come to prepare for his journey.
Weapons were everywhere—lining the walls, stacked in bundles, even scattered across the counter.
"Oh Gods! What happened to your hand?" the man behind the counter asked.
"I fell down the stairs," Kael replied flatly. A clear lie.
"I see..." The man didn't press further. "Name's Ben. I own this place."
Ben looked to be around forty, dressed in sturdy clothes stained with soot and oil. A long beard covered his chin, and scars marked his hands and face—clear signs of years at the forge.
"So, what are you looking to buy?" Ben asked.
"A sword," Kael said, taking a seat by the counter.
"For what purpose, if I may ask?"
"Hunting. Adventuring. Something like that."
"Well, I've got many kinds." Ben bent down and pulled out a short sword. "This one's a fine shortsword. Light and quick."
He pointed to a dual-edged longsword mounted on the wall. "That one's longer, double-edged. Good for reach."
He motioned toward a curved blade lying across the shelf. "And that's a falchion—single edge, great for cutting through hide and bone."
He paused, letting Kael decide.
"I want something heavy… but sharp. Sturdy. Reliable," Kael said. "Something I can bet my life on."
Ben raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Not to be rude, but with your arm like that? You're asking for a greatsword—a claymore, basically." He chuckled. "You sure you can even lift one?"
Kael didn't flinch. His eyes stayed calm and cold. He stared at the smith, unwavering.
Ben scratched his beard awkwardly. "…Alright then. Let me show you something."
He disappeared into the forge.
Clung—
A metallic noise echoed from the back.
Thud—
Ben dropped a massive sword onto the counter.
"This," he said proudly, "is the greatsword I forged a while ago. Made from Damascus steel. It won't break—not even in the ugliest battle."
Kael leaned forward, inspecting the weapon. Nearly four feet long, half a foot wide. The steel shimmered with layered patterns. Its grip was wrapped in thick leather.
"Yes… this is the one", Kael had made his mind. "How much?"
"Five solin."
Kael blinked, taken aback. "That's worth more than ten Ashborne lives... An average Ashborne makes what—twenty to fifty scrips a mission? You're pricing a sword like it buys a man's soul."
Ben frowned. "You're underestimating my craft. That's not just steel—it's Damascus. You're looking at seven hundred layers of forging. A true smith's pride."
Kael crossed his arms. "Still… five solin is too much. I'll offer two."
"No, no. That barely covers the steel," Ben shook his head. "I can't go lower than four."
"Three solin," Kael countered, offering his hand. "Fair deal. Neither mine nor yours."
Ben eyed him for a moment, then grinned. "Three solin and fifty scrips. Deal's done."
They shook.
Kael smiled and nodded. But Ben stopped him as he reached for his pouch.
"Wait—You didn't even try the blade. Can you even swing it?"
Kael smirked. "Don't worry. I'm strong enough."
He grabbed the hilt and, with just a flick of his wrist, lifted the blade and gave it a clean horizontal swing—as if it were a dagger, not a steel slab.
Ben stood frozen. A man with a broken arm, carrying a blade like it was made of air. It was absurd.
Kael set the sword back down, then pulled out his pouch. He handed Ben four solin without hesitation.
Ben weighed the pouch. Heavy. And returned the change.
Before Kael put his pouch back, he asked, "They say giving a sword a name strengthens the bond. What's this one called?"
Ben shook his head. "Never named it. It's too heavy for most, so it's been sitting here unloved."
He smiled. "Maybe you should name it."
Kael looked down at the massive blade resting on the counter.
"It's heavy. It will crush. Skull Crusher."
Ben laughed. "Scary name… a bit childish, don't you think?"
"Maybe," Kael said, smiling faintly. "But I like it."
…
Kael ended up buying a scabbard and a chest plate with a back harness to carry his greatsword.
As he walked home, the evening had grown dim. The market was winding down—stalls closing, merchants packing their wares, and tired feet shuffling toward home.
"I wanted to see Edward one last time…"
Kael sighed, feeling a twinge of regret. He had not met his friend ever since he returned from the journey.
"Haaah… can't be helped. Next time."
On his way back, he stopped by a medic's store to buy supplies for the journey.
The outside wall was cluttered with posters—weather-worn and hastily glued—each with a different name and face.
"What are these posters about?" Kael asked the medic behind the counter.
The man barely looked up. "People keep going missing these days… Families put those up hoping someone will recognize them."
Kael stared at them. At least five different faces looked back at him—some young, some old. He didn't recognize any.
After collecting the medicines, he walked on. More posters covered other walls, lamp posts, and corners. It wasn't just the medic's shop—they were everywhere.
"Maybe I just hadn't noticed before…"
Lost in thought, he arrived at the gate.
Knock, knock—
Mr. Joseph opened the door with a worried expression.
"Where have you been, Kael?" he asked, voice tense. "Your father is furious. You just left—without a word—and in your condition."
