“Now, we get to the anvil part,” Henneth began as Amaryllis tried to move her hand. From up to down and left to right to see if it was really broken from any place. “The Anvil is created from the bones of an Old god — Arjit, or so I’m told. Do you understand what I mean?”

“They are rare and expensive?” Amaryllis asked, unsure, and a panic shot through her body. What if they ask for money? I don’t have it. And they didn’t even tell me about this in the invitation. I thought it was all free. Her panic only grew as Henneth continued to look at her impassively and unamusedly.

Henneth chuckled, “I guess that’s also part of it. But that’s not what I meant. It means they are limited in quantity. The one you’re using belonged to Mire, but she’s dead and faded, and you’re the most suitable candidate to use it. Of course, there are others, but using Mire’s is a more honorable thing to do.”

Amaryllis made no comment on Mire. She couldn’t remember the name. A part of her memory was void. Did that belong to Mire? Why couldn’t she remember her? Did Mire die because of her? Why?

“Once you forge a soul out of a piece of Anvil, it belongs to you. The Anvil is practically impossible to destroy/ It takes your soul, reconstructs it, and forges it into a weapon. The weapon that only and only belongs to you — a weapon that can never be destroyed. Upon destruction of your weapon, you can summon it again after a moment of waiting. Back to the anvil, an anvil can be used once, but after the death of its user, it can be handed to a new hunter. It also implies something else.” Henneth waited for her to answer the implied question.

“There can only be a limited number of Soul hunters, but they are always replenished… like an army. Each piece of Anvil is a precious resource, far more valuable than a soul hunter, so they are expendable,” Amaryllis wondered if that was even the correct simile. After all, armies didn’t have individuals with so much investment.

“Quite right. We are like an army of ants, and the number of available spots for Soul hunters is directly proportional to the deaths of candidates. As such, we do not waste any spots on invalids. Everyone who lives through the assessment is a prodigy, or even more what outsiders think a prodigy should be,” Henneth waved her hand, and the anvil slid across the hall and went to the other side. A desk. A light bulb hung over it.

Henneth snapped her fingers in a splendid manner, and the flames in the room vanished, hiding the smith. “Follow me.”

Amaryllis walked behind Henneth. “Why not here?” she asked.

“I need to note down your reactions,” Henneth said. “The soul forge is simple from here. You need to sink your hand inside the anvil and pull out the weapon.”

“It cannot be that simple. There has to be something more,” especially when Henneth and Light wanted her to be in the calmest state of mind for this part.

“Oh, there is,” Henneth smirked, sitting on the chair behind the desk. “You only get three chances. By that, I mean only three chances. If you fail, you die,” Henneth beamed brightly, “Since you’re going to die, it’s appropriate for you to know why you might die. It’s like a trial. When you touch the Anvil, it makes your soul manifest in the physical world and reforges it into a weapon, but the anvil can hold the soul for so long. As such, the chance is limited to three. If you fail, it does not have a way to send your soul back into your body. Your soul will disperse, and you, after losing your soul, will die. You can think of it as a trial by anvil to see if you’re worthy of wielding a soul-forged weapon. What will it test? Your mind.”

Henneth smirked, “And if you fail, you can blame Sanguine. This is the very reason an assessment officer tests you beforehand. If he had made you go through with the first assessment, this part is a sure pass, but he didn’t, and you stand the risk of death. There’s a reason all the assessments are the way they are — and none is without purpose. Easy pass is a problem, but the hellish ones, like the one you just woke up from? They are a boon. You’ve gained much from it but stand to lose it all — because of Sanguine.”

“He did nothing wrong,” Amaryllis said with a bit of force. Perhaps he did, but it was out of kindness of his heart, and she would not blame him for his kindness. Even knowing that she was still grateful that he had not peered into her past.

I can do it, she told herself. She didn’t fear her past. She never did. And even if she did, she couldn’t fail here, in this assessment, after surviving those creatures. For Cynthia, she’d face it.

“I need to place my hand on it?” Amaryllis asked, confirming just in case.

“Go ahead, I am here,” Henneth grinned, “But you’ll not remember that,” Her eyes glimmered with amusement.

Amaryllis gulped once more, feeling a cold dread settling on her shoulder as she placed her hand on the anvil. It looked like bone and belonged to one of the Old gods.

The world was once ruled by the old gods. Then, Seran, or Soul Demons as the general masses called them, started appearing. No weapon managed to wound them. They desired no power or peace. The Old Gods ruled the world at that time.

