Rage woke before dawn. Torches burned along the walls. Their light pushed back what was left of the night.
The sound of steel came from far away. The fortress was already awake. Soldiers fastened armor and sharpened blades. Some whispered short prayers to gods.
His door shook under a hard knock. Then it burst open.
Ignia stood there, arms crossed, looking far too awake for this hour.
"Get up, rat."
Ignia looked at him for a moment. A small smirk pulled at her lips. She leaned in a little and spoke in a low sharp voice.
"Heads up."
Before Rage could question it, she tossed something his way.
Balmung.
His reflexes kicked in. His fingers closed around the hilt just in time. The moment he touched Balmung, it reformed. It locked into place as a gauntlet that covered his entire arm.
Ignia said nothing, only stepping aside to reveal something else.
A sword.
It was aged. Wrapped in worn cloth that barely held together.
Rage knew that weapon.
The relic in her throne room. Left untouched and forgotten. Yet she had brought it here.
With a sharp tug, Ignia ripped the tattered sheet away. Dust swirled through the air. The heavy fabric crumpled to the ground, revealing the blade. It was scarred, rusted, and worn by time. Even in its ruined state, it carried weight. It seemed to wait for a worthy hand to awaken it once more.
Rage knelt beside the sword. He ran his fingers along its worn surface.
"It belonged to my father," she said, her voice was sharp.
"I do not remember his face. It does not matter," she added, her gaze fixed on the blade as if it were a memory she could not escape. "But I remember the way he fought."
She crossed her arms. "I was just a child when the fortress burned. He stood at the gates, swinging this sword like it was weightless. He cut down enemies like weeds. He did not stop until the gates fell."
Her gaze flickered for a brief moment. "The fire made it glow. The ground shook when it hit."
Then she kicked the sword forward. "But right now, it is a useless hunk of iron," she said flatly.
"Balmung is yours now. That means I do not have a weapon," she continued, eyes steady on him.
She jabbed a finger at the rusted blade. "So you're going to fix this one. Now," she ordered.
Rage glanced up. For the first time, he saw something rare. A hint of loss under her strong control. It crossed her face for a moment, then was gone. It was taken over by the same hard strength that made her a queen.
She met his gaze. "Do your magic, rat."
Rage sighed.
"It is not magic. It is programming," he muttered to himself.
With a reluctant grunt, he reached for it. His fingers brushed its worn hilt, and a strange feeling washed over him. The weight of history pressed against his palm.
The blade had seen many battles. Each one left its mark. Now it was little more than dead steel. But steel, no matter how broken, could always be reforged.
Then it's interface flickered in front of his eyes.
[SYSTEM] name: Lost Sword of the Abyss
[SYSTEM] item: Greatsword
[SYSTEM] model: Default
[SYSTEM] durability: 45%
[SYSTEM] attack: 150
Rage's eyes narrowed. A brown-named sword. He'd never seen one before.
He half-expected the blade to come with a side-quest attached.
He set its durability and attack values to 100%. Then he activated the Dead Circuit ability.
It worked.
A hum moved through the air as the blade reacted. Then the rust and dirt began to fall off. The blade made a low, metal sound just from vibrating.
The weapon began to change. The pitted surface smoothed out, becoming sharp and clean again. Each mark and scar slowly disappeared as the blade reforged itself. Its surface shone as if it had been freshly heated in a forge.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. The weapon, once broken and forgotten, was alive again. It was reborn as a tool shaped by its wielder's will.
[SYSTEM] Repair successful.
But Rage wasn't satisfied.
"Default?" He muttered under his breath.
"If it says default then I can modify it's model."
Something about it felt wrong. Too clean. Too normal.
He had never seen this parameter before. The idea of being stuck with a default anything grated on his nerves. He had to change it.
"Let's see what happens if we mess with the model," he whispered.
The thought hung in the air. What if the weapon could reflect something more? Something personal?
He willed it.
Since it was already a greatsword, he changed its model into a stronger greatsword. He set the weapon model to one that a certain berserker would own.
Then he activated the Dead Circuit ability.
The sword shifted. It darkened. Its once-smooth edges became jagged and rough, made not for skill but for destruction. It became something monstrous. Not just for battle, but for vengeance.
The transformation finished.
Rage felt its weight change. This was not just a sword. It was a tool for survival, for the desperate, the relentless, and the unyielding. Like a man who was NTR'd by his trusted ally and had his soul broken, yet still clenched his teeth and kept fighting.
As the final changes finished, a rune appeared on the blade. It shifted and molded into the metal. It marked the start of a new age for the weapon.
Ignia narrowed her eyes, noticing the rune on the blade. "You named it?"
