Velren blinked, staring at the array of weapons lining the walls. His gaze drifted from the gleaming blades to the assortnt of bows, staves, and daggers.
"Wait... by 'take your pick,' you an... a weapon?"
Gramps gave him a flat look.
"What else would it be? We ain't here to shop for pastries, kid."
Velren's lips parted, then closed again. Right... obviously.
"Uh, I an... armor? Potions? Sothing?"
"Armor?" Gramps snorted.
"Like hell you'd manage to move properly in those bulky things. You rely too much on gear, and you'll forget how to use what you already got. And potions? What, you plannin' to chug 'em every ti you get a scratch? Waste of coin. No—if you're gonna survive, you'll need sothing that complents you. Not sothing that'll weigh you down or make you soft."
"But... why now?" Velren asked.
"I an—suddenly giving a weapon is kinda out of nowhere. Did sothing happen?"
Gramps sighed, rubbing his temple.
"What's with all the questions? Do you want it or not?"
"No—no, it's not like that!" Velren waved his hands.
"It's just... this is kind of a big deal, y'know? You never brought it up before."
Gramps didn't respond imdiately. He leaned back against the counter, and his gaze was distant. Velren shifted awkwardly, flitting his eyes back to the weapons. Part of him was already ntally picking through what might suit him best—but another part nagged at the back of his mind:
'Why now?'
Monts stretched in silence before Gramps finally spoke again:
"Because it's ti you carried sothin' of your own—sothing that ain't just mine or those wolves' teachings. Your path ain't gonna wait for you, and there are things tied to you..."
He trailed off, parting his lips like he was about to say sothing more. But then, with a sigh, Gramps closed his eyes and waved a hand.
"Anyway, just look around the store for a while."
Velren glanced at him, sensing there was sothing more the old man wanted to say—but he let it go, complying with the request.
Still... a weapon? How do you even know which one suits you? When he was eight, Fenrir had given him this knife—a simple but reliable blade. It had been invaluable for hunting, carving traps, and survival tasks. Small, practical, and easy to carry—it had served him well even until now.
So it only made sense to pick sothing similar, right?
"Hold up," Gramps said, crossing his arms.
"Before you go grabbin' whatever looks shiny, listen close. Pickin' your weapon ain't just about what feels comfortable in your hand—it's a choice that'll stick with you. You only get to pick once. So think carefully."
Velren blinked.
"Wait—only once? Why?"
"Ain't it obvious?" Gramps shot him a look.
"That bastard's store don't take refunds. So don't go wastin' my coin on sothin' you'll regret later."
'Right...'
Velren exhaled through his nose and glanced back at the countless weapons displayed before him.
Then Gramps spoke again with a more serious tone this ti.
"Listen. A weapon ain't just a piece o' tal or wood. It's an extension of you—of your Ka. The right one will feel like it belongs in your hand, like it pulls at you in so way. When your Ka flows right through it, you'll know. Don't pick with your eyes—pick with your gut. Your Ka'll tell you if you're payin' attention."
Velren swallowed, glancing back at the racks. How the hell was he supposed to tell what his Ka wanted?
He glanced back at the old man, furrowing his brows.
"But... not everyone uses weapons, right? I an, so people do just fine with their bare hands—or use staves. I heard they're good for channeling Ka more effectively. So... why are you so insistent on picking a weapon?"
Gramps grunted, scratching at his beard.
"Sure, so folks do fine without one, and yeah—staves can be useful for channelin' Ka. But you? You ain't like everyone else, kid. You got a knack for close combat, and your Ka's... different. Sothin' volatile lurkin' under the surface. A weapon'll help ground that energy—give it direction. Bare hands might work for soone else, but for you? It's like tryin' to dam a flood with a twig. And a staff? Too focused on channelin', not enough on control. You need balance. Precision. A weapon that'll act as both anchor and outlet."
Velren processed Gramps' advice, glancing back at the rows of weapons. His Ka was... volatile? Maybe Gramps wasn't wrong. There were tis when it felt like his energy simred just under his skin, itching to burst free—probably because of his 'anomaly' status, being soone not of this world.
"Besides," Gramps added, jerking his thumb toward the counter.
" and old Harven over there go way back. I trust him with everything he forges. Not just because he's good—but because he knows what he's doin'. So of these weapons? Not from around here. He studies the history, the designs—makes sure every piece has its purpose. So don't go pickin' sothin' shiny just 'cause it looks cool. These ain't toys. They're ant to last—and ant for fightin'."
Velren swallowed, feeling the weight of the decision settle on his shoulders.
Right... no pressure.
He exhaled slowly and turned back to the rows of weapons, letting his gaze sweep over them as he tried to listen—to feel. His Ka... his gut... sothing had to click, right?
Anything?
He wandered through the store, occasionally brushing his fingers over worn hilts and polished wood. The variety was overwhelming—swords of varying lengths, axes with gleaming blades, staves carved with runes, and daggers so sharp they seed to cut the air itself. Yet, nothing seed to call to him. Not until—
He froze in place.
Sothing... caught his attention.
His gaze drifted to a weapon nestled on the wall, partially obscured by a heavy leather strap hanging beside it. Velren reached out, gently brushing the strap aside to get a better look.
The curve of it, the simplicity—it was unlike the other weapons around it.
'Why... does this thing feel so familiar?'
Gramps, who had been observing from a distance, finally noticed where Velren's attention had landed. His eyes widened in surprise.
"That... huh." A faint chuckle rumbled from his throat.
"Maybe your guts—or your Ka—ain't playin' tricks on you after all."
Velren said nothing, still staring at the weapon. There was a pull, a connection that tugged at sothing deep within. It wasn't just the craftsmanship or the odd familiarity—it was as if the weapon recognized him in return.
Gramps rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"If I rember right... that foreign weapon's called—"
"—a katana..."
Reviews
All reviews (0)