“On the road to perfection, a warrior travels not by compromise.”

- The Living Sword by Fen Vaigorus circa 520 AC.

The aged man pondered the peculiar turn of events, wondering what had possessed him to act in such a manner. Was it some lingering trace of the prophetic visions that had haunted him in a past life, or had he succumbed to the wiles of a capricious strand of fate?

A myriad of memories flooded his mind, threatening to overwhelm the present with the weight of the past. With a heavy heart, he retrieved a stool and settled by the counter, exhaling a long sigh filled with the burden of his accumulated years. But the breath soon devolved into a deep, guttural cough, ominous and foreboding. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, a sure sign of his impending doom.

The old man was well aware that his time was drawing to a close, a long-anticipated death that no potion or remedy under his command could forestall. Perhaps there existed a priest of sufficient power at one of the Great Temples, if the ancient ways still held sway in this age. But such a path lay beyond his means, and he dismissed the thought as an idle fancy. Death had long since lost its veil of terror and mystery, for he had died and been reborn countless times.

It was the reawakening of his oldest and most formidable foe that had triggered the unsealing of his memories. The mere presence of his enemy had activated the mental triggers that encircled his soul, lifting the pall of confusion that had shrouded his recollections of the past millennia.

He greeted his adversary as one might greet an old friend, with a familiarity born of a long history of conflict and struggle across the ages. So very tired was he, weary beyond measure. For even the mightiest of human souls were not fashioned for the curse of eternity, nor the burden of safeguarding an entire race.

The old man laughed to himself. Hero—they had bestowed upon him the title that carried the weight of the world, the burden of all their hopes and dreams. But in truth, it was nothing more than a mantle of responsibility that they had thrust upon his shoulders, to absolve themselves of their own guilt. Still, he loved them. All of them. For he had been all things, from the humblest of peasants to the most-powerful of emperors. Humanity had needed a god, and he had walked among them and answered the prayers of a thousand voices with fire and newly-discovered cold iron. At the height of his power, he challenged even the dark shadow cast by the wings of the ancient dragons.

Tired, so tired. He wished his time upon the wheel would end. It was a selfish thing, but this time he would no longer place the weight of one life against the needs of the many. For the first time in centuries, the old consciousness felt a glimmer of an old emotion - hope.

A scant few days ago, he had tasted some of the memories of his old enemy, the Great Hunger. Like himself, his enemy had paid the price of the long years, growing lax and weak, his mental defenses nothing more than paper against the old Alchemist’s storm. However, what he saw filled him with a budding hope for a final victory - his adversary, the man that had walked into his shop looking for his humble potions, was a human. His enemy for the first time had chosen a human incarnation. Humanity did not need borrowed magic to thrive. He saw it in the memories of his foe, of a people that could conquer the stars themselves. All that humanity needed was to be tested, to stand on its own two feet without the meddling of false gods. The people of the North had been correct all along.

His enemy’s victory would spell the death of this world. Eventually. But it would mean the death of all magic in this world first, and more importantly, the end of the other races who were fatally-attuned to the song of Mana. It was an ending that would be measured in eons, a good bargain if there ever was one. It would conclude his endless cycle of death and rebirth and give him the sweet silence of the void. Furthermore, it would permit a free and unfettered humanity to reign supreme without any contest.

The ancient covenants that bound his soul could not be directly denied, but they could be bent to serve his purpose. He could not help an avatar of the Great Hunger, but there was nothing binding him not to accept his enemy’s help. Providence had provided the most-convincing of coincidences.

Instincts and memory honed through countless ages spiked in warning as he sensed a new unwelcome presence. Sending tendrils of thought out into the night, he could taste single-minded murder in the air. Murder of the child of their prophecy. His adopted daughter in all but name. This he would not stand. He had burned whole kingdoms in ages past for a similar slight.

He took a simple unmarked blade from under the counter. It was an unremarkable thing of only passing quality. Almost the length of a grown man’s stride, it had a worn leather grip for both single and two-handed use, and was topped with a simple straight guard that protected the hands. The dull, heavy gray, single-edged blade had no fuller and ended in a sharp tip that could be adequately used for a thrust. Its thick spine gave the blade some heft, and a plain leaden pommel gave a reasonable balance. It was a workman’s weapon. Nothing more, nothing less.

He lit a candle in his shop, the many lives he had lived superimposing themselves for a moment against his current reality with this simple action, and sighed once more at what could not be. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the tent into the dull glow of the city, old eyes straining against the gloom. The man cursed himself slightly as his eyes adjusted. The moon was a thin crescent in the sky, a blade moon in the old tongue.

From the purple darkness at the edges of the glow of light that ringed his shop, seven shapes appeared, confident and sure, all pretense of stealth put aside in the presence of a simple old man clutching a common sword.

From the way they carried themselves, as the grass was green, they were of the First Children. They were of the elves.

“Where is the girl, day spawn? We know that she is your ward.” said a feminine voice, musical and lilting in the common tongue. Her tone was at odds with the threat implied. Even in the poor light, her golden beauty almost shone like a beacon. It took a master’s skill to suppress the tic of annoyance that suddenly flared within him.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The old man simply smiled in mock stupidity, causing the voice’s owner to quiver in suppressed frustration. So hasty were the young, he observed. So easily-provoked. He would have to draw this out for as long as he could.

“It would be well for you to tell us what we need to know,” said a sure voice, a touch deeper. Steady, from a veteran of a hundred battles. And, like the old man, the voice sounded tired.

The elderly man adjusted his dirty spectacles and looked over the man, for it was a man, the wider shoulders and thicker muscles spoke of this truth. In the beggar’s light of the moon, he cut a fine figure, his features marred only by a jagged scar that ran across his face. A traveler's cloak of fine quality hid most of his form, but the man could draw from the well of deep experience, and he could see that this group was finely-equipped and armored.

