After a few more minutes of endless clashing — blades scraping, muscles burning, and echoes bouncing off the damp stone walls — Kael finally won.
Barely.
It was, without a doubt, the most scuffed victory known to man and every magical being in existence. The goblin didn't even die from a clean blow — no heroic strike or finishing move.
It bled out.
Slumped over.
Dead because it had too many holes and not enough blood left to scream.
Kael dropped to his knees with a long, ragged breath, his back slamming against the nearest wall. He sat down heavily, panting like he'd just fought off a dragon instead of a cave-dwelling gremlin.
"My leg's acting up…" he laughed hoarsely, rubbing at his thigh. Pain pulsed through his limb in rhythmic waves, the muscles spasming uncontrollably beneath his calloused fingers. The entire leg trembled with agony — old wounds flaring up like cursed memories.
He turned his gaze toward the goblin's lifeless corpse. After a moment of silence, he tilted his head to the side, expression equal parts amusement and exhaustion.
"Blood loss, huh… Good thing. Otherwise, I would've been the one bleeding out in a puddle."
Using the rusted sword like a makeshift cane, Kael struggled to his feet. Every bone creaked in protest, his joints grinding together like worn-out gears. The faint blue glow that had drawn him here still pulsed faintly deeper into the cave, like a phantom heartbeat beckoning him forward.
"No rest for the weak," Kael scoffed, groaning as he limped onward, dragging one leg behind him like dead weight.
His limp had gotten worse. More pronounced. Every step felt like punishment for surviving.
But eventually, his struggle bore fruit — or at least, the illusion of fruit. Possibly a very shiny rock pretending to be a miracle.
Salvation? Maybe.
A cosmic joke? Also possible.
What he found was a sword.
Not another rusted relic or long-lost dagger — but a proper blade, half-buried in a stone pedestal at the end of the cave. It stood out like a gem in dirt, untouched by time, its sleek form humming with dormant power.
The glow came from the blade itself — not the metal, but the engraving etched into its surface. Letters pulsed in a blue hue, older than the language Kael spoke, yet somehow familiar.
CHIME.
The sound rang out again. A vibration more than a tone — like a chisel tapping the inside of his skull.
Kael staggered, clutching his forehead as the now-familiar headache crept in again, a sharp throb behind his eyes.
"So this is the bastard that woke me up…" he growled, stepping forward until he stood directly in front of the embedded weapon.
He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt, calloused palms brushing against the strange, cool material. Then he squinted at the sword's condition — not the glow, but the fact that it was literally jammed into stone like some overhyped fairytale prop.
"This can't be good for the blade, can it?" he said dryly. "Edge like that should've dulled to crap by now, depending how long it's been stuck here…"
Then again, logic had no place in whatever twisted bedtime story he'd wandered into. The cave glowed. The sword hummed. And something in his gut told him this was no ordinary relic.
So Kael grunted, braced his legs, and pulled with both hands.
SWISH.
The blade slid out of the stone like butter melting in summer heat — so smooth, so easy, Kael actually stumbled backwards from the lack of resistance.
He stared at it, blinking.
"…Really?" He tilted the blade up, inspecting its curve, balance, and craftsmanship. "Looks mastermade. Could probably go toe-to-toe with my sword back in the war."
His lips curled faintly.
"Although this one's too flashy. Bit too ceremonial — like a blacksmith overcompensating for something."
CHIME.
The sound came again — softer this time, almost gentle.
But instead of pain, a screen bloomed into existence before him, projected mid-air like a sheet of glass illuminated by mana.
The words glowed with the same ethereal blue:
[Sword Found]
[Calibrating…]
[14%... 56%... 99%]
[Calibrated]
[STATUS]
Name: Kael R. Rhydan
Level: 1
—
STR: 4
AGI: 5
MAG: 1
END: 3
LCK: ???
—
Condition: Minor Limp | Fatigued | Crippled
Title: None
Class: Unassigned
[I greet you, poor bastard.]
Kael blinked once. Then twice.
"…What?" he rasped, stumbling back a step as the floating panel pulsed slightly, reflecting its pale glow off his wide-eyed face.
His brain tried to process it — not the data, but the greeting.
"Poor bastard!?" He laughed, loud and wheezing. "Only I get to call myself that!"
Shaking his head, Kael exhaled and looked back at the screen, this time focusing on the important part.
Stats. Status. Numbers that summarized him like some half-baked character sheet from a child's fantasy game.
"Fair enough," he muttered, eyeing the single digits across the board. "I am a rusty sack of bones."
But then his eyes stopped at the last line.
LCK: ???
He frowned.
"And why is my luck hidden like some divine joke? What am I, the gods' jester now?"
The screen offered no answer.
But the blade in his hand pulsed once more — as if it agreed.