The Windcrest Clan Compound, Town of Oakhaven
The training yard of the Windcrest Clan was loud. The sound of clashing wood and shouted orders filled the air.
Lorian kept his head down. He scrubbed a stained practice leather with rough, efficient movements.
Lorian was one of the many common members of the Windcrest Clan, a low-ranking family in a small town.
Born to kind but ultimately powerless parents who died in a border skirmish when he was a child, he was a burden on the clan; with no inheritance, no political connections, and–as he grew older–no magical talent or Knightly potential.
As such, he occupied the lowest possible rung in the clan's hierarchy, treated as a useless drain on resources and relegated to the most despised chores, a ghost tolerated only out of hollow obligation.
Across the yard, Kael held court. He was the clan leader's son. He moved through a basic footwork drill from the Knight Manual. A group of younger cousins watched him with awe.
"See? You plant your foot. You channel the lifeforce. You push!" Kael exploded forward. His practice sword struck a wooden post with a solid crack.
Lorian flinched but did not look up. He was eighteen. At his age, most clan youths showed some spark. A flicker of magic.
A stir of inner energy for the Knight's path. Lorian had nothing. His body was a barren field. He was a null. A void.
"Hey, Null!" a voice called. It was Bren, one of Kael's followers. "Fetch us some water. This is thirsty work."
Lorian set down his brush. Two years ago, when he still had some hope of being a Knight, he might have argued. Now, he simply nodded. Dignity was a luxury he could not afford. Compliance meant he would eat that night.
He walked to the well. As he drew water, he heard their conversation.
"That Gutter-tusk Boar in the Ironwood Forest is bold," Kael said. "Old Man Hemlock says it's big. Its core would be worth a lot."
"A monster hunt?" Bren asked. "We would need bait."
There was a heavy silence. Lorian felt their eyes on his back.
"The Null could do it," Kael said, his tone casual. "He's quick when he's running. If he gets gored, the clan's expenses go down. If he doesn't, we get a core."
Lorian's knuckles turned white on the rope. This was his value. A tool to be used and discarded. Kael and Bren were opportunists. They would sacrifice him for a sliver of Kael's favor.
Yet, a small hope flickered in his chest. A monster core. Even a small share could be enough. Enough to leave Oakhaven. Enough to start a life where no one knew his name.
He brought the water over. Kael drank deeply and splashed the rest on his face. He did not look at Lorian.
"We leave at dawn, Null," Kael said. "Be at the gates. Don't be late."
The Ironwood Forest, outskirts of Oakhaven
The forest was a place of deep shadows. Lorian walked ahead, his heart pounding. Kael, Bren, and another boy named Roric followed far behind.
"Just get its attention," Kael had said. "Lead it to the rocks. We will be waiting. It will be easy."
Lorian knew it was a lie. He was pragmatic, not stupid. But hope was a potent drug.
He found the boar's wallow. The stench was overwhelming. Then he saw it. A mountain of muscle and rage. Tusks like curved daggers. It was more than twice the size Kael described, not something that Apprentice Knights or Stage 1 Mages could hunt.
His courage shattered. This was not a hunt. It was an execution.
He turned to run. His foot snapped a branch.
The Gutter-tusk Boar's head snapped up. Its small black eyes found him. It charged.
Lorian ran for his life. He zigzagged through the trees. The boar's enraged squeals filled his ears. He screamed for Kael. For help.
He burst into a small clearing. He risked a glance back.
He saw them. Kael and the others were at the edge of the clearing. They were not preparing an attack. Instead, as soon as they caught a glimpse of the huge boar, they were running. Kael's face held a vicious grin when he turned back.
"Keep it occupied, Null! Do something right for once!" Kael yelled. He did not move.
The betrayal was a cold knife in his gut. He was always just the bait. The disposable one. They wanted to run away by sacrificing his life.
The realization made him stumble. He fell. The air left his lungs. A sharp pain lanced through his side.
The boar slowed to a trot. It snorted. It lowered its head for the final charge.
Lorian dragged himself backward through the mud. His hands scraped over roots and leaves. This was his worth. A storyless death in the mud.
No.
The thought was a final, silent scream. Not like this. I do not want to die weak. I want power, power to stand up for myself, power to make something of my life. I want to never be afraid again.
As he crawled through the mud with his eyes closed, his fingers closed around something cold and solid. A shard of metal. A broken hilt.
His desperation poured out of him. His rage. His vast hunger for power.
The world answered.
A jolt shot up his arm. The dark stain on the metal pulsed.
The boar lunged.
The stain liquefied. A single droplet of ancient blood seeped into a cut on his palm.
Agony. Visions of a falling giant. A sword stroke that cut through stars. Then, silence.
A grey rectangle flickered before his eyes.
[Weapon Symbiosis Established]
[Host Designation: Lorian]
[Weapon Designation: [REDACTED] Status: Ruined]
[Core Function: Feedback Loop Active]
The boar was in mid air. Lorian did not think. He swung the broken hilt.
There was no clash. Just a faint, clean shink.
The massive boar parted perfectly down the middle. Two halves thudded to the ground. The cut was smooth as glass.
Lorian lay in the mud, gasping. He stared at the carnage. He looked at the broken metal in his hand. It felt like his.
The grey screen flickered.
[Feedback Received: Basic Swordsmanship Proficiency Increased. Minimal Physical Reinforcement Applied.]
A warmth spread through his body. The pain in his ribs faded. He felt a new strength in his limbs. It was small, but it was real.
He looked at the sword in a daze and then looked at the sky. He couldn't process what had just happened yet, but a cold understanding settled in his soul.
He lay there, the coppery scent of blood and damp earth thick in his throat, and stared at the broken metal in his hand. It was no longer a separate object. It was a part of him, a cold, hungry weight that felt more like home than the clan's compound ever had. The impossible truth of what had just happened settled over him, not with warmth, but with the chilling finality of a sealed pact.
He had not been saved. He had not been chosen.
He had made a transaction with something ancient. A bargain struck not in words, but in blood, desperation, and a hunger so vast it had echoed across ages to find an answer. He had offered his deepest, most desperate desire for power, and the thing in the rusted steel had accepted. The cost was yet unknown, but the first payment–the boar's life–had been delivered.
He stared at the two halves of the monster, then at the rusted shard in his hand. The reality of it was too immense, too impossible to process. A disbelieving laugh, thin and shaky, escaped his lips. Was this a dream? A final hallucination before death?
But the new strength humming in his veins was real. The fading ache in his ribs was real. The metallic scent of blood filling the air was violently, undeniably real.