Traverse The Fog

Cyrus stood beside a weapons display. In his hands lay a heavy saber with a long, curved blade made for wide slashes. Could he imagine himself using such a weapon in the heat of battle?

Too heavy. Cyrus shook his head. However, proper training could fix that.

Lost in thought, he carefully placed it back and moved on to the next display. There, various daggers of different designs lined the walls, each honed edge gleaning a sharp light. But strange as it was, the sight brought Cyrus to a pause and furrowed his brows.

There it was again—that strange, bleeding effect that had been lingering in his mind. Cyrus had no doubt this was due to experiencing first-person slicing the strigoi into ribbons, but it still felt strange.

Slowly, he reached for a blade. Tracing a finger along the blade, the sensation lingered. Even now, Cyrus could see himself as Blake deftly playing the blade in his hands. So, he decided to test it out. And it worked... almost. The blade felt somewhat nimble in his hands, with Cyrus terribly mirroring Blake's coin rolling. But it was never quite right. Still, he kept at it, slowly improving after each try. If it were possible to learn from such an effect, then wouldn't he improve drastically if he activated the memory shard frequently? Cyrus shivered from the thought.

"Hey, Dí—Lilie," he began, gaze landing on the woman beside the axe rack. "Is it possible to borrow Blake's memory shard?"

The woman in question was holding a large wooden axe and pressing a switch near the handle. The sight of the axe's shaft extending for a farther reach took him aback. What an interesting addition to a weapon.

"Not exactly," She replied, looking back. "Why? Did you want to copy Blake's battle style?"

"Kind of?" Cyrus then explained his idea. "It should work, right?"

And yet, no answer came. A breath of silence hung between them.

"...You're feeling effects from the memory shard?" Dílis eventually asked, her hands began shaking, clutching hard onto the axe.

"Yeah, the weapon feels right in my hands now." To prove his point, Cyrus performed another dagger roll. "Is something wrong?"

Dílis sighed. Slowly, she returned the axe to its rightful place before holding out her palm for his blade. "No daggers for you."

"But why?" Cyrus asked, flipping it over, hilt first, handing it over without hesitation. "You could quickly train an army with that shard."

Yet the Half-Elf only silently shook her head in response.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice remorseful. "I should have checked the shard beforehand. But you should know that you're going to be okay."

That sounds ominous.

"Hold up." Cyrus held his hands up to stop her. "Start from the beginning."

"Alright." Dílis breathed deeply, gathering herself. "When an enchanter creates a shard, it undergoes strict procedures to ensure it's free of lingering effects or bleedover." Guilt struck her face. "But what you're feeling—what you're going through isn't a good thing."

Cyrus didn't like where this was heading. "What wrong?"

Surprisingly enough, she gently held onto Cyrus' hands, whether he liked it or not, softly squeezing them in an attempt to comfort him.

"Cyrus," she began, her gaze locking with his. "The lingering sensations you're experiencing were the shard's attempt to overwrite your personality with Morgan's."

Overwrite, as in replace? That thing was trying to change him? Is trying to?

And the idea smashed him hard. Chest heaving, he tried to remain calm, but the thought of losing his very being frightened him to his core. Would he have even noticed the change if Dílis hadn't warned him?

"Cyrus, it's going to be okay," Dílis quickly said, her grip surprisingly firm against his pull. "It will only last a few weeks, maybe a month."

It didn't help. Rather, it took several minutes of coaxing and struggling until Cyrus recovered.

"Are you alright?" Dílis softly asked, slowly letting go of her hold.

Am I alright? He ridiculed her in his head. But such thoughts were held back as Cyrus rubbed his wrists. "You're pretty strong."

"The benefits of life runes." She shrugged, her gaze never leaving his. "But seriously, the fog will clear, and you'll be under clear skies soon enough."

"Alright," Cyrus sighed, looking away. "I hope you're right."

Dílis rubbed her brows in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. "I guess the passing enchanter made a mistake. Shards are only for meant teaching purposes."

"No kidding," Cyrus scoffed. "Still, I wish you had told me before offering."

Would he have tried a shard in the first place? Maybe not.

Dílis breathed deeply, leaning on her hip, voice tentative. "I just—you're right." She paused. "I should have checked it myself before handing it over."

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Whatever, the damage was already done. Cyrus sighed, waving it off as if it were no trouble. "It's fine so long as there are no permanent effects."

The two left it at that and began sifting through weapon racks in awkward silence. As the minutes passed, Cyrus scanned over one weapon after another. Yet, instead of focusing on a weapon of choice, his mind dove into freefall. What would happen if he used several memory shards at once? Would several different personalities sift through his head? And Cyrus could see it now: Him as some warped man, forever lost from the ghost of memories that weren't even his. And he shivered at the thought. What would be left of him if his wishes and dreams disappeared?

"Cyrus?"

Luckily, Dílis' whisper came just in time to throw him out of his depressing thoughts. Slowly, he faced her, observing her focus on some strange saw blade as if it were the most fascinating weapon in the world.

"Yeah?"

"Don't be angry with Morgan, okay?" she requested, biting her lip. "I'm sure the enchanter made a mistake, and it's not like Morgan could feel his own personality bleed into him."

Cyrus could feel the guilt oozing off her. And while it still bothered him, there was no reason to make things awkward between him and the city lord's daughter.

