Astra's mind churned with awe and dread, every thought colliding like waves in a storm. He understood now—Odin was not here to guide him, nor to console. His presence, his words, his revelations—they were not gifts, but debts paid to a shadow long dead. A favor honored, then severed.
I knew it, Astra reminded himself bitterly. There's no such thing as a free lunch.
He could almost laugh at it, almost spit in the angel's face, but the weight in his chest reminded him otherwise. Odin was not some benevolent guardian, but a mountain cloaked in starlight—a being who could crush him with less thought than one gives to a fly. Even his indifference pressed heavier than the love of a hundred gods.
"Odin does not care for my future," Astra thought, the words biting into him like broken glass. "Not really. His help was nothing more than the settling of an ancient score. Steel and Night—how fitting. Shadows trading debts in silence, and I'm just the currency passed between them."
Yet even as resentment flared, he could not deny the sheer gravity Odin carried. His presence was a slumbering volcano, patient but inevitable, waiting for the moment to rip the world open. Astra both hated him and revered him—envied and feared him in the same breath.
The angel sighed, the sound like wind through an ancient crypt, laced with faint annoyance."Before I send you to your fate, child… let me at least equip you. You look like a beggar who stumbled into the wrong realm. Something tells me you can't even wield a blade properly."
Astra's heart slammed against his ribs. The Divine Grandmaster of the Forge. The Old Duke of House Steel. Giving me armor? A weapon? His thoughts tumbled into a frenzy, tripping over themselves.
What is this gear worth? Could I sell it? How many diamond standards would I fetch with his name tied to it? A king's ransom? A nation's? No. If I tried, I'd wake up with the Steelborne dragging me through the cobbles, smiling as they put me in the cellars. But don't worry, I'll reassure them—don't worry boys, I'm nobility! As they gut me for the crime of breathing in their House's name.
The thought was so absurd he almost snorted aloud, his lampooning the only shield he had against the sheer weight of this moment.
Odin's grimace shifted, faintly amused—whether by Astra's trembling hands or the quiet storm playing across his face, it was impossible to say. With a slow, almost negligent gesture, he turned toward the heart of the forge. Shadows quivered, bending as though they too were subjects to his will.
Then the weapons came.
From the darkness they rose: blades that floated as if held by unseen hands, their edges glimmering like slivers of the moon carved into steel. The air around them grew sharp, the metallic tang of blood filling Astra's mouth as though the swords themselves demanded it. Each one whispered in silence, a thousand hungry promises of violence and doom.
Astra's throat tightened. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Irresistible.
Odin flicked his wrist, and the air split with a sound like cracking stone. A suit of armor—black as the starless void, streaked with faint veins of silver—manifested from nothing, flung toward Astra with careless ease.
He staggered beneath its weight as it fell into his grasp, his knees nearly buckling. His heart thundered louder than any festival drum, the sound filling his ears until he could hear nothing else. The armor pulsed faintly, as if it were alive, as if it were waiting to claim him just as much as he wished to claim it.
And in that heartbeat, as his fingers brushed the cold, unyielding surface, Astra felt it—the shiver of destiny threading into his veins, the quiet whisper of shadows urging him forward.
His Regal Coin, now linked to his Mage Coin, flared to life. Its energy pulsed through his veins like molten silver, analyzing the shifting darkness before him—the armor that seemed to breathe with its own pulse.
The armor was a marvel of shadow's craft. Subtle iridescence glimmered faintly across its surface, like starlight glimpsed on a moonless sea. It did not seek to dominate or dazzle but to embody a quiet, lethal elegance—the same kind of beauty shadows carried when they chose to veil the world in silence.
Nightshroud [Rank II][Tier VI][Evolvable]
It shimmered with a restrained, terrible grace—woven from the essence of darkness itself. The breastplate clung to his form with an unnerving familiarity, impossibly light, yet he sensed it could defy the wrath of heaven itself. Its surface shifted like the sky at twilight: one moment the endless black of midnight, the next the dusky gray of an approaching storm. Beneath that mutable skin, faint constellations glimmered, subtle as dying embers—patterns that felt older than nations. They did not glow, yet their presence was undeniable, like the hushed breath of something ancient watching through the fabric of time.
The shoulder guards, curved and graceful, mimicked the wings of a bird in mid-flight. They were not made for brute force, but for grace and velocity, for the predator that kills without sound. Their promise was clear: protection through motion, survival through elegance.
