Ronin fell to his knees, collapsing upon the ground.
He sank deep into the muddy, rain-soaked soil. The muck covered his armor, caking it, coating the bends and bevels in the Entropic steel. His armor, that had cost a king’s ransom, that was one-of-a-kind, made for him and him alone by the legendary Muramasa, finest smith in all the Empire. A masterpiece, covered in dirt and grime.
It suited him.
Blood hemorrhaged violently from the stump that was once his arm. It was the first time in his life that he’d felt true pain, and the sensation was impossible to describe. It was a scorching, throbbing, piercing feeling, burning hot and cold all at once, coursing through the whole of his body, paralyzing him from within.
But the physical agony was nothing compared to the contemplation of what would follow.
Ronin grit his teeth hard, too hard, so hard they cracked and shattered, only to heal a moment later. He did it again, and again, and again. The shards of broken enamel filled his mouth, cutting and slicing his gums and cheeks, bringing with them the salty-sweet taste of his own divine blood.
It wasn’t enough to distract him.
With his remaining hand, despairingly, he reached out and felt the fleshy lump that had once been his dominant arm. A clean cut. Like a pane of glass. His muscles were as tough as iron, and his bones harder still, even the soft skin and connective tissue impervious to mundane blades. But as he felt the shorn tendons and sliced nerve endings, the pain was already forgotten. His mind, his whole world, was consumed by three words, and the terrible reality they represented.
It wasn’t healing.
It wasn’t fucking healing.
The legends were true, and his life was over. Finished. Done. He’d never swing a sword again.
Ronin started to cry.
He’d lived for nearly one hundred years, and he’d spent just about every single one of them training. Every night, every day. The heavens had granted his older sister myriad talents, a genius in so many disciplines, the shining star of the Empire.
But he’d only had this. Only ever this.
And it didn’t come naturally, either. For his father, violence was as easy as drawing breath. For his father, the overwhelming power was already there. The struggle was to control, to keep one’s self whole. Not so, for Ronin. He’d had to work tirelessly, ceaselessly. He’d done nothing else.
It wasn’t enough.
He’d had access to the best resources in all the nation. The best trainers, tutors, academics. The best weapons and armor, the few non-corruptive Relics the Empire possessed. If it could help him, he had it.
It wasn’t enough.
He’d killed countless Blessed, even an Immortal or two. He’d dueled the Empire’s strongest servants and left them broken and bleeding. His mentors had praised his efforts. They’d lauded his dedication, paraded him before the whole of the continent, proclaimed him the living embodiment of hard work’s triumph over talent. The premier personification of their nation’s maxim; that although only a few were born lucky, with enough effort, anyone could be great.
He’d hated that.
It’d felt like pity, and he hated pity. But his sister had praised him, too. And his father had, too. And that had felt good. So good. But it still wasn’t enough.
He still couldn’t reach the Body stage.
Unlike his sister, unlike his father, he’d been stuck at nineteen. Stuck for years, for decades. His inspiration, it seemed, simply refused to reveal itself. And so, he’d had no choice. He’d been out of options.
But still, he’d been a fool.
After all, he’d thought, who better to give him inspiration with the sword than the Titan that served as its namesake? Dainsleif was easy to track, and it ranged across the entire earth. All he’d had to do was wait, and intercept it. So he had.
What a fucking stupid idea.
The best sword, the best armor, the best enchantments, the best Relics, and nearly one hundred years training with the best experts in all the Empire.
For a battle that lasted all of ten seconds.
It hadn’t even been a real battle. The creature disarmed him with the very first stroke, and crippled him with the second. Groaning in pain and despair, Ronin looked up, and beheld his adversary.
The Sword Titan stared down at him, impassive as ever.
The creature might have copied the shape of man, but it was more statue than human. Gold and white, like gilded marble. Thin and lithe, with an intricately crafted body. It was beautiful, the kind of work that humanity could never hope to reproduce, the kind that only the Heavens, or perhaps the Hells, were capable of. Two holes in its otherwise featureless mask regarded him from above.
And of course, in its right hand, it held a sword.
Ronin cast his eyes downward, incapable of holding the Titan’s gaze. He wept loudly, plaintively. What did it matter? There were no humans around to hear him, not for miles. Heaving sobs wracked his body, shaking him from tip to toe, as thick tears poured down his face.
This was more than just a disappointment. How had it all gone so wrong? All he’d wanted was to do it once, for once, just for once in his life.
To live up to his father.
Snarling up at his maimer in equal parts vengeful fury and crippling fear, he screamed at the Sword Titan.
“COME ON!”
He flinched back instantly, subconsciously, shame coursing through his veins as a deep-seated terror told him to. But Dainsleif didn’t move an inch. The Titan just stared at him, indifferently, casually.
Like he wasn’t worth the effort.
Ronin’s face contorted in grief and rage.
“Come on!” He roared, again.
The Titan remained motionless.
“Come on, you fucking…you fucking BEAST!” Ronin bellowed. “Fucking DEVIL! Just do it! Just fucking DO IT!”
Dainsleif didn’t move.
“KILL ME!” He cried.
It still didn’t move.