"It's no problem," he said with a smile. "Why don't you recommend a weapon for me? Maybe something similar to your clubs?"

At the sight of his carefree smile, she returned it with one of her own. Maybe things were really okay.

"Sure." She brandished her clubs, twirling them between her fingers as effortlessly as if they were chopsticks. "They're called shillelaghs. And I would've recommended them if you were a flouramancer."

And she wasn't kidding. To stress her point, a sudden soft green glow spread across her hands. With a swift motion, she struck the head of one shillelagh against the butt of the other. Then, to Cyrus' astonishment, the two wooden clubs fused seamlessly—two shillelaghs into one staff.

"Wow." Quickly recovering, Cyrus scruffed at his messy beard. "I see what you mean."

Such weapons took advantage of Dílis' strengths as a druid. In that case, he would need to find one that would only benefit from his own.

"Why don't you try a sword?" She asked, her gaze following to the end of the room. "It's one of the most accessible weapons to learn while having its own complexities."

Not a bad idea. Cyrus nodded. Maybe something simple and direct was enough. He strode forward, carefully examining the neatly arranged swords lining the displays. And the variety was incredible.

Short and long swords, straight or broad—Cyrus could find every type he knew, and some completely foreign. Yet still, none caught his attention. One minute. Three.

"This is going nowhere," Cyrus muttered, holding a light and thin blade. "Maybe I should—" He paused as his head swiveled to the end of the section.

"What's wrong? Did you find a sword you like?" she asked, gaze in tow onto a strikingly unique blade beside a solitary spear.

And what a sight it was. The sword's ebony blade seemed to drink in the surrounding light. And its hilt, made of pure ivory, was carved into coiling serpents, their heads meeting at the pommel.

After silently placing the blade in his hands, Cyrus strode towards it.

"That's it," He said excitedly. "That's what I was looking for."

But Dílis interjected first. "Cyrus, don't pick up a weapon just because you think it looks nice," she said, trying to appear professional. "A sword is an extension of your bod—" Dílis cut herself off when she watched him pick up the spear instead.

"It's perfect." Cyrus' satisfied whisper reached her ears.

It felt heavy, but it was a good kind of weight, one that offered his hands some peace of mind. Something real.

Slowly, Cyrus caressed the stainless steel pole, tracing his fingers up the simple pole to the blade. Then with a grand smile, Cyrus planted the butt on the ground with an echoing thud, finding the weapon nearly as tall as him.

Nodding in satisfaction, Cyrus faced Dílis. "Will there be someone to teach me?"

"There should be." She cupped her cheek, lost in contemplation. "But I'll need to find out if they're not on duty." Then, Dílis gestured for him to follow. "Come. We'll test it out first. There's a training room next door."

Forward they went. Yet, as Cyrus trailed behind, his brows slowly furrowed as a sudden, intrusive thought appeared.

Deep in the forest, there was an abandoned place. Its small huts lay ruined, billowing thick fog seeping through the cracks. And in the middle of such a place lay a pond. Its lusterless waters held a dark presence, almost calling for him.

With a shuddering breath, Cyrus shook his head. That's in the past now.

Soon, the two entered the training room. It was designed in a similar style to the armory, but instead of weapon racks lining the walls, wooden manikins were arranged around the room.

"Humans?" Cyrus asked. Did they expect him to fight other people? He didn't know what to feel about that.

"Go on, try it out," Dílis said, leaning on her hip.

Shrugging in response, Cyrus walked over and faced the wooden figure. There, he placed his hand on the spear's end while the other grasped the center of the metal pole.

Breathe.

One second. Five seconds. Ten. After calming himself, Cyrus struck forward, sending the spearhead right into the manikin's head.

"This is much different than using my fists," Cyrus muttered.

Usually, when he threw a punch, he rotated his hips and shoulders to generate more power, placing his weight on his foot as he stepped forward. But the spear was different; while it needed his shoulders to move slightly for a basic thrust, that was it. But maybe it was his utter ignorance of weapons telling him that. Regardless, Cyrus appreciated the spear's simplicity. Tall and heavy, each thrust and exertion reminded him of how human he truly was. And Cyrus liked it.

There were no flourishes, style, or secret tricks—nothing similar to Blake's graceful dagger movements, as he was unfamiliar with any. Yet, there was a feeling...

It just felt right in his hands.

One. two… fifty... a hundred; he changed nothing, simply performing the same attack over and over again. And while it had not improved his skill, his hands and arms slowly became accustomed to the feeling of attacking. This went on for an hour without a single word. Cyrus became more attuned to the spear in his hand, using more power in each strike. And only when he was laden with sweat did he feel any sort of fatigue.

Can I throw it? Excited by the thought, Cyrus moved several meters backward, and like a javelin thrower, he lifted the spear over his head and threw it onto the manakin's torso. It struck dead center on its chest, knocking the manakin onto the ground with a loud thud.

Now satisfied, Cyrus turned to Dílis, his shirt clinging to his chest as he heaved for breath.

"I love it. It fits me so well," Cyrus smilingly said, running his fingers through his sweaty hair and revealing his obscured steel-blue eyes.

She returned his smile with one of her own. "It's great that you like it." However, her following words washed over him like a cold shower. "But have you thought about getting a haircut?"