However, what caught his attention, in truth, was not the scarred man, but the weapon that he fingered at his side. The grip was delicate and well-made, with a heavy metal pommel. Running along the top half of the scabbard was inscribed the ancient design of the mantis.

“Please… I am just a humble Alchemist. I know naught of what you speak!” said the old man, adding a rasping cough to help bolster his show of weakness.

“I grow tired of this… we are wasting our time here. End this thing and we will follow her spoor with another…” said the golden one, frustration lacing her tone.

“I would know what it takes to earn a mantis-marked blade in this age,” said the old man in perfect Elven, mocking the threat he faced with a stupid smile still plastered on his face. On the inside, he seethed. His forbearance was at its limit.

Suddenly, there was a rasping of metal, as swords left scabbards and glinted silver in the night. The man could not help but smile; it took so little to provoke the young in their haste.

The scarred man commandingly held up a hand, his sword still resting in its marked scabbard, stopping the group.

“I find it hard to believe that one among the day spawn could learn our words so well in a single lifetime,” he said to the old alchemist in Elvish, testing, his voice filled with uncertainty.

“I find it hard to believe that standards have fallen so low… for a boy to bear the sword of a master,” the old man countered, seeking to stir an ember of anger.

“Hahaha! The jest of the day spawn is ever the source of amusement. Too long have I had to hold my tongue. Lorsan, let this animal have the honor of wetting your sword with his lesser blood,” responded the blonde elf, voice aristocratic and full of imperious command, in her native tongue. Her ethereal beauty was wasted as it twisted in harsh spite.

“My lady Arimea…” the scarred elf Lorsan began in rebuttal.

“Ever have I heeded your counsel. You will not ignore the insult to your school and you WILL not ignore this command,” her voice rising as she fumed.

“As you wish, my lady,” sighed Lorsan as he acquiesced. He looked at the old man before him with regret before addressing him, “You probably will not comprehend, but I will make this as quick as can be. Your short lives are already filled with so much pain.”

“The wolf does not grieve the hare’s death,” said the Alchemist, quoting himself from a bygone age.

The scarred elf’s reaction was instantaneous and ferocious. With the speed of thrown lightning, he closed the distance and drew his sword with a master’s smoothness. The delicately-curved blade drew a silvery arc in the night that aimed to part the old man’s head from his shoulders.

The elf suddenly looked incredulous, as his blade met nothing but air. Next, a sharp crude thing, filled with the pathetic human’s murderous intent, descended upon him in a swift counterstroke. Mortal-forged steel met god-metal in a clash of sparks that sang into the night. What master smiths would say would be a poor contest of blades was instead an even match. For even the simplest of weapons, when wielded by a true master, is the deadliest.

For the first time in centuries, the Elven swordmaster felt the niggling essence of doubt grow fresh in the pit of his gut, as he was suddenly on the back foot. It was not a welcome feeling, and he focused completely on his defense, attempting to weave a pattern of silvered metal to keep his opponent at bay.

Suddenly his eyes lit in recognition, a tale told in the blood of elven shame. He spat out a curse in desperation, “It is the Hwanda Heveni, the sum of all men! Help me, you fools!”

Unused to being commanded, the leader glared, before she started to chant, her voice growing serious as she sang to the spirits, threading their Mana into the shape of a spell. The old man merely smiled and raised a hand and spoke the words of power that gave shape to his rejection of her Control. Her spell died on her lips and she could only look on with shock at the challenge continuing to unfold.

The others had added their own weapons to the contest of steel; though not of the precious god-metal, their arms were finely-crafted, and their blade song almost as deadly. Still, they were lesser weapons, wielded by those who thought themselves more than men. It did not make a difference, as the old man simply weaved among them with a confidence born of the mastery of the years. His forgotten skills blossomed into a flurry of strikes, light as a petal but with the weight of the centuries behind each blow.

The old man seemed to know what they would do almost before they did it, as if reading their minds. His control of the circle of his weapon was peerless, his form without compare. The old man had tapped into the Berserk, a violent thing that fed off mankind’s most primal nature, drawing every last ounce of strength from his failing body. All who walked the path of the Berserk were taught to hold back the seething lava of their hot rage, to retain some vestige of control of their actions. They were wrong of course, he thought to himself; you had to stoke the flame so high that it turned white-blue, cold, and calculating.

But this incarnation was not young, and his body, already near death, was flagging. He did not care one whit. He just needed to make sure that he slowed or weakened them as much as possible to give his ward a chance. His soul sang in joy at finally being able to fight for its own selfish reasons.

He surprised one of the elves by hitting them with Lotus Palm, one of the open-handed techniques of a style long lost to the mists of time. The force of the blow was transmitted through armor and ruptured the internal organs of his target. The hapless elf died coughing on his blood, the shock of his failure distorting the features of his handsome face. The old man surprised another with a prepared spell, causing the earth at the elf’s feet to grow slick, and she all but fell on the alchemist’s blade. Yet another he simply brained with the back of his sword, the heavy spine of his blade smashing against a hidden helm.

With the last of his strength, he aimed a dolorous blow at the elven swordmaster, bursting through his guard and sheathing his weapon in the elf’s gut. Then, suddenly he felt a sharp stab of pain from behind as the last of his strength left him. He had forgotten to pay attention to the Spellsinger. A weak smile crossed his face as he looked down to see the spike of ice erupting out of his chest. Hamsa the Alchemist’s last thoughts, in this turn of the wheel, were filled with regret and grim satisfaction as the flame he had started finally caught and his shop went up in a burst of alchemical fire, a beacon for the rest of the city.