The gauntlets, black as obsidian, seemed to devour the light. Along his forearms, etchings of ancient runes pulsed with subtle enchantments. He felt them hum faintly against his skin—wards against curses, distortions, and unseen blows. It was as if the armor itself was aware, ready to guard its bearer from the world's treachery.
The helmet was the simplest, and therefore the most dreadful. A seamless mask of darkened steel, expressionless, with only a narrow slit for sight. It bore no sigil, no ornament—just the silence of death. Its quiet presence was heavier than any crest, whispering of forgotten gods and lands drowned in shadow. Atop it, a plume of sable hair drifted faintly, like smoke caught in a wind that no one else could feel.
Greaves and boots molded seamlessly to his legs, giving the impression of armor grown rather than forged. They were light enough to make his steps a ghost's, yet strong enough to endure the strike of titans. The boots were enchanted to drink the sound from his footsteps, fusing him into the silence of night.
And from his shoulders unfurled a cloak darker than the armor itself, as though shadow had been spun into cloth. It hung without weight, drinking in the dimness of the forge. The air seemed colder around it. The cloak did not wish to be seen—it wished to erase him from sight entirely, to enfold him when he chose and vanish him into absence.
This was no armor for a hero. No steel for champions who declared themselves beneath the sun. This was a hunter's shroud, a covenant with the dark. Armor not of valor, but of inevitability. A reflection of the boy who stood before it, and of the man he would be forced to become.
As Astra ran his fingers across the dark plates, the air seemed to tighten. The armor did not simply guard him—it recognized him. Accepted him. In that silence, he felt his heart pound against it, as though testing his worth. He was not merely protected—he was absorbed into something vaster. He was the storm, the whispering edge of the knife, the nameless shadow coiled in men's fears.
Astra's throat tightened, his words almost trembling from the weight of it."What… powerful armor," he breathed. His coin hummed again in agreement, identifying what his mind already knew. Not only was it an artifact—it was a growing armor set. One of the rarest miracles, a relic that evolved with its bearer. Even dukes and princes would bleed kingdoms for such a treasure.
And it was his.
He donned the armor piece by piece, every plate falling into place as though it had awaited him for centuries. With each fastening, a strange calm overcame him. Not relief, not peace—something colder. A settling of the inevitable. His path was no longer possibility, but certainty.
When at last he stood fully clad, Astra lifted his gaze to Odin. The angel's eyes, blue as glaciers, locked upon him with a depth carved from endless centuries. For the first time, Astra saw sorrow flicker there—a ghost of grief hidden beneath a mask of steel.
"This was the last gift I ever forged for your ancestor," Odin said. His voice, usually a hammer striking through worlds, wavered faintly. "It was meant… for her niece. Her heir"
The words sank into Astra's chest like stone. This was not simply a weapon or a ward. It was history. Legacy. A burden stitched together from loss and promise, never meant for him, yet now placed upon his shoulders. His breath caught; for a fleeting moment, he wanted to tear it away, to deny this inheritance of Night.
But he could not. This was the cost of power and his dreams.
Odin's voice rumbled again, shaking Astra from his spiraling thoughts."Pick one, brat. Then leave."
Before him, five swords hovered in the air, suspended in a haze of raw power. Each felt less like a weapon and more like an extension of the forge itself—primal, alive, oppressive. Their presence pressed down on him, heavy and charged, like thunderclouds gathering before a battle.
Astra's hand instinctively drifted toward his Mage Coin—now fused to the Regal Coin—seeking the cold pulse of guidance it offered. At once, the coins' power unfurled through his mind, a strange and alien tide. Knowledge poured in, incomprehensible yet undeniable, and in that instant each weapon revealed itself to him in fragments, like whispers from a forgotten age.
The first drew his gaze. An Odachi, its steel blacker than midnight, a blade that seemed to stretch with possibility. Its weight carried the stillness of death waiting to strike.
Odachi [Rank I][Tier I][Sharp Blade] [Durable] [Retractable Blade]
The enchantments swam into his mind. Its edge could lengthen or shorten at will, answering the whims of its wielder. A weapon without a single fixed form, it promised adaptability—and in its silence, Astra felt an unspoken vow that it could cut deeper than flesh. A shadow of something greater lingered in its aura, dangerous and alluring.
Next floated a black Jian, its simplicity betraying its grace. Where the Odachi spoke of inevitability, this sword promised precision. It did not thunder—it whispered, its balance so perfect Astra imagined it could strike before thought itself.
A longsword shimmered nearby, followed by a saber and a scimitar—each resonating with the same tier of power, each impossibly refined for simple Rank I armaments. To Astra, they felt monumental, crushing in their presence.
