I've never been fond of knives.
Not because they're dramatic. Not because they're flashy. But because they're truthful. Knives don't lie. Knives don't pretend to be something other than what they are. You hold one up, and it explains exactly what it's going to do; cut, stab, bleed. No pretension with only reality.
In my previous life, I always had one nearby as a habit, backup and for survival. Now… I have something better. I held out my hand, and a small magic circle pulsed to life just above my palm; delicate sweeps of blue and black light that vibrated with my will. The air disturbed. Energy twisted.
And in a single instant, it coalesced. A short sword.
Clean and balanced. Light enough to travel quickly, heavy enough to parry if needed. In contrast to the bumbling wooden training staves I'd done my initial exercises with, this one was made of my own magical energy; polished years in Syrelle's reality, sharpened by discipline and pain.
I extended a few trial strokes. It whirred quietly in the air. Smooth, realistic and quick.
"A speed-dedicated weapon," I muttered. "More than a staff, more than dead weight."
I wasn't a swordsman. Not of the kind you'd expect. But I was familiar with blades. How to survive with one. A sword served in the times when magic is dwindling, when casting took too long, when the only barrier between life and death is a cutting edge.
But, a sword needs purpose.
And that annoyed me.
---
Back in my previous life, I didn't fight to protect anyone. I did not find it hard to uphold justice or gain fame. I found it hard because I had to. Because staying alive costs blood. Because there was little food, dirty water, and faith was more valuable than gold. I've killed children. I've killed old men who begged for mercy. I've killed the sick. I've killed to eat. To remain silent. To have a roof over me. So don't mistake me for a hero. In that ruined world of Aetherra, I was just another scavenger pretending to be human.
---
Aetherra was a lovely world. Full of cities and scholars, magic and invention. And then the "Call".
The gods spread out to stop the inevitable, nothing to do with us. Heroes were summoned. People from other worlds, other realities, summoned to be saviors. We thought they were blessings. We were wrong.
They came with fire in their souls and principles held in their fists. Fearless, hungry, booming. But they did not understand this world. And when they fell short.
They shattered everything. They called the abyss.
Magic roamed free. The ley lines split. The sky tore asunder. Monsters flooded out. Nations fell. By the time I was born, it was too late.
We were counting a hundred thousand years.
Now, less than a thousand years remain before Aetherra collapses. The core is dying. The sky's breath is growing thin. The gods have stopped speaking.
Some say salvation is coming after the apocalypse.
What a joke.
---
Even when we flee, when doors swing open and we travel to other worlds; we discover the same tale. Destiny drives us to the brink. Whether in which world we are, the noose at our neck constricts just as brutally. I recall when I sealed the deal with that deity.
He didn't deceive me. But he didn't deliver me either.
Because these days, not even gods can fulfill their vows.
---
I gazed down at the sword once more. Its energy was serene, patient. No blood, no killing.
But it would happen. And this time… it won't be senseless. This time, the sword will have purpose.
Not to live, not to slay. But to forge a way for myself.
To cut through the lies, the hopelessness, the destiny that continues to try and bind me down. This sword shall be my rebellion. My freedom is also something that will bind me to something which also...I wonder if I traded freedom for freedom to live with dignity.
---
I fastened it around my belt and stood tall beneath Syrelle's Realm. I was not just a Magus.
I am Lucifer, grandson of my grandmother. Born again on my own terms, not at random. And I was done playing like this was some game.