Chapter Text
The warlord’s shackles dragged, leaving long trails in its wake.
With every step, he trembled the earth; every pebble jutting, as the whipping of flames and crackle of ember cut through the air. Soft metallic clinks and the flap of his torn cape were louder than a blade of grass shifting through the wind, or the swoop of an owl preying in the dead of night.
The warlord moved with a menacing march, slow and calculating. With the combined weight of both his sword and the chains that bound his body, it forced him to feel the earth’s gravity double tenfold, yet he carried himself without so much of a pause.
Countless homes were set ablaze; an enormous inferno that would be seen miles away, with smoke drifting into the night sky, covering the moon and stars with its thick smog. By morning, they’d see their homes leveled to nothing but soot, forced to relocate and spread the tale.
With everyone round up by the plaza, the notorious warlord took off to locate the town cathedral. It was said to house a very special item; one that he had been tracking for months on end.
With a precise kick, he knocked the front door off its hinges, watching it fall flat with a loud bang. The sound echoed like a stormy cloud, bouncing off the stone walls and high ceiling. He walked in, analyzing the area with sharp eyes, before fixating on the sight before him.
The sword laid in a glass case while upheld in a custom podium, just like the merchant described. It was clearly meant to be seen, not touched, judging by its formal resting place.
He robbed the weapon from its slumber, his hand coiling around the handle that had not been held by a swordsman in decades. It was a sky coloured blade with a polish that bounced off the flicker of flames. At first, he thought it was the legendary blade itself– its resemblance uncanny, but alas, it was too good to be true.
There was a certain dullness that failed to match the descriptions, lacking in the appearance of “falling stars” many claimed to have seen. It was said to be bright and unblemished, with a special sheen that made blood run off it like oil to water. There were too many imperfections to be considered the blade, but at least he could confirm that this was still one of the originals.
The Windforce.
It was said to have taken down armies of hundreds, even thousands. Although he couldn’t confirm if the legends were simply exaggerated, it was nonetheless sought after, and he was glad to be its keeper from now on.
With a quick slash at one of the wooden pews, he left no room for error. It was sliced in half, the clean cut between the two halves indicating its separation. There would be a small gust of wind, the air travelling upward before dissipating. It was an innate ability the sword had, known for its powerful knockback upon use.
As much as he would have liked to add another weapon to his collection, he found himself wearing a frown. He expected more. He had already collected more than half of the ensemble, and only felt increasingly frustrated with each and every one of them ending up on a rack to collect dust.
He left with the sword in hand, already passing it off to an undead soldier. A small twitch in his neck made him want to pull off a few heads before all hell breaks loose, but he decided against it.
He was already done here. The town had been looted and he amassed great wealth. Although he could wipe off the populace and that might bring some relief to the gnawing frustrations, it was something he didn’t include in the plan. But with everyone alive and fearing the worst, he might as well make a few inquiries.
“You.” He spoke, his gaze motioning toward one of the people in the crowd, before motioning him to come forth.
He slowly walked forward with a tremble in his steps, knees buckling as he stood in the centre. He appeared young, perhaps a freshly turned adult. He still had some baby fat in his cheeks, and the mop of hair his mother must always tell him to brush.
“Tell me,” He suddenly got low, red eye flickering as he locked onto him. “How did you obtain this relic?”
With a tremble, the villager swallowed the lump down his throat before answering. “I-It’s been in this town for decades! It was passed on!”
Passed on? Interesting.
“Are you wary of its origins?”
He gulped, wildly shaking his head. Of course, this young one would not know a thing about his town’s history. But unfortunately, his patience was already wearing thin.
With a sharp breath, a swift hand reached to grab the man by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off the dirt as he held him high in the air. With his unoccupied hand, he grabbed his sword from his waist, its blade reflecting the shine of fire from it, casting a menacing visual in the dark. Yes, he did say he wouldn’t cause any bloodshed, but he never said he couldn’t mess around. It evoked a strong reaction from the rest of the town, with shouts and cries for mercy, but no one stopping it.
“If anyone can answer, do come forward. Otherwise, your homes won’t be the only thing in the mud.”
Slowly, a middle aged woman with a pair of glasses came forth from the crowd, young wrinkles just starting to protrude. Her hands trembled as they folded in front of her lap, an attempt to maintain calm and collectiveness.
“...The maker was a blacksmith who ventured with The Ten in their prime. He forged weapons that would kill man-eating beasts– e-even gods.” She took a deep breath, and it appeared as if she desperately needed it.
Her eyes would shakily meet his own for half a second, before flicking away, appearing as though she was focused on something else entirely.
“...A-Although they may have disbanded, many of them are still active to this day.”
“And how can I tell you aren’t spreading lies to me…?”
“I-I’m the local librarian! I work closely with the church!” Her eyebrows knit together, eyes glossy with moisture.
He gripped the man’s scruff tighter, unconvinced, eliciting a sharp choke out of him. This earned horrified gasps and cries from the crowd, yet none of them stepped up to do anything.
“Please…just let my son go!” The middle aged woman cried out, her heart continuing to pour out as she fell to her knees, hands clasped in a prayer-like gesture.
Perhaps he went deaf in both ears, because he failed to pick up on her warbles. He gave the young man one last look before dropping him, who let out a painful cough before scrambling away. He’d crawl to his mother whose arms were outstretched, finally being brought into her warm embrace.
Like a predator approaching its prey, he approached just a breath away, his red eye beaming in the black of night, raging with a powerful rush with sparks flying off like a hammer to a hot iron.
“Tell me. Where is the blacksmith now?” He glowered at her, a snarl at the tug of his zipper.
“I-I don’t know…I’m sorry, I-I don’t know…” Her voice cracked, the last word ending off inaudible.
“I grant you mercy.” He glowered. “I could easily take that back just as I can take your son’s.”
“He hasn’t been seen since he left! Please, no one knows where he could be…!” Her voice constricted, tightening into a high pitched hold near the end.
“If you can’t tell me where he is,” He raised his sword, its blade swift and sharp as it cut through the air. “Tell me his name.”
With a voice barely above a whisper, she looked up through her lenses, the glowing red eye unblinking as it oozed unspeakable fury.
“007n7.”