And yet… the coin's judgment was clear. These were Rank I, Tier I weapons. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The realization stung. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, the words spilled out:"Excuse me your grace… why are you holding out on me?"
The words echoed through the forge like a stone dropped into an abyss. Silence followed, suffocating. Astra froze, eyes wide. His heart plummeted into his stomach as his mind screamed at him—You just mouthed off to Odin. To him.
He bowed so quickly his neck cracked. "I—I apologize!" His voice cracked, half-choked with fear. His legs trembled, every instinct demanding he bolt into the dark.
But Odin did not smite him. He did not even scowl. Instead, those ageless eyes studied Astra with something sharp—amusement.
When he spoke, his voice was cold iron wrapped in fire."Brat, you are Rank One with no true combat experience. If I placed real power in your hands now, you wouldn't wield it—you'd spill it. A weapon too great would burn you out, or worse, unleash devastation you couldn't control and even if you even managed to power one with your feeble mana. You might level a street. A city. Perhaps a town. And for what? Because you wanted more?"
Astra swallowed hard. The rebuke seared, but in the pit of his stomach he knew it was truth. He could feel it, the fragile edge of his own strength—more a sapling than a tree.
Odin stepped closer, and his voice grew heavy with the weight of command."Out of the billions who begin the path of power, Rank One is a tide of the unproven. Forty percent of this world never move beyond it. Thirty percent claw their way to Rank Two. Only twenty percent reach Rank Three. Beyond that…" His gaze sharpened, a glint like the edge of steel. "Beyond that, the road is carved only in blood."
The words rooted themselves in Astra's chest, cold and immovable. He wanted to argue, to claim he would rise above those billions, but what would be the point? His voice would sound hollow even to himself.
His fists tightened until his knuckles ached. The silence stretched, oppressive, until at last he muttered through clenched teeth, "Good point." The admission tasted bitter.
Still, he turned back to the hovering swords, the weight of their presence bearing down on him. Each called to him in a different register—the Odachi with its endless promise, the Jian with its whispering edge, the others each with their own rhythm. But one resonated with his core. The longsword. Balanced, unwavering, neither too heavy nor too fleeting.
It was not glamour or hunger that drew him—it was necessity. Something about it felt right.
Astra's hand tightened on his coin, and he exhaled, voice steady but quiet."I'll take the longsword."
Odin's lips curled into something resembling a smile, though it bore no warmth—only a faint edge of cruelty."Very well, brat."
The chosen blade broke from the orbit of its brothers, cutting through the air with a shriek like rending silk. Its dark form darted toward Astra as though it were a predator, and he its chosen prey. He flinched, but his hand moved instinctively to meet it. The hilt landed against his palm with a jarring finality, silver and cold, gleaming faintly in the forge's ghostlight. The blade itself was black as the abyss, swallowing the shadows around it. Beautiful. Lethal. A weapon not meant for ceremony but for war.
The moment Astra's fingers tightened around it, a current ran through him—power surging not into his body, but into his very veins, as though the sword sought to test whether he was worth bearing it. His chest rattled with uneven breath. It's alive, he thought. No… worse. It's listening.
Odin's voice rose again, deep and resonant, shaking the chamber as though the forge itself bent to his will."Once you inherit the Sword Styles of Night, your magic will elevate. Remember this—swords are not merely steel. They are channels. Conduits. Mirrors of their wielder's soul. To wield one is to declare not just your strength, but the shape of your existence."
Astra swallowed hard, struggling to steady his grip as the blade hummed faintly in his hand. The coins pulsed against his skin, recording, analyzing, but offering no comfort.
Odin's tone shifted, almost didactic, though no less severe."Many houses shape their legacies through different arms. Hunt's bows strike from distances that make Demi-gods flinch. My house—the House of Steel—built its eternity upon the hammer and forge, shaping the bones of creation itself. Each lineage has its weapon, each a philosophy carved into iron and blood."
The angel's piercing eyes narrowed, pinning Astra with a force that made his knees weaken."But you, boy—you will not inherit their paths. The Regal Coin has chosen differently. It will impart to you the way of the sword. Not my sword. Not another's. Yours. Every mage must carve a battle style as unique as their breath. To mimic another's form is to walk as a shadow, an echo. And shadows do not last long beneath the sun."
The words sank into Astra like daggers. A quiet terror gnawed at him—the fear of failing to create something worthy, of being nothing more than a pale imitation of better men. But another feeling burned underneath: a reckless spark of defiance, a hunger to prove that he could stand on his own terms.