Kael paused. He should've expected this.
"Where is my father now, Uncle?" he asked as he stepped inside.
"In his office, most likely."
Kael nodded and hurried toward the house.
No matter how old you get, the fear of a father's silence never really fades.
He pushed the main door softly, trying not to make a sound.
Thud—
The door clicked shut softly as he entered.
"Where have you been?"
Kael froze.
The voice was cold, measured—like ice cracking underfoot.
Elandor sat on the sofa in the center of the hall, hands clasped, eyes already fixed on his son.
Kael turned slowly. "I went out… to buy some things for the journey.", spoke with a firm voice.
Elandor's gaze lowered slightly.
"And a huge slab of steel is essential for that journey?" he asked, dryly.
Kael's voice dropped to a whisper. "For safety."
"You're traveling a royal road. There are no beasts you'll need to slay. And even if something does happen, I'll make arrangements. You won't need that sword."
Kael stood in silence, unable to argue. He just looked at his father blankly.
"Come," Elandor said after a pause. "Sit."
Kael obeyed. He leaned the greatsword gently against the wall and sat across from his father.
For a moment, there was only silence. Elandor studied his son—the bandaged arm, the tired eyes, the quiet defiance.
"…I shouldn't have reacted so harshly earlier," Elandor finally said.
His voice softened. There was something in his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or simply the weight of fatherhood. Compassion.
Kael's throat grew heavy at those words from his father.
For as long as he could remember, Elandor had been a proud, respected man—unyielding in his principles and calm in every storm. He never apologized, not because of arrogance, but because he was rarely wrong. But now, for once, he had set his pride aside. And that apology wasn't for some noble or king...
It was for his own son.
Kael just stared at him—ashamed. His throat tightened so much he couldn't even utter a single word.
"But putting that aside," Elandor continued, his voice steady once more, "what you did was still a crime. Not a serious one, but a crime nonetheless. You'll need to notify the Council."
He stood up from the sofa. "I can't accompany you—I have University duties to attend to. So I've contacted the Guildmaster. He'll handle it. You'll be assigned three companions and receive your adventurer card tomorrow."
Elandor turned to leave, walking toward his office.
"That's all. You may return to your room."
Kael stood up slowly. "Thank you… Father."
His voice carried a weight of compassion and quiet respect.
Elandor paused for a moment—then nodded, and continued walking.
Kael wiped his eyes. They were wet. He picked up his things and headed upstairs.
He stopped outside Myrren's room.
"I brought you some sweets," he said softly as he opened the door.
Myrren was playing with her dolls on the bed. The moment she heard his voice, she leapt off and ran to him.
"What did you bring me?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
But that joy didn't last.
Before Kael could reach into his bag, she suddenly gasped.
"Brother… your arm—!"
Her smile vanished. Her eyes filled with tears as she stepped back in shock.
"It's nothing. I just fell… just a scratch," Kael said gently, trying to calm her.
But it wasn't enough. Myrren was already crying.
Kael set his things aside and hugged her, handing over the sweets.
"Don't worry. I'll be good as new in two days," he lied with a smile.
Somehow, that lie worked. She began to calm down.
After saying goodbye, Kael quietly returned to his room.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thoughts spiraling.
What if I'm sent to jail?
What if the council is rotten to its core, judging however they please?
The thoughts weighed heavy on him, sinking into his chest like stones. He held his breath, focused.
Just as the book had suggested.
Slowly, his breathing steadied. Kael sat up, crossed his legs on the bed, and straightened his spine.
"I've recovered from worse," he told himself quietly. "This is nothing. I'll recover in an instant if I just focus… on the root."
He brought his awareness to the base of his spine. There—he could feel it. A subtle vibration, faint now but alive.
It felt as though something primal—his raw, sexual energy—was stirring and reshaping itself into something finer. Ethereal. But there were side effects. Hunger. Desire. Restlessness. As though the very power to create life was being drawn inward… rebuilding him from within.
The energy began rising.
As Kael focused, the world dulled. Silence swallowed everything.
So silent, it hurt.
What is this? he wondered.
Then came the sensation.
Two large, dark hands—bony and stretched far too long—extended from behind him, hovering on both side. His breath grew heavy. He felt himself being pulled backward.
It's just my imagination, he thought—but his body disagreed. He was sweating now, spine tensed, legs slowly lifting as he tried to hold position.
A jolt struck him from behind. Almost sucking him into the void.
His eyes snapped open. He dropped on his back onto the bed.
He lay there, soaked in sweat.
What was that?
That… was terrifying., He though trying to grasp the situation.
Knock knock.
"Dinner is ready, Kael," came an old woman's voice from behind the door.
"Yes… I'll be there in a minute, Aunty," he replied.
He stood, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stepped out—but his thoughts stayed in that room.
Did I make a mistake?, He thought.