The LORD of the BLADES
Volume 1: Master & Faker
Chapter 1: The Awakening
1-1: THE FIRST DAY, THE DAY OF HERALDRY
Within Jack's dark basement, lay a sword whose worth surpassed his entire village, or so he fancied at the very least. How could he not? Any soul that chanced upon a treasure this exquisite would come to the same verdict. Yet, this knowledge was a fiercely guarded secret; not a single peasant eye from his lovely and earnest townsfolk had ever seen it. But should they perceive what he did, caress the gilded metal and the polished mahogany that bound it, the colourful jewels that adorned it, and the blade, oh, so slender, so pristine like a mirror surface, would they comprehend how pale their existence was compared to it? Power and riches it promised; envy would spur them to claim the sword for their own purpose. That, he could not permit.
In this quaint and secluded Karel village, Jack began his day by descending into the depth of his basement, and derived rapture from stroking the hardness and grooves of his sequestered sword. The touch evoked within him the self-imagined tales of his forebears' battles, his mind ablaze with the prospect of wielding it truly in conquests, of how easy it could impale the flesh of rivals not yet met.
Alas, the fields above called for his labours. Jack toiled the rest of his morning away, his rake a steadfast, albeit mundane, companion. Like the rest of the villagers, Jack, son of Constantine, was just another humble farmer, whose family heirloom was somehow of such noble stature. The sword's legacy was painfully lost along with his parents, who departed this world too early. Of his father, he had no recollection. Of his mother, oh, he had too many; the memories had burnt into his subconscious.
Seven years ago…
"We have to go, Jack!" cried his mother.
Rain fell, yet flames danced. Jack—innocently ten winters old—dashed across the muddy earth, pulled along his mother's ragged stride. Her maternal talons dug into his wrist, the sensation still fresh in his mind. Her visage, once a beacon of calmness, now winced with terror. They ran, ran for so long that his childish lungs constricted. Shouts of evil, screams of distress, the once peaceful village was being besieged by bandits. Was he going to die?
They hurtled into the sanctum of their home, slamming the door shut. Jack's mother darted and fell to her knees before a fur carpet. Her left hand lifted the cover—revealing a trapdoor—while her other hand frantically searched for a key from within her garment. Opening the portal, she voicelessly beckoned him to the promised refuge. Though tremors seized him, Jack braved the ladder into the abyss below.
*SLAM*
The front door of their abode jolted. Evil laughters and taunts pierced through the deafening rain. The timbre slab shuddered at the onslaught, its fibres splintering. His mother's gaze swept to the door, then back to him, and for a fleeting moment, Jack saw that her eyes were full of guilt.
She cast the key into the shadowed cellar, before slamming the trapdoor shut.
"MA!" His cry was drowned out by the cacophony, and darkness filled his vision. A void in his sight, a chasm in his soul, while above, the distinct fray of his mother's defiance resounded, a divine mocking of his manhood. His mind screamed for actions, but what could he do? His hand was shaking like mad.
"..."
And thus Jack remained, tilling all lonesome on the Constantines' land. Though now orphaned, the neighbouring steads, may the Goddess bless their hearts, welcomed him as their own. Their love, while appreciated, was not replaceable, for when the days ended, Jack was left within his empty house, staring at the neighbour's window whose glow cast shadows of their hearty chatter. And when he closed his eyes, the cruel re-enactment of that night came alive. He longed for it to end, but what power had he against the grip of the past?
Maybe, if I kill them all, the nightmare will stop.
Perhaps, this was his fate. Perhaps, this was why the sword was within his grasp. Yes, he must endure, for in his heart, he knew that this blade would be the deliverer of his vengeance. This must be the Goddess's will. It wouldn't be long before he could bring this blade to light.
Ere long, dusk draped over the quaint village, and townsfolk found solace in the tavern's warm embrace. The day's toil gave way to the clink of mugs and revelry—a routine well-woven into the fabric of their lives. Alone at a table, Jack cradled his ale, his gaze trailing a man in the thick of his twenties. That was Rup, the eldest son of the neighbouring homestead. Ever since the incident, he had been acting as Jack's older brother.
Despite his family's pastoral tradition, Rup—under the tutelage of a strange man named Wordy—built himself a reputation as a blacksmith. His days of hammering anvil were writ large upon his frame, his attire—leather apron over an earthy coloured shirt, and a leopard belt of masculine conquest—straining under the bulge of his muscles. He wore them proudly, for sure, gliding among the giggling maidens, a hunter in pursuit of feminine charm. Jack ought to be doing the same, but he didn't find them all that interesting. He had always been more interested in princesses in fairy tales, or female warriors in songs, or beautiful spirits in poems.
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"You won't be trippin over no one like that in our little honey pot, lad. Time to snap out of it." Rup's voice echoed within Jack's mind, as he downed another sip of ale. Reality was a bitter draught. Perhaps Rup was right; perhaps his delusions were due to fade. But destiny was an unwritten scroll, and Rup was no oracle.
