Down streets choked with life, Lacerta saw the dead. They weren't truly dead, not yet, but they lined the alleyways like discarded things, their bodies whittled down to bone and regret. They were ghosts haunting their own skin, and the sight of them was an offense. A weakness.
He did not stop. He did not offer the only coin he had nor a glance. He only felt the familiar, unyielding hum of the words that seemed to remain in his psyche.
The Strong devour the Weak.
It was the first and only law. Strength, for him, had been as simple as closing his hand around the hilt of a blade. Therefore, these creatures had chosen this. Their misery was a self-inflicted wound. But the question, sharp and unwelcome, still pierced his certainty: If the path to power was so clear, how could so many fail to walk it?
Was it a sickness of the spirit? A poverty of will?
The thought was a loose stone in the foundation of his world.
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He found the blacksmith's forge by following the sound—a heartbeat of steel on steel that echoed through the stone city.
The world inside was fire and shadow. A blast of heat hit him like a punch the moment he'd entered, and the air tasted of smoke and metal. Through the shimmering haze, he saw the counter, and beyond it, the blinding glow of the hearth. He moved to the counter, his presence as silent and unnoticed as a gathering shadow.
The symphony of the forge played on. Hammer. Anvil.
Then, silence.
The hammer ceased its song. A giant emerged from the inferno, his face a landscape of soot and sweat. He loomed over the counter, his eyes, sharp, fixing on Lacerta.
A deep, gravelly voice cut through the sudden quiet.
Blacksmith: ["Goodness boy. Did you spring from the floorboards? How long you been waiting here?"]
With a boyish shrug, Lacerta tilted his head.
Lacerta: ["Couldn't say. I wasn't exactly counting."]
The blacksmith's curious gaze lingered on the boy until he leaned a burly, soot-stained forearm on the worn wooden counter, the wood groaning under his weight before he let out a heavy sigh that smelled of coal and iron.
Blacksmith: ["Well, it ain't often I get kids stormin' into my forge. So, what'll it be?"]
Lacerta's hand shot into his pocket. He produced a single gold coin, placing it on the counter where it caught the flickering firelight from the back of the shop, a lonely sun in the gloom.
Lacerta: ["What can I get for this?"]
The blacksmith grunted, stroking his thick, braided beard. His eyes fixed on the glint of gold.
Blacksmith: ["A gold piece, eh? Hmph. Assumin' it's a weapon you're after, I've got a few decent blades that might catch your eye. Come."]
Lacerta followed, trailing in the large man's shadow. They stalked past the roaring furnace, a beast of fire and heat that seemed to scream with every billow of flame. The blacksmith led him to a heavy oak door at the far end of the workshop, pulling it open on groaning hinges.
Blacksmith: ["Take your pick from anything in there. Ought to run you about a gold coin."]
Lacerta: ["Right. Thanks."]
With a nod, Lacerta stepped over the threshold, and the roar of the forge was instantly muffled. He was plunged into a cool, quiet room that smelled of oil and cold steel. It was less a showroom and more a metal graveyard. He had to navigate a tangled forest of blades, the sharp edges of abandoned projects and forgotten wares glinting in the dim light.
This was clearly just a storage room.
He crouched, his fingers brushing against the handle of a one-handed axe, its design vaguely similar to one Glenn might wield. He hefted it, found its weight alien and clumsy, and tossed it aside with a dull clatter.
What was he even looking for?
A sword, obviously. But there were so many kinds, right?
Lacerta: ["Hmmm..."]
His hand found the hilt of a short sword. He gave it a few experimental swings, slicing silently through the dusty air. The balance felt wrong, the blade too eager to dip. He discarded it, too.
He repeated the process, a frustrating ritual of picking up, testing, and rejecting. A broadsword too heavy, a rapier too light, none of them seemed to feel right at all...
Was this blacksmith just a fraud, peddling nothing but ill-forged junk? Doubt began to coil in his gut.
And then, just as his search felt hopeless, he saw it.
Tucked away beneath a pile of shields and spearheads, almost completely hidden, lay a sliver of polished steel. It wasn't just another weapon; something about its silent form seemed to gain Lacerta's full focus, pulling his gaze, his very being, toward it.