"No."
"Then name it."
"Fine," he muttered.
Then, almost reluctantly, he said, "Dragonslayer."
Ignia's lips twisted into a grin. "Now that's the kind of weapon I can get behind."
"This is written in the ancient text from Tenzan Skyhold," she said, running her fingers along the rune.
"Ken... Ta... Ro," she read aloud.
She looked at him. "Where's this Kentaro clan? Are you one of them?"
Rage exhaled.
"It's a tribute to a legend," he said. "Not in this age. Not in any you'll ever walk."
He stared at the rune. "He's a being you will never meet... I will no longer meet."
Ignia did not push further. Something in the way he spoke felt final, like a warrior mourning a battle already lost.
"Hmph. Doesn't matter. A blade's only as strong as the one swinging it," she said, scoffing as she shook off the moment.
Rage exhaled sharply as he watched her. The blade was more than a weapon in her hands. It moved with her, like an extension of her will. The way she held it, the way it obeyed, it carried the same defiance that burned in her eyes.
Moments later, they stepped out of his chamber. Soldiers hurried past, armor clattering and swords brushing their sides.
As they walked, a few soldiers gave quick, sidelong glances. Their eyes lingered a little too long. Something had changed. It felt different, though they could not say what. Whispers began, soft at first, but loud enough for Rage to catch the words behind them.
"What happened?"
"Is he..."
"Did they..."
Some of the soldiers were focused on the battle ahead. Their minds were ready for what was coming. Others were pale, hands shaking, fear clear in the cold air.
Ignia drew her new blade.
Without a word, she raised the weapon. The soldiers' eyes snapped to her. The murmurs that had filled the air stopped, replaced by focus. Every soldier felt her authority.
"Form up, now!" Her voice rang out cutting through the whispers.
It was a call to arms.
Instantly, the scattered ranks moved into tight formations.
Standing at the front, Ignia's eyes scanned the soldiers.
"Hold fast! Keep your formations tight!" she said.
With the formation set and every soldier ready, Ignia nodded to the officers. They barked commands down the line, their voices cut through the air as the troops moved in sync.
The march began.
By the time the gates of the bandit fortress came into view, the sun's first rays broke the horizon. The enemies were surprised and disorganized, scrambling to form their ranks.
Thousands strong, Ignia's army moved with military precision. Ranks aligned in tight, orderly columns. The hooves hit the barren earth in a steady rhythm, blending with the movement of battle-worn banners.
At the forefront, Queen Ignia stood. She waited. Her eyes scanned the battlefield ahead, where the bandit forces scrambled in disorder.
The bandits' ranks were a messy collection of criminals. Some were barely armed, others held whatever crude weapons they could find, makeshift spears, rusted swords, and jagged knives. There were no banners to guide them, no signs of power or authority. The air was full of confusion.
Their commanders, if they had any, were nowhere to be seen. Shouts filled the air, but it was not the clear call of a leader. It was the panicked noise of people who did not know where to stand. It was the desperate attempt of a force that did not understand the battle ahead.
Amid the chaos, a flash of crimson cut through. Hidden in the crowd, under a tattered cloak, a pair of red lips curled into a grin. A sinister smile, an unseen hand.
And then the war began.
Ignia's forces split at her signal. The center of her army opened, a gap in the front lines, drawing the enemy's eyes and showing the heart of the coming strike.
At the center, the infantry stood firm, waiting for orders. Behind them were Ignia's generals and Rage, mounted on horseback.
The archers were positioned further back, standing still and focused.
"Aim!" the general's voice cut through the battlefield.
Ignia, among the generals, leaned forward in her saddle, eyes fixed on the enemy ranks.
"Let it rain," she said.
Without hesitation, a general shouted. "Fire!"
The archers moved in sync, each shot rose at the same time. A thousand arrows shot into the sky together. They hung for a moment, then plunged down like a storm.
As arrows hit, piercing flesh and cutting through armor, faces twisted in fear and pain. Screams filled the air.
The bandits fell one by one. Some tried to raise shields. Others ducked, trying to hide, but many were too slow.
Then --
"Charge!" Ignia's voice rang out.
The cavalry on both flanks surged forward. A wave of steel and fury moved across the field. The ground shook under the thunder of hooves.
But before the cavalry could advance further, the battlefield shifted.
From the shadows and swirling dust, a cry cut through the air. It was too late to react. At the sides of the cavalry, the bandit cavalry surged forward. Though untrained and disorganized, their numbers sent a wave of surprise. They moved as one chaotic force. They charged recklessly, horses kicking up dirt and riders shouting in raw battle cries.