The night had aged, and the crowd thinned. Jack's eyes roved for Rup, only to land upon his foster brother, still undeterred in his quest. A farewell was in order.
"Right on, I'll catch you on the morrow," Rup tossed a cheeky salute, before turning his gaze to the girl he was courting. "Fine lad, ain't he? I'm mostly the one that's got his back, he leans on me a fair bit."
"Yeah, he's reliable," said Jack half-heartedly, a small smirk might have escaped his lips. It's not that Rup isn't reliable, but damn, he's really trying, isn't he?
Jack left the tavern, fumbling around on the village way. The alcoholic honey spurred him to cast his voice aloud to his old favourite:
"Run, bandits, run! Bandits, run!
Look at your faces full of fright.
Run, bastards, run! Bastards, run!
You shan't forget Prince Karel's might.
He struck you down with his mighty sword.
A valiant heart in times of yore.
He cast upon you panic and shame.
So honoured our village in his name."
Jack felt like he had been walking for ages, but the thought of his bed's embrace spurred him onwards, a beacon through the fog of his inebriation. Before long, a familiar door welcomed his step, but as he ushered it open, he was met by a strange sight…
There, seated at his humble dining table, was a woman of peculiar grace. Her eyes, pools of mystery, latched onto Jack with a smile both wise and mysterious. Her attire was of elegant trappings: a shoulder-baring black gown traced with golden accents. His gaze, unwittingly, came to rest upon the generous swell of her bosom, endowed with—by the Goddess's witness—a mass far surpassing every other woman Jack had ever laid eyes upon. Luscious they were, those voluptuous twin peaks, yet just above her sweet cleavage, a gaping scar dared embed itself amidst her immaculacy. The rest of her skin was pearly; her ears were elongated and pointed; her hair was golden, as thick as a lion's mane. A strange crown adorned her brows, resembling a pair of ox horns, curling in shape and ebon in colour.
"Hail and well met," her voice warm and mellifluous, yet her words strange and archaic. "Pray tell, art thou the denizen of this abode?"
What is happening right now? Goodness gracious, is this a gift from the Goddess? "Uuuuuhhhh…." he stammered, "Y-yes, but, who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
"Folks doth name me by sundry titles, but mine heart hath taken a fancy to 'Lust'eyes' the most, thus thou may'st address me so. I doth beg thy pardon for mine unbidden presence in thy abode, but I hold a purpose to be hither…"
Truth be told, Jack's hearing was all but forsaken, lost in her spellbinding presence. She was a nymph incarnate, as if plucked from the fairy tales he once felt asleep to. Her eyes, shimmering like ruby, belonged to a being who had lived many years, yet her skin showed no sign of age.
"Pray tell, can't you hear my voice?" her voice elevated just so.
"Yes, my bad. Just roll in from the tavern so… What were you saying?"
"Pray, couldst thou close yon door and take thy seat right hither?" said she, as her long fingers tapped the wooden space next to her.
C-Close the door?! What intentions could she harbour, appearing so mysteriously in his private quarters? Is she an Angel that the Goddess sends down every time a boy comes of age? Had the gate to his manhood opened at last? "I uh," Jack said, acutely aware of his own thumping heart, "I'm not too sure 'about all this."
"Fear not, I shall not harm thee," the woman smiled, and she was beautiful at it. "I just need to examine thy body for a brief moment."
Examine my body?! What about it? My body is perfectly healthy! He was a healthy young man, and all parts of his body were fully functional.
Here sat a woman beautiful in visage, lustful in body, still she was an unknown intruder upon his home. He was not to blindly trust her; he knew that. Yet, his gaze kept wandering the deep valley of her breasts. What if this was truly the Goddess's blessing. It wouldn't be right to deny a Goddess's gift. Blasphemous, even.
"Hie thee hither, fret not~," she said sweetly.
An exhalation escaped his lips as he closed the door, bracing himself for the unfathomable. Swallowing hard, Jack nervously settled by her side, where her entrancing scent enveloped his being. Was this a scent of a woman, or was it just her?
"Extend thy hand unto me."
Jack cautiously extended his hand, and her smooth fingers entwined his wrist, making his core simmer with a certain heat. "You're beautiful," he blurted out.
"Hm? Thou art welcome, verily," she smiled courteously. "'Tis the moment of truth. Insignea."
A tingling sensation stung Jack's right upper arm. Lines of blue light sketched upon his skin, penetrating through his sleeve, coalescing into a strange emblem.
"What in the goddess?"
Yet, through the wavering clarity, he discerned the woman's face, alight with glee, her form bursting with euphoria. "O, what a miracle! Thou hast revealed before mine eyes at last!" Clasping his shoulders, she nuzzled against Jack's collarbone with her brow. Her touch, a prelude of tactile yearnings, shattered the dam of his inhibition. His finger dug into her waist, his head plunging with reckless abandon into the billows of her bosom.
"Hark! Hold thy st-" she gasped.