1-3: The third day, the day of reckoning.

Jack awoke to the dawn of an uneasy day with a mild headache, for the night had been short for his slumber. After carrying out his morning routine, he joined Lust'eyes for a humble breakfast—bread, butter, and cheese—his heart heavy with the notion of what he deemed to be the last meal within this hall, his last piece of familiarity before a life anew.

After their simple repast, they tarried a while, granting themselves a moment's respite.

"Pray, now," Lust'eyes broke the silence, "thou didst vow to show me the sword, didst thou not?"

With his gaze affixed to the ceiling, Jack took a deep breath then exhaled, as if to clear the fog within his mind's palace. At last, "Let's do this," he declared.

Jack peeled back the carpet, underneath lay the very portal that shaped him. In his hand, he clutched the key. Today, at long last, 'it' would bathe in sunlight for the first time.

In due time, Jack ascended the ladder, presenting to Lust’eyes, who watched with bated breath, a mysterious treasure swathed in cloth. Slowly, he unwound the shroud, and the sword's hilt emerged, catching the light in a golden splendour. Its crossguard was fashioned with sweeping aureate rings, weaving into a spiralling knuckle bow, culminating at a ruby-crowned pommel. Moving downwards, the scabbard was revealed, a marriage of richly coloured wood and gold braces engraved with florid artistry, and inlaid with jewels of red, blue, and green. With a dramatic flourish, Jack unsheathed the blade and held it aloft, the clean steel reflecting its first ever sun ray. And Lust’eyes, alight with rapture, bore witness to the glorious reveal.

"Pray tell, dost thou know what this weapon be?" she said.

"It's a sword."

"'Tis not merely a sword, but a rapier fine, armament reserved sole for nobility. No common forge may birth such a blade. Nay, 'tis upon a lord's behest that such fine steel is wrought, and to his hand alone 'tis tailored, each creation a unique masterpiece unlike the others. And lo, by the scent that doth cling to this steel, verily, this esteemed blade once graced the sure grip of Karel."

"So this is King Karel's rapier. No wonder. It's really nice looking."

"Master Jack," Lust'eyes joined her hands together, "thou hast displayed the two necessary prerequisites that have marked thee as the son of Karel. And as his scion, thou art also the chosen one of Realing Lïght, the sword of Dragon's bane. Art thou prepared to finally wield it?"

"I'm- not…" Jack said.

"Hm?"

"But, I will do it regardless."

A glint of surprise stole her gaze, and then, as if beckoned by a revelation, she smiled. "Truly," said she, "humankind is fascinating. I am joyous to hear thy words, but this abode is most cramped. Methinks we shouldst retire to a place more spacious, yet distant from the prying eyes of others."

At her behest, "I think, I know a place," he concluded.

Jack guided her towards his secluded sanctuary, and ere long, they arrived at the everglade hidden in woods—a haven of clear water, wild grass, and blue flowers. Morning mist lingered still, revealing myriads of light beams peering through the leaves. The air was fresh and goosebumps-inducing, teasing his skin.

"Perfect," said Lust'eyes as she looked around. "Pray, now…"

There, she knelt before Jack, declaring, "Thou mayest draw Realing Lïght, the sword of Dragon's Bane." She gazed up at him, her back arched, her fingers—placed above the swells of her breasts—angled towards her chest scar. "Now, young sir, reach thy hand to my chest."

"What?" exclaimed Jack. "Why?"

"Trust. All shall be revealed in due time."

Jack swallowed a knot of nervousness. Well, he would not say no to that. Could this be the continuation from last night?

But as his hand drew nigh to the burgeoning rise of her breasts, it pressed against an unexpected solidity, undetectable by his mortal eyes. His fingers, hesitant and curious, discern a physical semblance of a sword hilt. Then, blue light emanated, briefly before fracturing into many pieces. These spark of light—azure cinders—fell away, cast into the wind, and from underneath, an item that was once invisible was revealed. A sword hilt, ornate and ethereal, materialised in his grasp, its mirror-like blade impaled through the scar on her chest.

Bewildered, Jack withdrew his hand. "Are you all right?" he blurted out, but then thought it was foolish of him to say that.

"Pray thee, do not worry for me. Proceed with thine task," she smiled.

Jack tugged gently at the sword. It seemed to be embedded within her skin.

"Aah~"

"Are you all right?!" exclaimed Jack

"Nay, worry not," she flashed a pained smile, her expression hazy. "'Tis no harm in being rougher, dear Jack. I can bear it.."

