Rise of the Living Forge

Black runes ran along the polished silver length of the sword, scratched across it as if they had been carved there by a blade held in an unsteady hand. Inky darkness swirled within the runes like pools of ink and power lingered over the weapon like an avalanche frozen halfway down a mountain.

A deep sense of wrongness slammed into Arnold’s chest and threatened to rip his last meal free from his stomach. This was nothing like any magic item he’d ever seen before. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and ice traveled up at his spine.

It was terrifying.

“You had a weapon like this?” the knight exclaimed, lifting the weapon to the sky. “How stupid are you? If you’d drawn this when we’d fought, you might have actually had a chance. Were you really so arrogant that you thought you could win without using your full strength?”

“She told me not to draw the sword,” Arnold said, gritting his teeth. He reached deep into himself and drew as much power from his core as he could, letting the magic roil within his body. It burned in his chest and threatened to eat away at him from within. He fought to keep it concealed, not letting so much as a scrap leak free. “Can’t you tell that thing is dangerous?”

“All power is dangerous,” the knight replied with a shake of his head. “But cowards don’t dare to wield it. That’s the difference between you and a real adventurer. What kind of idiot brings a weapon he’s too scared to use onto a battlefield? You pathetic idiot. Surrender. Putting you down will be an even bigger favor for your teammates than I thought.”

“None of this is part of a real adventurer’s job,” Arnold snarled. “The tournament is just a way to show everyone how far we’ve come. I don’t care what you say. I’m not going to let my team down.”

With the last of his physical — and every scrap of his magical — strength, Arnold thrust his left arm up into the knight’s leg. Electric energy poured out of his body in a deluge of magic. A brilliant crack split the air as a yellow flash erupted between his palm and the metal.

Arcs of energy carved down the knight’s leg and into the ground, tearing through him and filling the air with the scent of cooking meat instantly. A scream of pain slipped from the other man’s lips and he staggered back, his armor smoking.

Arnold rolled over, gasping for air. The world spun above him as he pushed up from the ground, arms trembling. It took everything he had just to rise, good arm braced against his knee as he battled to draw breath.

Smoke coiled up from the knight’s smoking armor. He’d managed to keep a hold of the black-runed sword even through the surprise attack. For a moment, Arnold wondered if he’d actually managed to injure his opponent severely enough to count as a win.

Then the knight’s fingers twitched. They tightened around the hilt of the stolen sword. He took a step forward — and there was no doubt in Arnold’s mind that he had lost. There was nothing else he could do. He had nothing left to fight with. Every scrap of magical power he had was spent.

He could barely even stand. The only smart move left to him was to surrender.

Gerald teetered at the edge of the arena. His body was cut to ribbons; the gray stone that covered his skin had already begun to recede. Blood welled from a multitude of wounds — and still he fought.

To the other end of the arena, Arnold caught his first glimpse of Alyssa since the fight had started. She held a broken dagger in the air before her. Her face was bloodied and bruised. Her other arm hung at her side at an angle. It was clearly broken, but her fingers still clutched onto the weapon in it like a lifeline. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. It was a miracle she was still standing.

And through it all, past the blood soaking her hair and covering her face, was determination.

Not determination to win. An idiot could have told they were completely outmatched. This wasn’t a fight that they would ever be claiming the victory in. Life didn’t owe anybody anything, and even if it did, they didn’t deserve the victory.

No, the determination wasn’t to claim victory. It was to keep fighting until the end. The only thing they had control over was how hard they fought. How hard they pushed to grow. Perhaps there was no point in a struggle that had already been lost. Fighting the results of something that was already set in stone couldn’t change anything.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

But it wasn’t really about changing the ending of the story. It was about the way they got there.

His mom was watching in the crowd. His friends were waiting to hear the news of how their team did — and his whole guild was counting on them. And, for some reason, among the other faces looming in his mind was that of an old woman who had given him a sword and a warning.

But that wasn’t all she’d given him. They’d exchanged a few sentences. Arnold had been so confused that he’d barely managed to ask anything worthwhile, but every single word that the old woman had spoken rose up in his mind like water running through the pipes of a long-forgotten fountain to finally bubble up to the surface once more.

