Tossing the Woods Tyrant’s core from hand to hand, Leon felt his own blood ooze over the sphere, the carrier of his natural energy filling the endlessly twisting carved lines upon the item.
He felt he could draw a source of power from within the core, a swirling bundle of energy that must have been the dead creature’s bloodline. That wasn’t what Layla wanted him to do though.
Apparently, this was the first step in teaching him to forge.
“I fail to see how this is cheating.”
Waving him off, Layla snapped her goggles back into place.
“Just keep it in your hand, keep pumping your energy into it. You’ll know when you’ve figured it out. Go deal with your little posse. I’ll be here when you’ve picked up what you need to learn.”
Clenching his fist, Leon turned away.
As a mentor, Layla seemed to favour a more hands-off approach, more like a coach than a teacher.
He could work with that.
What rankled was her appraisal of him.
Deficient.
Despite what he’d thought had been an unbroken string of victories, Leon had allowed aspects of his life to degrade while chasing power.
Now he sought to correct this imbalance.
The heart of the sword lay not in overwhelming power or unrivalled speed, but in the endless forms it could take.
Through adaptability, balance.
From balance, strength.
Checking his ego, Leon made his way to William, the man standing alongside the druid.
Already eight trees bore new purpose, their insides hollowed out, room enough for one to curl up comfortably inside.
Beds made of shaped wood and sheets of woven leaves, dried to form primal coverings with shelving added above the primitive bedding to allow the residents to store their possessions away.
The wooden doors were a pleasant touch, adding that little bit of security and privacy Leon knew people would appreciate.
Most had already taken advantage of a safe place to lay their heads. Only William and the druid- Pierre, that was his name- still outside.
Shaggy hair tied in a double braid, a beard that looked like a bird’s nest and a perpetual amiable smile. Pierre possessed an aura of tranquillity, the kind of man so non-threatening and unmotivated, Leon was surprised he’d survived- the archetypical slacker.
The twigs he carried in his pockets reminded Leon of the man’s fighting style.
He’d used them like throwing knives, the sharpened points sticking into exposed flesh, fresh roots sprouting with a flex of the man’s magical muscles.
The poor victims had been half-plant, half-human when they’d died, with bark for skin and sap for blood, hands frozen in place clawing open their skin, ripping out roots where there had once been veins.
A particularly twisted application of nature magic.
A reminder, no one survived through luck alone.
Clapping the druid on the shoulder, Leon gestured to the man’s work.
“Excellent work Pierre. Colour me impressed. Before you hit the hay, I need a table made in the centre of the clearing.”
If the druid felt any discomfort at being ordered around, he didn’t show it.
“Right on dude. You want like a big fancy schmancy type of deal or like quiet, understated luxury?”
“I’ll settle for functional- whatever’s easiest to make.”
“Most excellent dude. Five minutes, gotta coax the big green boys into giving over that good wood.”
Wandering over to another tree and squatting down in the dirt, Leon observed the process of Pierre sending mana into the tree, communing with it.
When the druid’s eyes closed, Leon met William’s.
“You’re bleeding there, boss.”
“Working on magical bullshit. Ignore it. You’ve come around to me quicker than the rest. Why?”
The younger man choked, a laugh dying in his throat.
“Not one for subtlety are you boss? Like I said- I’d rather be with you than against you. You’re not unreasonable from what I’ve seen, best shot we have of getting out of here is following behind you while you kill anything that gets in the way. The alternative is that I try to kill you- the rest didn’t see your first fight, the one where you used your fists. I did. Don’t fancy my chances or anyone else’s.”
Clear enough reasoning. Good enough, for now.
“Bending with the wind, eh? Smart. Consider yourself my lieutenant, my number two. Make friends. Anything interesting you learn, you feed it up the chain. Don’t bother working any charms on Kong Xia though, I can handle him myself. In exchange, I’ll keep you equipped. Better daggers, better armour, whatever you need and I can reasonably acquire.”