At her behest, he tightened his grip, his effort a constant struggle between gentle and forceful.

"Mm~" a small cry escaped her shut lips.

"It's wedged tight! Perhaps we should stop," gasped Jack..

"I prithee, desist not!" she clutched his upper arms. "Have faith in thyself, thou art capable!"

Her final words lingered, almost naked in its intensity. She must have been waiting for this moment for a long time, for the chosen one to release the blade that had claimed her flesh. Was it even just for him to back down? He could not do that.

Clenching his jaw, Jack sank to one knee, a tapestry of a knight before his lady. His arm, radiated with the heat of his burning heart, enfolded around Lust'eyes' exposed shoulders, her shield, and his confession. "I'm sorry," he breathed out, a soft hush meant for her alone, his right hand clasping the sword's hilt with a warrior's grip. Summoning all his strength, he drew the blade forth.

"Mmn~," beneath the delicate seal of her lips, Lust'eyes emitted a tender, muffled cry—a plea of their struggle, a plea she wished not to burden him with. There was nothing he could do to soothe her pain but to look her in the eyes. His right arm trembled, not with fear, but with the might of his will.

Her body convulsed, a metamorphosis, and twin wings burst forth from her back—vast, dark as a moonless night, shimmering like serpentine scales. At the prongs of their phalanges, a glow smouldered like the last embers of a dying hearth, stealing his glance and wonder. The truth of her draconic heritage danced in his sight, but he shook his head, casting away this needless contemplation. His eyes met hers again, feeling the steam of her pained breath, the desperate clutch of her nails upon his torso. He continued the slow liberation of the sword from her flesh. The end of their trial was upon them, and time itself seemed to hold its breath.

At last, the blade parted from her body, its entire length exposed under the benevolent gaze of the sun. Jack, heaving deeply, held the sword aloft to his scrutiny. Though lacking the opulence of his rapier, here lay a majesty beyond the lustre of jewels or precious metal. The sword cast a silhouette reminiscent of a four-pronged star; the blade—wide at the crossguard, tapered at the tip—gleamed with a nigh unbreakable sharpness.

"Congratulations…" Lust'eyes breath, her voice lace with tattered relief.

Jack turned to her, drawing nearer, "Are you alrigh-"

Yet an abrupt vibration seized his right hand. The sword, on its own volition, shook fiercely, then wenched itself out of his unsuspecting grasp and rose skywards.

Huh?

The sword, now an animated entity, pirouetted with a menacing deliberation,. Its sharp tip then stopped at its supposed master—Jack.

"Take heed!"

With an ear-piercing shrill, the sword blasted itself at Jack. Before he could react, her hand, swift and forceful, pushed his head earthwards. The artefact named Realing Lïght flew past where his head once was and struck the ground with a thunderous quake, gravel flying, dust cloud forming. What in Dameth's name was that?

As the dust settled, the sword could be seen embedded partly into the ground, writhing like a beast ensnared, like a living thing. It was like a living thing. This thing, a creature in its own right, antsily escaped the earthen prison, catapulting itself upwards in the process. Floating aloft, its metallic body shuddered like a feline shaking off water, then, after a moment of calmness, targeted Jack anew.

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But why?

Lust'eyes came and stood before him, her vast wings a dark and smouldering eclipse. From her lips, a high-pitch roar burst forth, its shockwave barraging his ribcage and psyche alike with a suffocating anguish. Jack clutched his chest, struggling to breath, but from the corner of his eyes, he could see the sword contorting, as if stricken by the same curse.

"Run!" Lust'eyes cried.

Jack clawed his way back to his feet and dash into the woods. He kept running, not knowing he should be heading, but at least he must get out of the sword's grasp. Why, why, why? Why had the sword forsaken him? Was he not up for the task?

With clenched teeth, anger and frustration arose, not at anyone, but himself. He had failed before he had even begun! How hadn't even yet to defeat the bandits and avenge his mother. He had failed, his training and determination all for naught!

But the thought of training reminded Jack of someone. There was another who knew him and the sword. That's right! With a renewed purpose, Jack hastened his pace, his feet slamming on the dirt road, a destination clear in his mind.

"Wow! What in Cyrene's name?!" Rup cried as Jack crashed through the front door. "What's the rush?!"

"Sorry!" breathed Jack, before shouting "Wordy!" He dashed to the pantry, only to be taken aback by an incredible sight.

It was Wordy, who was staring back at him at the doorway, yet not the drunken Wordy Jack was all too familiar with. He was clad in a full set of armour, a beautiful royal blue scarf, a silver spear on his back, and a black sword on his belt. His beard was trimmed, now he looked no older than fifty.

