The Wielder of the Cursed Blade

The rain lashed against the alley walls, mixing with the metallic tang of blood on Ethan's lower lip. He hunched over, hands clutching his stomach where Jake's boot had connected minutes earlier, the world spinning in a murky blend of gray concrete and neon signs. "Pathetic," Jake sneered, kicking a crumpled soda can at Ethan's feet. "Can't even fight back. No wonder your mom left—who'd want a loser like you?"​Ethan bit back a retort. It was true, in a way. He'd always been the "weak one": scrawny, terrible at sports, unable to stand up for himself. The only thing he'd ever cared about was the old sword his grandfather had left him—dented, rusted, its hilt wrapped in frayed leather, but somehow warm when he held it. He'd kept it in his backpack for years, a silly talisman against the cruelty of high school.​As Jake and his friends walked away, laughing, Ethan pulled himself up. His fingers brushed the sword's hilt through the backpack fabric, and suddenly, a searing pain shot up his arm. The alley dissolved into white light—rain, concrete, even the ache in his ribs vanished. When his vision cleared, he was kneeling on cold stone, surrounded by ivy-covered pillars that towered into a purple-tinged sky.​"Where the hell…?"​A gasp cut him off. Ethan looked up to see three figures in flowing robes, their faces twisted with disdain. The tallest, a boy with honey-blond hair and a silver crest on his chest, stepped forward. "What is that thing wearing?" he said, nose wrinkling at Ethan's hoodie and jeans. "This is the Arcane Academy's training ground—you can't just wander in, peasant."​"Arcane Academy?" Ethan's throat went dry. Magic? He'd read fantasy novels, played RPGs, but this was real—he could feel it, a faint hum in the air, like static but softer, brighter.​The blond boy—Kael, Ethan later heard his friends call him—snorted. "You've never heard of the Academy? Must be a village nobody. Let's test your affinity, then." He held out a palm, and a small fireball flickered to life. "Focus. Show us your magic."​Ethan tried. He closed his eyes, thought of fire, of wind, of anything—but nothing happened. Not even a spark. Kael's laughter echoed off the pillars. "F-rank! A useless F-rank! Why are you even here?"​One of Kael's friends shoved Ethan. He stumbled backward, and his backpack fell open. The old sword clattered to the stone.​Instantly, the air went cold. The hum in the air turned sharp, like a knife. Kael's fireball sputtered out. "What is that?" he said, voice suddenly tight.​Ethan reached for the sword. As his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a wave of power surged through him—hot, wild, like liquid lightning. But it wasn't his. It felt like something was inside him, gnawing at his veins, burning his lungs. He fell to his knees, gasping.​"Kill him!" Kael shouted, panic edging his voice. He summoned another fireball, bigger this time, and hurled it at Ethan.​Instinct took over. Ethan swung the sword blindly. A black arc of light burst from the blade, slicing through the fireball like paper. The arc grazed Kael's shoulder, leaving a smoking gash. Kael screamed, clutching the wound.​But the cost was brutal. The burning in Ethan's veins spread to his chest. He dropped the sword, coughing up blood. The world blurred again—this time, not from magic, but from pain.​"Stop."​A new voice, calm and clear. Ethan looked up to see a girl standing at the edge of the training ground. She had silver hair that fell to her waist, eyes the color of frozen lakes, and a robe stitched with blue runes. Her gaze fixed on the sword, then on Ethan. "That's a Cursed Blade," she said, tone sharp with warning. "You can't wield it—not like that. It's eating you alive."​Kael and his friends scrambled to their feet, backing away. "Lira!" Kael said, his bravado gone. "He attacked me! He's a threat!"​Lira didn't look at him. She knelt beside Ethan, her fingers hovering over his chest. A soft blue light glowed from her palm, and the burning in Ethan's veins faded, just a little. "You're lucky I was here," she said, her eyes narrowing. "But luck won't save you next time. The Blade chooses its wielder—but it also destroys them, if they're weak. And right now… you're very weak."​Ethan stared at her, then at the sword. It lay on the stone, its rusted surface now shimmering with faint black runes he'd never seen before. He thought of Jake's taunts, of his own uselessness in the old world. Maybe here, even as a "weak" F-rank, even with a sword that wanted to kill him… he could be something more.​But first, he had to survive. Kael was gone, but his glare had promised revenge. The Blade's burn still lingered. And Lira—she was watching him, curious, maybe even suspicious.​Ethan picked up the sword again, slower this time. The power surged, but he tried to hold it back, to control it. The burning returned, but softer. He stood, wincing, and met Lira's eyes. "I don't have a choice," he said. "This sword… it's the only thing I've got."​Lira's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then you'd better learn fast. Because in the Arcane Academy, F-ranks don't last long. And Cursed Blade wielders? They die faster."​The purple sky darkened. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang. Ethan tightened his grip on the sword, feeling its warmth—and its malice—against his palm. His new life had begun. And it was already trying to kill him.​