He carefully unearthed it. And after pulling it free from the scabbard it revealed a sleek, single-edged blade with a subtle, elegant curve. It had a simple circular guard and a long grip wrapped in dark cord, perfectly suited for one hand or two.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a jolt went through him. His vision flashed and.... he blinked.
He was swinging it. In the dark, formless landscape of his mind, he saw the arc of the blade—a silver crescent cutting through nothingness. Again and again and again, an endless repetition of a motion he'd never performed yet felt as natural as breathing. He didn't know how many times the vision repeated, only that when it faded and his eyes reopened, a profound certainty settled over him.
He had found exactly what he was looking for.
Lacerta emerged from the storeroom, the new sword held loosely at his side. He passed the searing heat of the furnace and stepped back into the relative cool of the main shop.
The blacksmith was seated in a rickety chair, but his eyes snapped open at the sound of Lacerta's footsteps. His gaze immediately locked onto the weapon, his expression shifting from bored indifference to sharp, appraising interest.
Blacksmith: ["An interesting choice for a little lad. You from Kararagi, by any chance?"]
Lacerta simply shook his head, his focus still on the blade in his hand. The blacksmith grunted and pushed himself to his feet, walking back to the counter.
Blacksmith: ["Well, regardless. You've got a keen eye. I didn't forge that katana for selling... more of a private project. But it seems to have found a home with you, so I'll let it slide this time around. I can always make another."]
Lacerta: ["A katana..."]
He whispered the word, tasting its unfamiliar shape. He ran a thumb over the circular guard, feeling the solid craftsmanship that went into making it.
Blacksmith: ["She'll be more durable than most of the weapons in that room back there so you definitely picked wisely. Certainly better than that piece of scrap metal on your hip too. You can toss that old thing away. Now pay up, and be on your way."]
Lacerta nodded, his eyes never leaving his new blade. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the gold coin, and with a deft flick of his thumb, sent it spinning through the air. The blacksmith caught it in his massive, calloused palm without even looking.
As Lacerta stepped from the grimy workshop and back out into the populated streets, the blacksmith's final, gravelly words echoed behind him.
Blacksmith: ["And don't go choppin' off yer own arm or somethin' with it!"]
Lacerta paused, a flicker of bewilderment crossing his face as the heavy oak door swung shut, sealing the words within.
Wasn't that just common sense?Why would he even need to tell me that?
He sheathed the katana, the whisper of steel in the scabbard a final, punctuating sound. Shaking his head, he settled the blade on his hip and began to wander back the way he came.
The city was a tapestry of muted sounds and distant smells, a stark contrast to the primal vibrancy of the jungle. He found himself almost missing the taste of Glenn's campfire-cooked meat, a flavor that had become so familiar it was like a second shadow. What culinary wonders did a place like this hold?
Perhaps he would ask Glenn to be his guide once more after he's done with his goal, next time through a world of taverns and kitchens.
He closed his eyes, navigating by sound and instinct, but a sudden wrongness cut through his senses. A void where there should have been noise.
Lacerta: ["...Mh?"]
He opened his eyes to a world scrubbed clean of sound. The silence felt different, no, it felt ominous, something akin to a held breath-.
He kept walking, his gait unchanged, but his senses were screaming. As he turned the corner, he stepped into the aftermath of violence.
A noble's carriage, all black lacquer and splintered wood, was overturned. Its wheels spun lazily in the air, a final, futile motion. Harnessed to the wreck, a great beast whimpered, the very same that he still didn't quite know the name of with an arrow buried deep in its flank. This was a place of ambush, of sudden death.
Three guards in fine armor lay where they had fallen, their blood soaking into the cobblestones. An ornate crest on the carriage door marked the carriage as belonging to someone important.
A few ragged men were trying to force the door, their leader snarling impatiently.
Bandit: ["Faster, you useless curs! Snatch her and let's run away before guards arrive!"]
Lacerta's first instinct was to simply ignore it and keep moving, to let this scene play out as it was meant to. It was not his concern and he had his own objective after all.
A memory, however, rose to stop him.
He saw Glenn, not as his calm guide, but as a warrior, bellowing in grief and rage as his brothers-in-arms were slaughtered by that Elgina.
But that was then. He knew his capabilities now. His hand tightened on the leather grip of his katana.
This would be different.
The Strong rule over the Weak...
So then.... why is he even bothering?