He could always end the fight now. Surrendering would ensure his safety. His team would probably notice and surrender as well. They would live.

But is surviving the same as living? I don’t care if we don’t win. Pain is something I’ve faced before. Even if I’m one of the weakest adventurers in this tournament, I’m going to prove that I belong here. That we belong here. Just like everyone else.

“I’m not giving up,” Arnold said, spitting blood to the ground. “And neither are they. Just because you’ve been fighting longer than us doesn’t make you better. We have every right to be here that you do. Killing me won’t change shit. All it’ll prove is that you’re too weak to break my will.”

“Arrogant idiot. We’ll see about that,” the knight replied. His words smarted with pain and he took a limping step forward. Even though his armor was clearly enchanted, it hadn’t been enough to completely negate the damage of Arnold’s attack.

That gave him a fair bit more satisfaction than it should have.

The knight took another forward. Then another. The deep, inky black that swirled within the runes covering the swirling blade intensified. It spilled out and washed over the weapon, coating the entire surface of the weapon a pitch black. The power kept coming, spilling out from the blade in a waterfall of shadow to pool around the knight as he advanced.

Something shifted within the darkness.

Then it blinked.

Arnold took a step back. A chill ran down his back as he felt what felt like death itself brush its fingers over the back of his neck. The temperature dropped sharply. His breath came out in a puff of white air.

What is that sword?

“Scared of your own weapon?” the knight asked, with a laugh — and Arnold realized there was something else in his tone. Something that he hadn’t expected to find at all.

Humiliation.

The man was embarrassed. He looked down on Arnold to such a degree that the mere idea of being injured by him made the man feel shame.

A spark of anger lit in Arnold’s chest. They’d all earned their spot in the tournament. This was too much. And, perhaps, a portion of that anger was directed at the old woman who had told him to never draw the weapon.

If I’d had something like that in my own hands, wouldn’t I just have been able to win?

But Arnold crushed the thought as soon as it brushed across his mind. Winning like that wouldn’t have been a real victory. This was a tournament to show what he could do. Not what a borrowed weapon could do. The weapon wasn’t truly his, and it had seemed to give him luck in the previous rounds.

Really, I guess all I can do is thank that lady for helping me get this far.

“Only an idiot doesn’t respect power,” Arnold said. He wiped his mouth and lowered into a fighting stance, lifting his sword with a trembling hand. “Come on. We’re basically even. One leg. A few limbs. Same thing, right?”

“There is no part of us that is even!” The knight spat. “You are beneath me!”

The shadows exploded up behind the knight. A humanoid form emerged from within them, its features indistinguishable aside from two molten-red eyes burning like hot coals on its face. Darkness dripped from its body and runes swirled in and out of shape, an ebb and flow that drove a spike into Arnold’s mind.

“A soul to harvest,” the shadows said — and even though Arnold was absolutely certain he’d never heard the voice before, it sounded familiar.

The knight flinched, then started to laugh.

“A weapon with a living will? This is incredible. I’ve never felt a weapon so strong before. It really was wasted in your hands. I will put it to far better use.” The knight raised the blade for Arnold. “Kill the fool.”

Arnold tensed.

The shadow didn’t move.

“What are you doing?” the knight demanded. “I control you! Kill him!”

“Power does not come without cost,” the shadow said, and Arnold realized why it was familiar. Warped and twisted though it may have been, the voice belonged to the very knight wielding the sword. “And mine has only just been paid.”

“What are you—”

“So arrogant. You? Wield me?” A shadowy hand fell on the knight’s shoulder. “Don’t make me laugh. Have your power. Let us see how you fare.”

The knight’s armor disintegrated like it was made out of burning paper. The exposed skin beneath it didn’t fare any better. Within instants, muscled flesh shriveled and turned dry and then to dust. There wasn’t even a chance for the knight to scream before the remaining pieces of his equipment crashed to the arena.

All that remained of the knight was a pile of dust and a few pieces of armor.