"Wordy?!" Jack cried.

"What's going on?!" Wordy said, his voice clearer than before.

Taking his rapier from his belt, Jack ran towards Wordy and shoved it in front of the man's face. "It's true! I've got the sword right here! Got the crest an' all! You were right!"

"Goddess," Wordy's eyes widened, "it is his sword!"

"And the dragon lady! She told me to draw the sword of Dragon's bane, and I did! But for some bloody reason, it's trying to kill me!"

"What do you mean?! You possess the two prerequisites, you are his son, you are the sword's chosen one! You're not supposed to invoke its defence mechanism."

"That's wot she said, too. But it's true! It was aiming straight at my head!"

"Oi, what's all this kerfuffle?" Rup showed up at the door. "What in Cyrene's name?! Wordy?! Wot's that? And wot's that?!" Rup blurted, pointing at Jack's rapier.

"I don't understand," said Wordy, rubbing his forehead. "This is not supposed to happen!"

"Do ya know something about it?" Jack cried.

"I don't. Where is Realing Lïght right now?"

"I haven't a clue. Last time I saw it, it was deep in the woods to the east. The lady who brought it, she's keeping it at bay."

"Right then," Wordy paced back and forth, seemingly deep in thought. "First thing first, we need to secure your safety. If the sword remains within the village, then clearly we must make haste. Come to the back garden."

"Oi! Can someone clue me in on what in Dameth's name is happening here?!" Rup bellowed. "Why're ya scarpering off?"

"Sorry Rup, long story but I ain't got the time right now," said Jack.

"That's right," said Wordy as he neared two packed satchels resting upon a table. Clutching one, he tossed Jack another. "Also, Rup, this shop belongs to you now. Take good care of it."

"Pardon me?!" Rup cried.

Jack and Wordy rushed to the back garden where the two horses were kept. "You remember how to saddle a horse?" he said, handing him a horse saddle.

"Faintly," said Jack.

"Just following my lead, then."

Wordy quickly fastened the saddle onto his mount, while Jack tried to mirror him, glancing over at times for guidance. Meanwhile, Rup also made his way to the garden.

"Ya planning on coming back?" said Rup.

"I can't say," said Jack, barely able to glance at Rup.

"Can ya at least tell me wot's going on?! Even just a little bit? I can lend a hand, too!"

Jack wanted to; he wanted to let it all out. But at the moment, he could barely keep up with Wordy, he couldn't afford to lose any concentration. He had to keep running.

In due time, both horses were saddled with the two knapsacks. "Get on!" said Wordy, vaulting onto his chosen steed. Jack followed suit, before casting his gaze at Rup—the brother not of blood, but of bond—fearing that this would be their last ever exchange. Rup beheld him, mirroring his dread.

"Don't you leave now, just tell me," Rup moaned.

"I'll catch up with you soon, hopefully," Jack winced.

"Follow me! And don't stop riding," Wordy bade him, pulling firmly upon the reins. His horse, noble and bold, leapt high and sundered the wooden fence of the garden.

Together they rode, past the houses, unto the golden fields. The afternoon wind could not quell the blaze inside his heart. He had no time to fear, no time to contemplate death. The only thing he could do was run. Wordy's horse thundered ahead; Jack was struggling to keep up with his own.

And then, he heard it, the metallic screeching, so faint, yet psychically ear-puncturing. Jack glanced back, his heart shrivelled as a needle-like entity cleaved through the sky like a shooting star, beautiful but terrible, drawing nearer and nearer to its prey—him.

"Brace yourself!" Wordy cried.

Looking back ahead, Jack saw the woods advancing swiftly. Covering his face, he endured the branches and briar lashing on his arm, the sting a mere caress compared to his metal turmoil. His mount, as bidden, galloped onwards. Wordy hewed at the branches with his blade, clearing the way; thus inspired, Jack drew his jewel-clad rapier, and began to wail with wild abandon.

Abruptly, the verdant expanse turned into a grey abyss. The duo plunged into a ravine, shrouded in mist and the smell of dread. This ravine, this den of evil, he had arrived here, but not for the purpose he intended.

"Prepare for ambush!"

As they rode through the chasm, ropes cascaded from above, and bodies descended, their forms equipped with swords and axes. Bandits—three, then two more—barricaded the path ahead.

"Hold tight!" Wordy exhorted, brandishing a spear from behind his back.