The silence between them stretched taut, heavy, until Odin's voice thundered once more, now stripped of its earlier patience."Heed me, brat. Learn the way of the sword. Live by it. And if your destiny demands it—die by it. That is the only pride a warrior is owed."
The weight of those words pressed against Astra's chest until it nearly broke him. He forced himself to meet Odin's gaze, though the angel's eyes were colder than the steel they had birthed.
Then, for the briefest flicker, Odin's voice softened. Not kinder—never that—but touched with the bitterness of some ancient grief."A star shines brightest… when it burns closest to its death."
The words lingered, hanging in the air like the toll of a funeral bell. Astra's heart skipped. His breath caught. Something in those words resonated too deeply, like a secret chord struck within him—a reminder that brilliance and ruin often walked hand in hand. He didn't know whether to feel inspired, or to fear what they might mean for him.
And just as quickly, the softness was gone. Odin's voice returned, hard as the forge's anvil, merciless and unyielding. The very air grew heavy, as if the chamber itself braced against what he was about to ask.
Then came the question, sharp as a blade drawn in silence.
"Astra," Odin's voice rumbled, each syllable like stone grinding against stone, "do you think you are capable of taking a life? To extinguish someone's ambitions—to end their path, their legacy, and all they were?"
The words struck Astra like a hammer against the chest. His breath caught, his heart stuttered. It wasn't a question meant to be answered lightly—he could feel that much. This was no idle inquiry, but a crucible.
His mind reeled, spiraling into places he had long buried.
Capable of killing? The memory came unbidden, jagged and raw. That night from his childhood—the man's face, twisted with hunger and cruelty. The smell of cheap liquor. The panic that had frozen him until instinct—or was it desperation?—took over. He remembered the struggle, the flash of steel, the scream cut short. The blood. His hands slick with it.
He remembered vomiting until his ribs ached, curling up in the shadows of an alley, shivering until the stars vanished into dawn. He had been a boy. He hadn't killed for ambition. He hadn't even meant to. It had been survival, ugly and accidental.
His stomach churned as the memory faded. But this? This is different.
Could he kill for ambition? Could he cut down someone who shared the same hunger, the same desperate climb, simply because they blocked his path? Could he take a life not because he must—but because he chose to?
The silence stretched, heavy. Odin's eyes bore into him, demanding honesty, not excuses.
Astra swallowed, his throat dry. He forced himself to speak, his voice low, unsteady at first—but growing with each word."Honestly… I do not know, Your Excellency. Perhaps I would say 'yes' now and falter when the moment comes. I know right now I cannot harm the innocent, nor take life for petty gain. That will never sit right with me—it will never be my path."
He paused, his hands trembling around the blade. Then his voice hardened, conviction burning through the fear."But don't get it wrong your grace, I have and will do anything to reach my goals, be it torture exploitation or even treason—if someone dares to stand in my way… if they try to chain me, to deny me my dreams—I will kill them. Without hesitation disregarding my morals. I've longed too long for power, for freedom. I've seen the worst of this world, the way people rot when there's nothing left but despair. I've watched morality crumble in the gutters. I've felt it gnaw at me."
Astra's violet eyes burned, shimmering with both fear and longing. His words came faster now, sharpened by memory and hunger."I live on the outskirts. I've seen children starve. I've watched men claw at each other like beasts over scraps. I've slept in filth, knowing I could be stabbed in my sleep for half a loaf of bread. That is no life. That is no fate. I would rather climb toward the pinnacle of this world—and die reaching for it—than waste away in a heap of trash, forgotten."
His voice broke, trembling, yet his words did not falter."If anyone dares to stand in my way… their dreams will die before mine."
The forge was silent but for the faint hum of the swords. Astra's words lingered in the air, raw and unpolished. Yet they carried a truth no amount of refinement could sharpen further.
For the first time, Odin's stern mask shifted. His lips curled into a smile—not kind, but edged with something like approval. Admiration. Perhaps even anticipation."Ho… a bold proclamation, Astra. Your words cut as sharply as the blade you now hold. Let us see if they are steel—or only wind."
The angel's presence pressed down on him again, suffocating, ancient. But when Odin spoke next, his tone had shifted. Softer—not gentle, but heavy, as if he carried the memory of a thousand broken oaths."Very well, brat. Your path is set. Realize your dream—or be crushed beneath it. That is the law of all who walk this road."
Astra bowed his head slightly, though his grip on the sword tightened as though he feared it might vanish if he loosened his hold. He turned, each step feeling heavier than the last, as though the forge itself clung to him.