The armies collided with a loud crash of bodies, hooves, and steel. The bandits hit the exposed flanks of Ignia's forces.
But Ignia's cavalry was not easily beaten. Their experience and training showed in every move.
On the left flank, Lyria, though suffering losses, maneuvered her remaining riders to recover and counterattack.
On the right, Durnhelm did the same. With a sharp right turn, his remaining riders cleared the bandit cavalry.
With the enemy cavalry shattered, the once-roaring battlefield grew eerily quiet. The swords and spears of Ignia's riders dripped in crimson, their blades dulled from the fight, yet their formation remained firm and unbroken as they moved forward to clear the flanks of the enemy infantry formation.
The commanders turned their attention to the enemy's center.
A new order rang out.
"Infantry!" a general commanded.
"Forward!"
At first, the infantry moved with slow steps.
Then the infantry quickened. The steady march grew into a coordinated surge. Each step became longer and faster until their movement turned into a thunderous run.
The infantry struck the enemy center with full force. Steel hit the bandits, breaking their lines. Bodies fell, and the cries of combat were lost in the collapse of their formation. The once-defiant group broke into panic. Shouts turned to hurried steps as the surviving bandits fled, scattering in all directions.
As the field cleared, Ignia's eyes swept over the retreating ranks. There were no high-ranking leaders among the fleeing bandits, only the lower soldiers running for cover.
It felt planned.
In the quiet that followed, with the sounds of battle fading, Ignia knew the fight was not over. The real test was still ahead.
Then a deep, guttural horn echoed from the fortress, breaking the silence. High above, a torn flag rose from the ramparts, its dark mark fluttering in the wind. The meaning was clear. It was a duel of champions, an old tradition that would decide the battle through the strength of two chosen warriors.
The challenge had been made.
Among the retreating bandits, a lone figure stepped out from the gates. She was clearly a woman, her stance firm and steady. Two blades glinted in her hands, and under her hood, a small curve of crimson lips formed a cold grin that hinted at the danger she carried.
"Show me what you've got, rat," Ignia said, her eyes never left the emerging figure.
Rage was still trying to take in the chaos in front of him.
"Hey, rat. Are you listening?" Ignia's voice cut through his thoughts.
Rage blinked and shook his head. He looked up at her, then at the figure stepping out from the fortress.
"I said meet their champion." Ignia's tone was firm, her patience fading.
"Me?" Rage said.
She let out a short breath and waved him off. "Move."
"If you say so," Rage replied. He had no choice, but at least it was a chance to see how far his training had taken him.
He pulled the reins, and his horse surged forward. The ground shook under its hooves as he charged, his focus locked on the figure ahead.
Just as he reached the perfect point of impact, Rage's body coiled.
With a swift motion, he stepped onto the horse's back, balance steady, eyes locked forward.
He launched himself into the air.
His body turned mid-flight, a smooth twist that carried him through the rising dust and wind.
For a brief moment, he cut through the chaos in perfect silence.
He landed with a heavy thud.
His left fist hit the ground.
One knee bent, the weight of his body steady.
His gauntlet pressed firmly against the earth.
"Proper Hero Landing."
The words came out as a taunt, meant more for himself than for the enemy. It was his way of showing he was not just reckless, but exact in how he moved.
Rage's horse kept charging forward, straight toward the hooded woman.
She did not panic. She took one slow step to the side and the horse rushed past her. Every motion she made was planned and exact, as if she had known this moment would happen.
[SYSTEM] Vera Lv.48
[SYSTEM] class : Assassin
[SYSTEM] loyalty : 75%
Rage blinked, his eyes narrowing as the overhead tag appeared.
"Loyalty?" he thought. "Why the hell is it showing loyalty instead of hostile?"
His mind raced, but there was no time to ask. He was already locked in the duel.
The two circled each other, step for step, sizing each other up. Rage's eyes stayed on Vera, and she matched his every move, calm and sharp. The space between them tightened with every step, the air heavy with the promise of the first strike.
Vera vanished into the dust, her form faded like smoke as her twin scimitars swung from every side.
The first strike came for Rage's neck, but he was already moving. He blocked the attack using Balmung in gauntlet form. The hit of metal against metal shook through him, but he did not back down.
A thought flickered in his mind. "What if I switch?"
His past training came back to him. The precision. The speed. The control. If he could use the weapons he knew best, the ones that always gave him an edge, he might turn the fight in his favor.
The idea pulled at him, tempting and dangerous. An advantage waiting to be taken.
There was no time to think. She was already moving, pulling back and twisting out of reach. Her eyes stayed on him, cold and sharp. Then, without warning, she appeared beside him, both scimitars aimed for his ribs.