Without warning, a scream of metal, piercing and terrible, split the air. Realing Lïght, a shooting star ablaze with malice, streaked through the ravine, passing Jack and Wordy by a span of ten yards before wrenching to a halt.

"What the hell is that?!" cried some bandits.

Panic danced amidst their ranks, five men dwindled to a trembling three. Another cry rent the air asunder, not from Realing Lïght, but from an unseen saviour. Her familiar lament instilled such dread that made the sword and brigands alike squirm.

Wordy launched his spear, impaling one bandit and hurling him groundwards. "Take the spear!" he bellowed, drawing forth his sword. The seasoned knight, with borrowed momentum of his steed, cleaved through another villain effortlessly.

Jack heeded the call, plucking the spear out of the fallen bandit as he rode past. "Spear!" shouted Wordy, and out of a gut feeling, Jack tossed the weapon to his comrade. Wordy caught it readily, before spurring his mount to meet the oncoming foes.

The knight bore down upon the fresh crop of adversaries. His steed, with hooves thundering like drums of war, crashed through their ranks, a tempest of dirt and dust swirling in their wake. The end of the ravine beckoned, a pillar of light promising their freedom. They surged onwards, and before long, the deluge of sunlight overtook the gloom, blinding Jack momentarily.

As his vision adjusted, Jack found himself riding on a rolling field of green, unbroken and vast. Wind howled as he streaked through the verdant expanse, still the incessant scream of the sword rang by his ears. From the shadow of the mountainous maw, a star-like sword burst forth, screeching with vengeance.

"Keep riding forwards!" Wordy cried.

Yet even as he urged Jack on, the old knight himself reined his mount, turning to take the rear with his black sword in hand. Realing Lïght held court in the sky, casting judgement upon Jack. With an eardrum piercing shrill, the living sword blazed forth.

*CLANK*

With a mighty clash, Wordy's black sword met its wrathful descent. Deflected, the sword spun erratically, struggling to regain its poise. But soon, it traced through the sky canvas, then drew a swift arc towards Jack, but *CLINK.* Again, with a masterful precision, the knight thwarted its advance.

Jack kept riding onwards; gravel hit his face like needles, but he kept riding onwards. He couldn't afford to die right now, not while evils still draped over his village, not while his vengeance had not been dealt. He must live.

In the distance, a winding river lay ahead, flowing beneath a bridge of stone. Jack set his sights upon this crossing, though his concern was briefly cast over his shoulder, where a dwindling Wordy and the ever ferocious Realing Lïght battled.

As Jack and his horse rushed towards the bridge, so did Realing Lïght, its flight an arrow of malice. Steadfast, Wordy interjected and deflected the determined blade, but nay, the rebound sent it grazing against the skin of Jack's stead, inciting a wild rearing. Caught in the calamity, Jack was thrown off, tumbling into the river below.

Jack swam with all his might. From above, Realing Lïght slowly turned, taking its dreaded aim. Desperate, he plunged into the watery depth, flailing his limbs like a frog. The sword flew forth, missing him by a hair's breadth.

Underwater, a cave beckoned, a promised refuge in his desperate mind. But the sword, ever relentless, struck again. In a blind rage, it, seemingly unaccustomed to the watery constriction, collided with the cavern's maw. Stone and earth descended, sealing the entrance with the finality of a tomb's door. Nowhere else to go, Jack looked up, only to be greeted by an inescapable hopelessness. There was no light above him.

Still, Jack floated upwards. Reaching the ceiling, he struck his palm against the muddy confines overhead. His vision was only permitted by the faint blue glimmer emanating from clusters of strange rock-bound weeds. From below, Realing Lïght sliced through the water once more, but Jack evaded it barely, coaxing the blade into the earthen underbelly. There, it quivered, as if to wrestle itself free.

Jack continued banging on the unyielding black ceiling, his knuckles aching in distress. His mind was ablaze with frenzied thoughts, and in a last act of defiance, he grasped Realing Lïght, pushing its trapped body upwards. The sword, as if sensing its intent, joined in concert; their goals—for the first time—were aligned. He kept pushing, they kept pushing, but the earth was unmoving. Anxiety flooded his being, soon to be water. His lungs cried out for air that would not come, writhing in anguish. He couldn't take it anymore. His mouth opened, and water rushed in, a searing pain in his nostrils, forcing the life out of his body. He could no longer see anything; he could no longer hear anything; he could no longer think anything; he could no longer feel anything, except for an impending eternal coldness. He fell into a bottomless and lightless pit…