But Odin's voice followed, a final murmur that carried more weight than all the fire and fury before it:"Remember this, Astra. Every step toward the heavens is stained with blood. The question is never if you will kill. The question is how much of yourself you will lose each time you do."
Odin's voice fell like a verdict, each word carrying the weight of inevitability."I must warn you, brat. You now have more enemies than allies. House Dusk will hunt you, and they will not stop until your blood stains the earth. Hunt may be distant for now, but their arrows travel further than time itself—they will come when you least expect it. House Dawn will not bother with games. They will kill you outright, burn your name from memory. The minor houses? Pawns and vultures, no different. They will rend you apart if it earns them favor. Worst of all, gods have set their sights upon you, you can only hide for so long."
The forge's glow flickered across Odin's hard features as he went on, voice low, merciless."The churches of seraphs and angels are no safer. Do not think them holy—only political tools serving their divine masters. If you seek their shelter, you will be nothing but a bargaining chip, traded at the whim of greater powers. Be wary of Dune, brat, and all the other great houses. Each hungers for advantage, and you are little more than fresh meat on their board."
Astra's throat tightened. His heart hammered against his ribs, yet he forced himself to meet the angel's gaze.
Odin's tone shifted, colder still."The Church of Night is weak, while they can defend themselves and proclaim sovereignty, they cannot alter world politics greatly. Their knights, their bishops—they will come searching, hungry for your head. Saints cannot enter Duskfall; they are too well known, too loud, too heavy for shadows. One might attempt it, yes—but if you meet with them, Astra, it will do more harm than good. They will not save you. They will mark you."
Odin's eyes gleamed with an iron certainty as he delivered the final piece."You must disappear. Disguise yourself as a scion of House Shadow. They are children of the Goddess of Shadow, and unlike the rest, they rise even as the royals gnash their teeth. Your bloodline shares their god. They will take you in."
The words struck Astra like a knife of possibility—both hope and snare. His mind churned. Shadow? A great house? Me, a street rat, welcomed as kin? Impossible… unless—
He found his voice, though it quivered with disbelief."They'd take me in, knowing the weight I might bring down upon them?"
"Oh, trust me, boy." Odin's lips curled into something dark, something uncomfortably close to amusement. "They will welcome you with open arms. Your timing… it is truly humorous."
Astra's brow furrowed, his thoughts spiraling. Humorous? What could he mean? If the royals discover me, if the great houses scent weakness, Shadow will suffer for harboring me. Why would they risk such ruin? Why gamble everything on me, when I am nothing more than a rat from the gutters? Perhaps that is what they intend for??
"My lord," Astra pressed, voice edged with equal parts desperation and doubt, "if I am discovered by royals, or even one of the great houses… Shadow will face a storm of pressure. I am but a nobody. A stray. Why would they bother?"
Odin's smile deepened into a look that sent a chill crawling down Astra's spine. It was not kindness—it was knowledge, heavy and grim."Because they will. Send them a message, boy. Use the Regal Coin of Night, claim asylum, and they shall answer. They will harbor you, train you, and when the time is right, they will cast you back into the storm."
The certainty in Odin's tone left no space for argument. The words were command, prophecy, and death sentence in one.
Silence lingered. The forge hummed.
At last, Odin extended his hand. The gesture was simple, yet it felt as though eternity itself bent toward Astra in that moment.
Inwardly Astra was in disbelief and utter awe. I am really about to shake hands with an angel. Me! a lowly pawn, a street rat! Astra teared up.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before placing his hand in Odin's. The angel's grip was cold, vast—an unfathomable realm coiled within his palm. For an instant, Astra felt as though his soul might unravel, devoured by the sheer immensity of it.
Odin's gaze softened, if only by a fraction. "Goodbye, Astra Noctis. May the stars ever illuminate your path."
It was clear. The Angel of Steel had spoken all he intended. No more. No less.
Astra exhaled, steadying his breath. Enough. More than enough. He's given me a mountain to climb—and daggers waiting in every shadow. His mind raced, tallying each step ahead. First Shadow… then the Church… then whatever storms follow. Gods, what a path.
He bowed his head, the weight of finality pressing into his words."Farewell, O Angel of Steel. May your hammer strike ever truly."
And then, with the sword of Night at his side and Odin's warnings ringing in his ears, Astra stepped into the dark unknown. The path ahead was no gift—it was a curse, a promise, a battlefield yet to be written.
Whether blessing or damnation, the future was his to shape—or destroy.