Rage turned fast. The claws extended, catching her blades in time, sparks flying from the clash. But she slipped away again, light and quick, every move was clean. She was there one second, gone in the next.
He made his choice.
Rage refused to let her control the fight. His eyes locked on her every move.
With a sharp breath, he willed Balmung to shift into a dagger. To his surprise, the weapon changed almost instantly, as if it had read his thoughts.
He charged. When she came in again, he slashed. The blade cut past her arm, drawing a thin line of blood before she darted back. She was faster than he expected.
As he pulled the dagger back, his body moved on instinct. He twisted his hips, his right hand drawing back while his left pushed forward, shifting Balmung into a spear.
The motion was rough, more a test than a technique, but he thrust forward anyway, hoping to catch her off guard.
Vera reacted on pure instinct, barely slipping past the strike. It was not perfect. Not yet. But the idea worked.
Before he could react, she was already behind him again, blades flashing toward his back. He dropped low, turning just in time to deflect the blow with the dagger. His arm was burning with the effort of keeping up, but his will burned stronger.
With a growl, Rage shifted Balmung into a sword, slashing forward with deadly precision. The blade aimed for her chest, but Vera ducked, rolling under the strike, her legs springing her to her feet as she aimed a slash for his legs. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the cut.
She was relentless. But Rage wasn't done. He shifted Balmung back into a greatsword, swinging it down in a wide arc. The blade cleaved through the air, forcing Vera to backpedal, her scimitars raised to parry. The ground shook with the power of the strike, but she was already dodging to the side, using his momentum against him.
Not fast enough.
Rage's dagger snapped back into his hand. Without a pause, he lunged, aiming for her open side.
Vera was a moment too slow. The blade grazed her ribs, leaving a thin cut of blood. She hissed, but instead of backing away, she moved in faster. Her strikes came in a blur, faster and sharper than before.
They clashed again.
Vera moved fast, her blades cutting and spinning through the air. Every swing aimed to kill.
Rage seemed slower, but he did not back down. He blocked and countered each attack with power and focus. Balmung shifted again and again, changing shape with each move, never giving her a chance to strike clean.
But Vera was not done. She twisted her body and vanished into the dust.
Rage's heart pounded as his eyes moved fast, searching. "Where is she?"
A faint sound came from behind him. Too late. Vera appeared close, her blades aimed for his neck again.
In that instant, Balmung shifted into a claw. Rage swung back, the strike deflecting her blades just in time.
Vera landed in a crouch, breathing hard but steady. Rage faced her, eyes fixed on hers.
Then the air shifted.
Rage activated Null Veil.
His body blurred.
Each move grew faster, each strike was sharper. His muscles burned, his focus was clear.
Vera moved to strike again, but this time Rage was already there. His speed broke her rhythm. For the first time, she was on the defensive.
Her first scimitar came for his neck. Rage stepped aside, the blade missing by inches. She turned fast, her second sword flashing toward his ribs, but Rage shifted. Balmung turned into a claw, blocking the strike and pushing her back before she could react.
Vera jumped away to regain distance, but Rage was already moving. Balmung changed into a dagger. With a quick slash, he struck at her midsection. The blade grazed her, light but sharp enough to warn her.
Vera rolled and vanished into the dust again. Her scimitars gleamed faintly as she prepared to strike once more.
Rage's eyes swept the field. His pulse was steady now. Time felt slower. He no longer thought, he moved.
A sound behind him. A step. The faint rush of air.
She appeared at his side, blades flashing. Rage turned in time, dagger raised. Metal clashed, ringing through the air. Vera twisted, using his motion to flip backward into shadow again.
Rage pressed forward, his weapon changing shape mid-step. The dagger stretched into a spear, sweeping wide to keep her back. She darted in again, scimitar clashing with the spear's edge. Sparks flew. Rage twisted, Balmung forming into a greatsword in one smooth move. He brought it down fast.
Vera's eyes widened as she leapt aside. The blade cut through the air, missing by inches. Her boot skimmed the edge as she landed, rolling away.
"Too slow, noob." His voice sharp and calm. He lunged, dagger in hand, aiming low for her legs.
She was gone again. The dust swallowed her whole.
Rage surged forward, dagger ready. He struck once more, the air shuddering as Vera dodged. She moved fast, but Rage stayed on her. His claw form caught her blade mid-swing.
They froze.
And then...
[SYSTEM] Random Number Generator : 96
[SYSTEM] Red Static Activated
[SYSTEM] System Override
[SYSTEM] Syncing Body to Combat Protocol
[SYSTEM] Initiating : Flying Heaven Honorable Sword Strike
As the system notification flashed before his eyes, Rage grinned, "Ha! I've seen this a million times."
