"Yeah, you better run!" I shouted after the retreating army.

Or, at least, I whispered it forcefully. In my head. From behind a pillow.

As the last of the rearguard vanished over the hill, I collapsed in a heap to the floor. Qi-exhaustion was only part of it; I was utterly rung out by the whole experience.

And, if I'm being honest, I wasn't entirely sure what had happened to change my fortunes.

Sure, the boomeranging re-appearance of Drynwyn had put the wind up them: one of your commanders being eviscerated by a flaming sword was the sort of thing that would put a dent in a good day. But that didn't seem enough to cause them to literally turn tail and flee.

If anything, I'd have expected that to have encouraged them to indulge in a little retributive slaughter. Running away seemed odd.

Drynwyn! Fuck, yeah! Coming along to save the motherfucking day. Drynwyn! Fuck, yeah!

If it was possible for a sword held within a scabbard to do a victory dance, Drynwyn was giving it its best shot. I was finding that, coupled with its newly written theme song, a touch gauche.

It seemed best I tried to distract it before more verses were composed.

"How did you find your way back to me? I figured the speed you were going, you'd be ending up in another country." Depending on where I was stood, that could have been anywhere from Scotland to Spain. Although, if my watching of Highlander had taught me anything, the accents encountered would have been the same.

You mean after you fucking yeeted me as far away from the target as possible like a complete fucking unstoppable moron?

"I'm not sure I'd choose to quite put it like that -"

Fucking come off it. I'm adding 'throwing' to the list as another thing you need to work on if you want me to hang around. And believe me, it's a fucking extensive list.

It felt like one thing when Merlin, the greatest wizard in the history of mankind, took time out from his busy day of trying to save the world to criticise me. But it hit a bit different when such scorn came from a piece of metal whose only previous owner was some sort of masochistic barbarian nymphomaniac.

"Do you think we could dial down the constructive criticism for a bit? It's been a long day, what with the dragon and the battle and all. Should we take it as read that I'm terrible and leave it there for a bit?

You really are a fucking pathetic specimen; did you know that? First, you plan to run away. Then you -

If I had a superpower, it was the ability to tune out lectures from aggrieved authority figures. And, I'm happy to tell you that when it came to reaming me out, Drynwyn was an absolute amateur compared to some true masters of the craft I'd come across in my time.

Give a little wave, Dad.

I left the sword, ranting about my inadequacies, and dropped back inside my artist's studio. I was disappointed to see that my channels were still empty of Qi - no fast travel for me in the near future - and that, on closer examination, they all looked pretty sore. I knew Merlin had said he'd needed to pull up trees to get them to hold together, but when they were filled with Qi, I hadn't been able to appreciate the extent of the damage.

Looking at the Vitruvian version of me, I could see that every single line around my body was red and inflamed.

On the plus side, there were no blockages remaining at all - the paths were all smoother than a Kardashian's forehead - which I sensed, don't ask me how, was going to be a massive long-term benefit. But it was obviously going to take quite some time for everything to heal up.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

I'd basically had a triple-strength magic colonic irrigation and needed to stay away from curries for a bit.

That doesn't quite convey how peculiar this feeling was, mainly as I'd not even known what channels were two days before. Weirdly, though, I found that if I concentrated on any particular channel, I could zoom in even closer until a section of it filled my vision.

What I could see from this perspective reminded me of the year I took painting restoration classes. I'd been looking to earn a few extra quid, and a posh acquaintance had come up trumps. She’d said her dad was looking for someone to cast their eye over some modern originals damaged by 'some awful colonials' in their spare house. That's how she'd put it, by the way. Their 'spare house'.

Not wanting to dive in without any knowledge - I saved that sort of behaviour for my love life - I'd signed up for a couple of free restoration classes to ensure I at least looked like I knew what I was doing.

When older paintings need work, it's typically because the canvas reacts to changes in the atmosphere, and it all gets pretty fragile. You definitely don't want an enthusiastic amateur just looking for a way to pay the rent playing around with things there. But, with modern paintings, which was what these were, damage and flaking is pretty much due to how the artwork surface was prepared. Often, heavy impasto paint layers crack and flake away from the canvas because the guy blasting out something every few days to sell to the tourists hasn't made an appropriate ground layer. So, pretty soon it all starts lifting away and breaking apart.

I was actually quite looking forward to giving it a go for a bit, but I never got around to doing any actual restoration. Turns out 'spare' houses weren't the only thing the man of the house was interested in keeping on the side. Without a word of a lie, he was old enough to have been my grandfather. Full disclosure - as I think we’ve been through some stuff together - he was kind of dishy in a distinguished way. But then he offered me money and - well, you know. As a perennial crosser of uncrossable lines, even I could see that was one it was going to be a journey to come back from.

I mention all this - not only because my enchanted sword has moved on to criticise the way your fucking hair falls on top of my scabbard - but because, when they were zoomed in upon, my Qi channels had the same sort of cracked and flaky appearance as those paintings.

I pressed my hand to the wall of the channel. It was hot to the touch, and some of the surface came away with the contact. Remembering my lessons, I tried to see if I could conjure up my palette and brush. It appeared to my right and was, of course, empty of purple Qi. However, I was pleased to see it held a clear solution that I felt would serve in what I wanted to achieve.

Dipping my brush in the solution, I carefully used it to reattach the bit of my channel that had flaked away into my hand.

As soon as my brush touched the channel, replacing the shed piece, I saw the cracks and fissures begin to melt away. This quickly spread until the whole section I had zoomed in upon was self-repairing, even though I had only worked on a tiny area of it.

I took this to mean that the repairs my channels needed were more metaphorical than literal. It was the act of restoration, rather than the repair itself, that was going to be necessary.

I remembered back to what Merlin had told me about cultivation. It was all about quality, not quantity.

I zoomed out and back in onto another small section and repeated the same process. I was pleased to see that, with every new attempt, I smoothed out the sore channels and prepared them to receive the flow of Qi once I was back to normal.

Whatever 'normal' was any longer.

I knew that time passed differently when I was within my artist's studio, but it felt like I worked away, restoring my channels, for hours.

It was, therefore, a little disappointing to reappear in the real world, drenched in sweat but with an entirely healthy Vitruvian man to show for my efforts, to hear Drynwyn still on his rant.

And that is without thinking about the shameful way that you -

"Drynwyn?"

What?

"If you do not wish to become my sword, I am perfectly happy to put you back in the hoard, bury you under the biggest pile of crap I can find, and leave you be. I don't need a sword. I don't want a sword. And I especially don't want a sword that's going to be a colossal throbbing dick to me.

Don't talk to me like that. Who do you think you are?

"I'm the bearer of Drynwyn. I doubt Rhydderch Hael took this shit from you, and I'm damned if I'm going to be different. I'm new to this, but I'm doing my best. You played your part in getting me out of what's just happened, and I'm grateful. Also - to be frank - I look badass wearing you. But, I'm on the fence as to whether the good outweighs the bad. Do you get me?"

I get you.

"So, you get to choose. You come with me, and you take it down a notch, or you can wait for the first looter that comes along once word of the death of the dragon gets out. Who knows, they may be more to your taste. What's your pleasure?"

The sword mumbled something.

"Sorry, I didn't hear that."

I'd like to stay with you.

"Okay. And was there an apology in there somewhere?"

Don't fucking push it.

Fair enough. He was a sword after my own heart, after all.