“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!”
Ronin’s outcry devolved into a series of harsh coughs, his voice hoarse from shouting.
He panted heavily, each breath vacuuming his high emotion, leaving him emptier and emptier.
The rain fell slowly, gently, the soft pitter-patter oddly soothing to him. The falling drops mixed in with his tears, running in streams along his face to splash upon the muddy ground below.
Ronin’s head drooped, body sagging. He felt bereft of life.
He watched absently as the raindrops impacted tiny puddles cratering the soggy field, forming little waves that disturbed their peace. He shook his head.
“Just finish it,” he croaked.
“I don’t…I don’t want another failure.”
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He screwed his eyes shut firmly, tightly, desperately, but the tears still accompanied his words.
“I don’t want to…to go home. I don’t want to see the look on Father’s face. I…I don’t think I could bear it.”
He felt dizzy. The bloodloss, no doubt.
“He wouldn’t punish me, though. I know he wouldn’t. I’m not worried about that.”
Ronin laughed, mirthlessly, shaking his head once more.
“He wouldn’t be mad. Not my father. No, he’d…he’d pity me.” He grit his teeth tightly, though this time not enough to shatter them.
“And that’s…that’s so much worse.”
Ronin turned to look up at the Titan’s emotionless face, searchingly, staring it right in the inhuman eyes.
“Do you know, do you know what it’s like? To have your whole fucking life be about the one thing you cannot do? Can you even imagine it? To try so, SO hard, and still…”
He trailed off, the words dying on his lips.
He swallowed, gulping, and fixed the Titan with a stare he hoped was more fearless than he felt.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just die.”
Ronin stared at the lifeless creature for a while, before groaning and turning away.
“The fuck am I even saying? Talking to a Titan…as if you can fucking hear me. As if you can fucking understand me. Must be losing my mind.”
Ronin giggled, startling himself, still quasi-delirious. Then he stared.
The Sword Titan had started to move.
But not towards him. Instead, the creature walked smoothly over to his own discarded katana, and picked it up. Dainsleif examined the blade for a moment, before depositing its own weapon in the air, where it remained, floating motionlessly, fixed in space.
The Sword Titan grasped Ronin’s katana with both hands, and took a stance.
But not just any stance. HIS stance. The one he’d practiced all his life, the one he’d spent decades developing and refining. Dainsleif stood parallel to him, legs spread evenly apart, knees bent ever so slightly.
Its body was relaxed, easy. It held his blade loosely in both hands.
Then, it started to dance.
It did so slowly, at first. Moving through his many sword forms at a glacial pace, but so fluidly, so naturally, that it didn’t look like a living, breathing creature at all.
It looked like a leaf, light and airy, weightless, playing with the wind. A stream, flowing smoothly down a mountain. A celestial body, pulled steadfastly by the universe.
A twitch of hips, a flicker of motion, and the Titan struck.
But it didn’t hurt him.
Many hundreds of feet away, a tree was chopped in half.
The creature was using his own Blessing, Spatial Slash. An impossibility. Dainsleif couldn’t copy powers, only the Vile possessed that ability.
The Titan started to speed up.
Its movements became a blur, executing countless combinations in perfect sequence. Complex maneuvers, bodily contortions that Ronin had dedicated decades to implementing. But the Titan wasn’t just reciting them.
It was improving them. Evolving them.
Bridging gaps in the sequence Ronin had never known existed. Adding steps and twists and turns that he’d be incapable of even imagining. Impossibly advanced moves that Ronin had barely reached competency in after a century of torturous work, the Titan perfected effortlessly.
It sliced with the speed of lightning. It pirouetted with the grace of a ballerina. It flicked the sword like a conductor’s baton.
All around Ronin, for leagues in every direction, slashes appeared.
Individual leaves were perfectly bisected. Rocks were cut in two. Great rents were drawn gracefully in the slurried earth. Ronin looked about himself, and saw an image begin to take shape.
The halved leaves and cleaved trees and bifurcated boulders were somehow arranging themselves in a great work of art, falling in line with the scoured soil to produce some manner of shape. It was an intricate symbol, though unknowable to him, and impossible to fully view from upon the ground.
Suddenly, Dainsleif froze.
Ronin froze with it, captivated by the Titan’s dance, overcome by a burning need to behold the sequence’s end, the penultimate expression of his own blessing.
The Sword Titan raised Ronin’s katana high, and brought it ever so slowly, ever so gently, down.
SPATIAL SLASH
The tranquil rain petered out, the soft pitter-patter of falling drops quieting until they could no longer be heard at all.
Dainsleif relaxed its posture. The Sword Titan bowed once to him, lowering his katana respectfully to the ground.
“WAI–”
With a clap of thunder, it was gone.
“–T!,” Ronin cried desperately. He hadn’t seen the last strike!
He looked around the muddy field wretchedly, searching for its location, finding nothing at all.
Despairing, he raised his face to the sky, and his eyes widened.
The sky had cleared, the rain clouds parted, bisected in a perfect cut that carried for miles and miles in each direction. From above, the midday sun shined brilliantly down upon the fallen warrior, illuminating the muddied field.