With the slightest shift, Rage moved. He knew exactly what weapon was needed. Balmung shifted seamlessly into the form of a katana, its blade was sleek and honed to perfection. He was ready. Eyes locked on Vera's every movement, every twitch, every breath.
The final face-off.
The world around them fell silent, the chanting of the armies faded into nothing as the two combatants stood locked in a battle.
Rage moved to change his stance. He put his front foot forward and lowered his body. His back leg stayed strong on the ground. His left hand went up, open, near the handle of his sword, which was pointed down. His body was still, bent down like a tight rope, ready to shoot out fast and hard.
Vera moved first. Her scimitars blurred as she lunged.
"Here we go," he muttered.
Rage's body moved on its own, driven by the system override. The katana rose in a quick arc.
"Flying Heaven Honorable Sword Strike."
The attack sliced through the space between them, fast enough to blur. But it never touched her.
It was a feint.
His blade passed just inches from her body. She had expected the strike. That was the point. It was never meant to hit.
In one fluid motion, he twisted his hips, his right hand drawing back as the sword shifted effortlessly into a gauntlet. The transition was sharp, precise. Without hesitation, his fist drove toward her midsection.
The strike landed with a heavy thud, but the impact felt empty, like what he hit was no longer alive.
He stopped, eyes wide. Vera's body flew back and hit the ground hard. But something felt wrong. His gaze flicked to the interface, and the name that appeared was not Vera.
The real Vera was still out there.
The sound of surrender filled the air. The enemy soldiers, beaten and afraid, dropped their weapons and raised their hands.
From behind the broken walls, women, children, and the old were freed. They stumbled forward, weak but alive, moving toward Ignia's soldiers. Their chains were gone. Their eyes showed exhaustion, but also hope.
Some of the enemies still ran, fleeing the fortress in panic. They tried to escape, but there was nowhere left to go.
A few, desperate and reckless, tried to strike from the shadows. Daggers flew, hidden blades flashed, but each attack ended the same. Ignia's soldiers met them with quick, deadly precision. They fell before their blades could finish their swing.
The fortress, once a mark of rebellion, now belonged to Firekeep.
The battle was over.
As the dust settled, a figure appeared before Ignia, silent and swift. The soldiers near her barely noticed until it was already there, standing still as if it had formed from the air itself.
Without speaking, the figure reached into its cloak and pulled out a scroll. The seal on it bore a symbol, one unknown to most. The figure held it out to Ignia.
Ignia took the scroll and broke the seal with one quick motion. Her eyes moved over the words in silence. Then the faintest smirk formed on her lips.
A soft laugh escaped her, low and cold, cutting through the quiet of the aftermath. It was not the sound of relief, but of understanding.
"Well," she said, her eyes glinting, "this is getting interesting."
The rest of the day passed in silence. The fires burned slow and steady, consuming the dead. Smoke drifted through the air, dark against the fading light.
The wounded were treated in the camp nearby. Some groaned. Some whispered thanks. Others just stared blankly at the ground. Bandages wrapped limbs. Water poured over wounds. The worst had already been handled.
When the sun dipped below the horizon, the last pyres still burned, their glow casted long shadows over the battlefield.
Past the gates, the fortress was quieter. The iron doors opened with a long creak, revealing a worn stone path that led inside. The faint sounds of work echoed through the halls. Servants moved. Guards spoke in low voices. Dinner was being prepared.
At a large table, the generals began tossing their coin pouches onto a pile. Each pouch hit the wood with a dull clink. The growing heap of gold caught the dim light, and their faces twisted in mild annoyance.
Deltia entered the room. Ignia did not look up. She tossed one of the pouches her way. It landed neatly in Deltia's hands without a sound.
Rage blinked. "What the hell's going on here?" he muttered.
Ignia finally looked at him and smirked. "You're making me rich in no time, rat."
Her voice was calm, playful. The gold on the table meant little compared to the spark in her eyes.
***
In the war room of the Bandit Fortress, a heavy oak table stood under the dim light of a flickering candle. Torn maps and scattered papers covered its surface. Notes and plans were left behind in a rush. Marked routes and troop movements filled the pages, but none of it mattered now.
The high-ranking officers lay dead across the table. Their bodies were twisted, their throats cut clean. There were no signs of struggle. No signs of resistance. It was quiet. Too quiet.
The room held its silence, broken only by the faint sounds of the liberation outside. But within the thick stone walls, the air was heavy. It was not the weight of war that lingered here, but something darker. Something deliberate.
[SYSTEM] Queen Ignia : Loyalty 90%
[SYSTEM] Corruption : 13.4%