Throwing a hand to his forehead in a mock salute, William allowed a small smirk to cross his features.
“Consider it done.”
“Go, get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Their conversation concluded, William took his leave. Leon turned his attention to the druid, who’d fashioned a table out of what appeared to be a section of trunk he’d extracted.
Balanced atop four wooden poles embedded in the ground, the furniture had a certain rustic charm.
“Thanks, Pierre. Rest well.”
Nodding, the yawning druid entered his own tree, Leon striding over to inspect the table up close.
A woodworker Pierre was not, though his work with this wood would serve Leon’s purposes. A show, a statement. Withdrawing what remained of his food stocks, the table soon carried a feast fit for a king, Leon retaining only the high-calorie chocolate bars for himself.
Scanning the treeline, Leon spotted the flash of movement he’d expected, a pale face darting behind a tree.
“I won’t bite Fred. You can come out now.”
Embarrassment and fear. Mostly fear. The archer’s eyes betrayed him.
“You promised food so, uh, I’m going to take mine to go.”
His blade was at the little weasel’s throat before he could move, one hand still clasping the bloody core, the other keeping his sword’s tip pointed at the archer.
Fred. A simple man in Leon’s eyes. A mix of selfishness, cowardice and ego. Another uncomfortable parallel to himself.
“Three meals. Take any more than that per day Freddy boy and I’ll cut you open, top to tail. You take your food every day, then I want you out of this clearing. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Leon allowed him to gather what he could in his arms, watching the archer retreat into the woods.
He would have no tree house to call his own.
A law not enforced is merely a suggestion. Fred’s decision not to follow Leon had to have material consequences, lest the others decide it was easier to live on their own.
Without other people around to account for himself to, Leon’s bloodline would gain ground in his decision-making, backsliding him into his default state- self-centred egoism.
Fred still had a role to play, though Leon would need to see how the social dynamics shook out before calling on the archer to serve his purpose.
Casting aside his thoughts on the outcast, Leon began truly focusing on the blood-stained core in his palm, sinking into a meditative state, memories flashing through his head as his energy travelled through the core.
Born in darkness, released with ravenous hunger, an ardent desire to destroy the human invaders.
Cowing its lesser brethren to submission, it watched on as the woman burned to ash, as one of the Infernal Rex chased a man and his comrades, screaming meat, then dead meat.
A shame that they had escaped its sight before the hunt concluded.
The tyrant’s rage simmered. Soon the humans would be exterminated, its kin freed from this walled garden, able to roam where they pleased.
Until he came, destroying everything the Woods Tyrant threw his way.
A demon, laughing as he butchered its kin.
Done so with ease, the man struggled only to hide his boredom as he tore them apart.
The demon’s blood raged much like the tyrant’s, power greater than their lesser brethren contained within both beings.
Yet the demon’s body housed an inferno compared to the spark at the tyrant’s core.
The outcome of their match had been written before either took the field. The battle itself, merely the means to reach a pre-destined end.
Death came, despite the tyrant’s resistance. No hatred remained in the beast’s lingering will towards its killer. All its hate, it kept for its creator.
Should the demon require its services, the tyrant would serve. The victor had earned as much.
Two paths stretched from the being’s soul.
One showed a pair of scimitars, dripping poison that corroded the very earth, one deep carmine, the other bright white, both polished to a mirror sheen, their metallic lustre visible even in the dead of night.
The demon wielded both, visiting death upon any and all challengers, the white blade vanishing when swung, the carmine blade bursting with scarlet flame. Anything lucky enough to limp away from the demon’s dance succumbed to the virulent venom contained within the blades.
There was no escape, only a choice. A swift death or an agonising one.
Names came to the fore, unbidden.
Silent and Scream.
The second path showed the demon hefting a huge black blade over his shoulder, the greatsword curved, the scales that bedecked it designed to look as though they had dragged a formerly straight blade into its current warped shape.