The old gods had no way of harming the Serans. Their divinity faltered. They lost. But their divinity made them equally immortal, much like the serans. It was a stalemate, neither lost. But they fought to the point of shattering the entirety of the world.

On the verge of collapse, The Soul Hunt appeared like a beacon of hope, carrying weapons forged of their soul. They killed the seran and created a haven for humanity and every other species in the world.

The divine didn’t appreciate the idea of being replaced by some hunters. The divine tried to enslave the Hunt and thus began a millennium of Holy war between the hunters, the gods, and the seran. The war that shattered the world into pieces, floating in the chaos chained by a single junction called Anchor City, the headquarter of The Soul Hunt. The chaos was named Interstices — a place where dreams, reality, spirits, and souls existed simultaneously. No one survived after falling into it since the seran infested everything in the Interstices.

No god arose from the holy war, no ruler. The world got an organization called the Soul Hunt to save them from the Serans. They desired — no location, power, or weight in the life of mortals. Hunt the Serans was all they demanded, and the world had no right to question or peer into their secret.

As for the divine, their divinity was sealed by the hunt. No one knows their fate. Some said they died after losing their divinity. But, now that a fragment of old gods was in front of Amaryllis, the only way to become a soul hunter, she couldn’t make sense of the history of this world.

How did Soul Hunt get their power initially? There had to be an old god that favored the hunter before the holy war, for their existence made no sense otherwise. Either that or Henneth hid something, or the old gods never fought in the first place. But they did and lost their power. Light confirmed it just before coming here.

Too many questions, none worth my time. I just need money for my sister.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Her hand felt the rough texture of the anvil.

Her tattoo lit up. Amaryllis felt something wet and cold envelop her hand. The cold darkness seeped into her indentures like liquid. Her hand slowly began to sink into it as if pressed into the mud.

Amaryllis took a deep breath, calming the panic rising in her chest as her hand continued to sink deeper and deeper into the anvil. The anvil lit up in green flames, dazzling and reflective. It reflected faces and creatures. The puppeteer's smiling face. Her sister's fragile expression as she was taken by the government after affliction. The blank one that almost wrenched her hand away from the anvil, but she kept still.

The green flames grew larger, and she was swallowed whole.

Amaryllis blinked, and everything had vanished. She stood in a simple room. Dimly lit. A hearth in the wall facing her, burning with green cold flames. In the center, there was a sofa, old and worn out. She looked down and stared at the blood flowing from beneath. Amaryllis gulped. Her nerves rang, begging her to look away and hide, but she dared to take a step forward.

Approached the sofa. She reminded herself of the fading goal. Why she must be here, of the purpose that was strangled by the shrill scream that deafened her ears. Numbed her mind.

I am here to get the Soul Forged weapon. Amaryllis remined herself. But how? She couldn’t know, but stepping forward seemed like the place to start. Since there was absolutely nothing in the mirrored wall behind her.

Amaryllis stopped before the sofa. Her entire body was pale, covered in cold sweat. She peeked and looked at the figure, small, about 10-12 years old, lying on the floor face down. The figure lay in the puddle of blood.

Her throat tightened. She clenched down the bubbling panic in the form of a shriek at the base of her throat. Her feet felt the warmth of the blood under her feet. She looked at her feet. Bare. Skin smoothened and thinned from healed scar wounds. Almost alien. She breathed sharply, forcing her eyes up, and looked at the hearth.

Amaryllis circled the wall. Amaryllis dared not to blink. Her eyes continued to steal glances at the wounded figure. Her instincts should have been to help the wounded figure, but she dared not.

Amaryllis’s eyes went to the hearth. Amaryllis saw something in the cold flame. Amaryllis knew, instinctively, that this was the thing she needed.

Amaryllis walked toward it. Her steps faltered as she heard a laugh. She mechanically looked behind her. The wounded figure lay there no more. A fear clutched her heart.

Amaryllis turned back to the hearth again in panic, hurried to take the thing and escape. Her breath stopped midway, as did her heart. Her entire being froze in front of her. A blank face stared at her.

“Amaryllis!” it said. There were no lips to move, but Amaryllis saw them move in the reflection of the blank face.

Every hair on her body stood painfully — twisted and wrenched out. “ARGH!” Amaryllis screamed, yanking her hand away from the anvil. Amaryllis breathed, her chest burned, face red. Every breath almost made her vomit. Amaryllis bent, grasping her arm in pain.