Its incandescence bathed his weary, crippled form with warmth and comfort.
A single, final tear dropped down his face.
-Imperial Prince Ronin the Disciple.
~~~
Title: Curseblade Dainsleif.
Also known as: The Knight, the Noble, the Sword Titan and Devilsbane.
Activity: Frequent.
Area: Worldwide.
Bio: Dainsleif is the 8th Titan, born at some unknown point in time between 167 and 290 AC, during the period known only as the Arrival. The Titan takes the form of an approximately 8 foot tall humanoid composed entirely of white and gold marble with no distinguishing features, no face or hair, and a single aureate character upon the exact center of its forehead.
This character appears to roughly match the shape of a ‘T,’ and Thinkers suggest it stands for Tiwaz, an antiquated norse rune dating back to the Pre-Collapse era. According to them, the symbol conveys multiple different meanings in its original dialect, such as ‘Law,’ ‘Justice,’ or ‘Warrior.’ Despite its apparently nordic origin, this rune cannot be replicated by Grimnir. However, the 8th Titan’s true form is not humanoid at all. Rather, it is, in reality, the ornate sword that the creature carries in its hand.
Dainsleif is a deadly memetic weapon.
It can cut through any object regardless of composition. The wounds it delivers to flesh will never heal, even in the case of the most potent regenerators, though they may scar over. Limbs it cuts off will never regrow, and prostheses put in their place, be they runic or cybernetic, will not function.
Dainsleif’s proficiency is in single combat. The Titan will approach a settlement, army, or group, and plant its sword into the ground, issuing forth a great sound, at which point it will remain in place for a period of 1 hour. If the receiving party does not respond within this duration, Dainsleif will slaughter all those present bearing arms or Blessings. If the receiving party attempts to retreat, Dainsleif will slaughter all those present bearing arms or Blessings. If the receiving party attempts to overwhelm Dainsleif via an army of combatants, Dainsleif will multiply to match the number of those dispatched. After defeating the army, the multiplied Dainsleifs will slaughter all those present bearing arms or Blessings, usually very quickly.
If the receiving party sends a single challenger, Dainsleif will duel them, most often to the death, and always to grievous injury. In the case that they send someone neither armed nor Blessed, Dainsleif will ignore the challenger and continue the countdown. As such, sending mundane slaves or servants rarely acts as a viable strategy to delay the Sword Titan. Presumably, if Dainsleif lost this duel, it would retreat. Ultimately, though, this is merely a supposition, as Dainsleif has never lost a recorded duel.
Following the Titan’s victory, one of two things will happen. Either Dainsleif will arrest its efforts and leave the area, or it will plant its sword into the earth once more and the 1 hour countdown will be reset. If the countdown is reset in this manner, the cycle shall continue until Dainsleif retreats of its own volition.
Dainsleif has been known to duel parties down to the last combatant, and to leave after only dueling once. Some postulate that the number of duels correlates directly to the Titan’s satisfaction with the combat proficiency of dispatched challengers. Others contend that Dainsleif selects specific targets and will not leave until it has dueled them. Although evidence exists to support both these hypotheses, neither has been conclusively proven.
As a warning to those encountering this Titan in the future, no attempt should be made to destroy Dainsleif’s humanoid body from afar. In the case of attacking the sword’s body, by any means outside of single combat, Dainsleif will make no moves to defend itself, regardless of injury. However, if its form is destroyed entirely, the sword will enter a Breaker state where it exceeds mach 1 and kills indiscriminately, even those not armed or Blessed.
No records exist of individuals surviving an encounter with the Titan in its Breaker form.
Personality: It is understandable to me that so many have taken to calling Dainsleif the “Noble Titan.” Though undoubtedly a ruthless murderer, the death toll under Dainsleif is a pittance compared to the genocide its siblings visit upon our kind. And though its outward demeanor may appear emotionless, there is a sort of honor to Dainsleif’s manner. The Titan seems to preferentially target those committing what it considers dishonorable acts; such as slavers, murderers, bandits and the corrupt in general.
Although the Titan’s edge has been documented parting even the most durable materials with little difficulty, it fights charitably. When faced with even the most decaying wooden shield or rusted axe, it will not chip a single splinter from the wood, nor will it mark a single notch in the steel. Instead, Dainsleif will parry, block, and outmaneuver its opponents, treating their weapons with great respect. Though it has demonstrated great strength and speed, it will scale these to its adversary, only ever staying one step ahead of them.
Dainsleif never plays, or toys, with its opponents. It takes duels seriously and, if the Titan is going to kill, it does so quickly and mercifully. Dainsleif displays a great enmity for Beelzebub, and will combat the Vile Titan whenever and wherever they encounter one another. During these confrontations, Dainsleif recognizes Beelzebub with no apparent difficulty, regardless of the latter’s current form. Though Beelzebub may temporarily resist the Sword Titan, it will always retreat in the end.
It should be noted that Beelzebub has never demonstrated any animosity, in return, towards the Sword Titan.
-Excerpt from A Treatise on the Nature and Manner of Titans for Internal Circulation by Chief Chronicler Axio.