Black scales formed of hardened magma. Nothing appeared natural about this weapon, as though the System itself had twisted a volcano’s eruption into forming this draconic blade, the handle and grip just barely sculpted to allow a wielder to grip it.
The demon fought in the vision; the blade growing hotter as it scythed through foes, the once-blackened magma scales sloughing off, the blade’s curve lost in the transformation, revealing the still-burning infernal core of the weapon.
White scales shone with the light of blue flames, the blade’s edge sharp, a keening lament for the slain issued as it sliced through the air, the scales lining its edge arrayed to form a weapon of incomparable might, blue flames following every swing, the very air forming flaming slashes, perfectly mirroring the cuts of the blade.
Any enemy meeting the scale blade faced two cuts, one from the sword, the second from the flame, compelled to dodge twice lest their life be cut short.
Soon though, even these scales broke away, the demon left standing among a field of corpses, weapon reduced to a handle. Then, with a jolt of mana, the black blade reformed in hand, ready to serve once more, an endless cycle of destruction and rebirth.
Immortal Tyrant.
Leon came to himself as the vision ended.
His wound had ceased bleeding while he’d been absorbed in the memories the core had shown him.
Curiously, the sun hadn’t moved.
For once, a meditation session that didn’t accelerate his perception of time- and what a session it had been.
Swords that came laden with gimmicks.
Another constant in this life.
Though, for once they looked powerful, the first option was especially appealing as a two-for-one deal.
While he could turn the Woods Tyrant into a weapon, the third option, using its bloodline to unseal his own, remained attractive.
Perhaps his latest mentor would have an answer?
Layla had yet to finish her rapier, Leon maintaining a healthy distance from the working woman, allowing her to come to a stop naturally before he spoke up.
“Think I’ve picked up the trick you wanted me to learn- the core showed me things, visions of weapons it could become to serve me.”
Wiping the sweat from her brow while pulling her goggles up, Layla appraised Leon in a new light.
“Finally- took you long enough. That’s step one. Here, take a hammer, work the anvil beside me.”
With a flick of her wrist, an anvil, hammer and lump of iron appeared beside her.
“I thought I wouldn’t be learning to work metal?”
“Step two apprentice. Learn how to swing a hammer.”
Setting her own work aside, Layla stood behind Leon as he hammered.
What he expected to be mere rote practice soon became infuriating.
“Wrong! Pull your arm back more!”
“Wrong! Let gravity do the work you fool, you’ll tire out before the job’s done if you swing like a madman!”
“Wrong! Don’t just hit the metal- become the metal, think. What does the metal want to be? A sword? A shield? Think before you swing!”
The critiques soon diminished, Leon taking on every piece of advice she handed him.
Trust guided his hand, trust that there was a purpose to her belligerence beyond antagonising him.
The metal gave nothing away, sparking as he beat it.
An image came to mind, an arming sword. A normal functional sword. No frills, no fancy tricks. Just honest iron.
“Now, draw your mana out, like you would when using a mana circuit. Direct it into your hammer. Keep that image in mind, guide the metal.”
The softer encouragement proved to be a one-off.
“Wrong! Into the hammer, I said, not into the hammer and the air! Focus apprentice.”
Tightening the stream, Leon continued to beat the metal, minutes passing, his eyes glazing over as he lost himself in repetition.
Smithing proved therapeutic.
The process of discharging his physical power in a constructive pursuit, rather than a destructive manner, had a distinct appeal.
The arming sword slowly took shape, the wondrous power of mana replacing the traditional process of forging and quenching, an edge formed through magical means rather than physical ones.
The work done, Leon inspected his new sword.
It looked pretty good, close enough to the image he’d had in his head.
He anticipated the pop-up, bouncing on his heels while awaiting the System’s judgement.
Nothing appeared.
Lifting the sword to inspect it, Layla grimaced.
“Not even close to being recognised.”
The sword vanished in her hands, a fresh lump of iron placed on the anvil.
“Go, speak to the devil and rest. Then come back here. Don’t beat yourself up. You’ll do better next time.”