“That’s one attempt. Two more, and you die. Stay away from the anvil for far too long, and you die. Quick. Quick. Put your hand on the anvil,” Amaryllis followed Henneth’s words. The pain in her arm vanished. “Face your demons. You’ll have a lifetime to blame Sanguine for his cruel kindness,” Henneth said. She looked calm and, perhaps, far too assured of the result.

“I’m not going to die…” Amaryllis whispered as she began to sink her hand into the anvil again.

“Think of your sister… You die, and she meets a fate worse than death. Get going,” Henneth cheered her, even though she looked bored more than anything.

Amaryllis sniffed and sunk her hand back into the anvil. Her heart tightened. Flames swallowed her again.

She looked at a similar sight, her back facing the mirrored wall. The walls surrounding them were painted in bloody handprints.

Amaryllis never looked at the blank face that sat on the sofa. The hearth was where she needed to go. She took a step forward.

As soon as she took the step, the blank face looked at her. Amaryllis froze. She dared not take another step, waiting to see if the blank face would do something.

“Amaryllis!” it squealed like a girl seeing their favorite person after a long time. It left its seat and strolled to her side with the grace of a dancer. The pool of blood barely rippled under its shoe toes.

Amaryllis couldn’t move. It circled her and took her hand in its own, “Amaryllis!” it said, controlling her. It was no longer small like last time, or was it she who had regressed, but they were of the same height. It placed its hand on her shoulder, not before guiding Amaryllis’s hand to its hips. They danced. There was no music, but it was in rhythm; her body knew the steps.

Amaryllis’s eyes glazed, and tears filled them. Amaryllis looked in the mirror. Amaryllis watched as her hand on the blank face’s shoulder tightened.

They spun, and then the blank face let go of her. She dropped into the puddle. Her heart hammered as the blank face did nothing and continued to stare at her.

Finally, after a minute of pause, Amaryllis ventured to move. Her hand pressed against the wooden floor under inch-thick blood, and she felt something in her hand. Her gaze turned down and widened as she looked at it. It was in her hand, covered in blood. She held it tightly. “Why?!” Amaryllis screamed, rising to her, dropped it, and pushed herself back — away from the blood.

Amaryllis blinked through her teary, blurred eyes. Amaryllis was back in the Hall of Forge. Henneth stared at her. Amaryllis wanted her to look away instead of writing down her reactions like she was a test subject.

“Don’t look,” Amaryllis said through her trembling lips. Amaryllis wiped her face with the sleeve of her left hand.

“I cannot see whatever you’re seeing, so worry not. But time is not waiting for you. Quick.”

Amaryllis sniffed and raised her shaky hand but stopped just an inch above the anvil. She couldn’t dare to place her hand on it.

“Amaryllis.”

She looked at Henneth.

“Whatever happened in the past is a past. What you see is but a reflection. Remember what is precious to you right now. Are you willing to give up on it… for the fear of the past? Face it. You’re never going to be a good soul hunter if memories are your enemy. Every Seran can see your past, and they will use it. Just like Puppeteer did. Even if you don’t die, someone will because of you.”

Amaryllis squeezed her eyes shut. She pressed her hand and felt the coldness envelop her hand once more. She couldn’t give up. She breathed and blinked. Back in the past, she still was in the same place, holding the knife. The blank face stood meters away from her. There was no expression to read.

"Do It, Amaryllis," The blank face said. Its voice was laced with mourning and pain. It moved forward. All the courage Amaryllis had mustered crumbled. Her throat tightened, tears spilled over her eyes. She tried to move back but couldn't. She was frozen, perhaps for the better, or she might’ve died, but that thought didn’t even echo in her mind.

"Stay back!" Amaryllis screamed.

It continued. Stepping closer. Its step came to half as its stomach met the pointy tip of the blade. "You cannot do it, still. You're still kind like before. Never changing. Sorry..." It said and moved again. The blade sunk into its stomach. It hugged her tightly. Its body was warm like blood.

Amaryllis cried. Tears streamed down her face.

"You're so kind."

"I'm Vain..." Amaryllis replied in her shaky voice. She felt the hot blood as it crawled on her hand, filling her tattoo and covering her entire arm. She couldn't move still.

"Still, the kindest," It said. It sunk into her.

Amaryllis squeezed her eyes shut. "I cannot...."

"You're back in the real world," Henneth said.

Her voice jolted Amaryllis out of her dream. She blinked, clearing her face. Her hand was covered in inky black goo, which clung to her arm.

[Soul Weapon Forged: Formless Blood Ink]