The thought that nothing might be as it seed sent a bolt of cold fear through the blade, but the longer it contemplated it, the more it realized it was the only scenario that made sense. What it was seeing, what it was experiencing, was not an accurate portrayal of what was happening; it knew that much. The question was now, how long had that had been the case.
Was the Penitent watching as I wrestled with the other demonic souls? The weapon wondered. Did any of that actually happen?
While the blade was forced to conclude that those trials had happened because it still had the powers from them, the more it thought about it, the more it was increasingly forced to conclude that nothing it had experienced since their second confrontation had actually occurred. As it stood there by the city wall, it searched for so small inconsistency that would allow it to unravel the strange trap it had fallen into. Unfortunately, it found none.
The weave of the wall was perfect. So were the cobblestones beneath its feet, and the shape of the Warbringer that wielded it. Everything was made of the sa twisted, coarse thread that it had grown used to in hell. Even the damned souls looked right; it could see the traces of creation on them still.
It looked all around, certain that the Penitent was hiding sowhere, just watching it, but it was unable to find the demon prince. The blade even lashed out at random, hoping that it would touch sothing that wasn’t there and break the illusion, but that was equally unsuccessful.
When Ivarr was trapped in his delusion, I was the one who saw the way out. The blade reminded itself, trying to recall the encounter with the mirror with as much detail as it could muster. If this illusion targets , then who will I…
The blade’s attention imdiately turned to the clockwork golem that wielded it. The thing had eyes and it had fought independently during their first encounter. Presumably, it could see, even though the blade had never tried to use them before.
Deciding to look out of the tal man's eyes and figuring out how to actually do so were two different things. Up until now, it used the tal man as a puppet, but its soul had to half crawl inside the construct to see what it needed to see. The whole ti, it cautioned itself against it.
This could be another ruse, it told itself, picturing the suit of armor as a man-shaped bear trap that might seal up and lock it inside.
Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened. Instead, after a few minutes of twisting at its arcane controls, the blade was able to look out of the eyes of its artificial wielder and see the world. After another minute or so, it even managed to clean up the picture and see things with so clarity.
Even after that, though, when the view was as good as the blade could manage, the perspective still felt strange. It took so ti to realize that was because its sight was so much more limited than the weapons. It could see in all directions and pierce through sothing to study its true nature, while the Warbringer could see only in one direction, and only the surface of a thing.
Did I ever see so little? It wondered, trying to rember what its blurred vision had been at the very start of this long quest of vengeance.
It was awkward and uncomfortable, but it felt like progress. Still, nothing seed different, at least at first. Before the blade gave up on the effort, it noticed a number of small discrepancies. The first, and most obvious, of which was that according to its wielder’s gaze, the Ebon Blade’s runes were drawn incorrectly. It knew exactly what it looked like throughout the course of its evolutions, and right now the Warbringer’s vision showed an older incarnation of itself, with lines and runes that incorporated none of its recent powers or upgrades.
That was enough to confirm that the weapon was not, in fact, going crazy, but it wasn’t imdiately helpful, either. Still, now that the blade confird this tactic was useful, it continued to search, and it found a second problem. Everyone that the Warbringer saw in the streets of the Last City was too short. The buildings were too, it realized belatedly.
It took a mont for the weapon to figure out why that was the case. It turned out to reveal a key flaw in the illusion, though. Both its spiritual sight and the tal war machine that it was being held by were being fed the sa illusion, but it carried the blade several feet below its eye level, rendering the whole thing warped and distorted when viewed from any other perspective.
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That, on its own, wasn’t enough to help the weapon, but it gave it an idea. Rather than continuing on its rampage, it began to perform the sword dance that it had taught several of its wielders, and learned from Baraga long ago, with sudden, deliberate movents.
This was not for nostalgic reasons, but because it was more familiar with those motions than almost any other it could think of. That series of katas was more familiar to it than walking or running, as it had not been created with legs. The sa thing would not be true for the villain who was rendering this nightmare, though, and the blade was willing to bet that it would always be half a breath behind.
It was right, too. The illusion began to fray a little more with each move. It would right itself when the blade stopped, but only until the next motion threw the illusory world off kilter again. It was a juddering, lagging effect that made the world fall to pieces, one mont at a ti, and on the other side was the truth.
The truth was that it had never reached the court of beggars, as it turned out. It had stopped just outside the building. Have I ever gone inside? The Ebon Blade wondered. Have I ever seen the true face of this city’s ruler?
It wasn’t sure, but it was about to solve that one way or another. It thought about trying to fight through the fractured vision, but that seed a poor choice; not only was reality a flickering sight barely glimpsed behind the veil of foul magic, but its control over its movents at the mont was questionable at best. It could make its wielder move as it always had, but only by rote. It would be hard pressed to adapt to a genuine opponent without returning to its view to normal and treating its wilder as an extension of its blade rather than the opposite.
I will not rush this, the blade promised itself as it finished the first cycle of movents and began again at the beginning in a single smooth motion. It was nothing for it to keep this up. It had the Life Force to move like this for months on end. However, the demon that was keeping this illusion up was obviously forced to do much of its work manually, and the blade was certain that flesh, even demonic flesh, would fail long before steel.
So that was exactly what it did. Several tis an hour, every hour of the day, for days on end, it moved in a graceful dance of death. The Warbringer’s chanical body radiated heat, but no one it could see through the gaps in the illusion tried to interfere.
At tis it doubted. What if this is foolishness, and my opponent can go on forever? It reflected. Still, doubts did not stop it.
-2584 Life Force.
It took three weeks of motions for its theory to win out. That was the point that whatever magic the Penitent had failed completely. For the last few days, it had been flickering on and off, but fearing a trap, the blade had bided its ti.
When the illusion fell completely, it struck. The Ebon Blade returned its consciousness to its own weapon, leaving the Warbringer’s cramped and alien soul behind. Then, in a single motion, it charged the large stone doors that it could now see. The weapon did not try to open them. That would have been too slow. Instead, it stabbed right through them with a Vorpal Strike, and then, as soon as it breached the far side of the door, it filled the room with a spray of Hellfire.
-85 Life Force.
It barely saw the beggars on the far side before they were lost in those flas. As that happened, it felt the Penitent’s touch on it again, but it was ready for it, and slipped from his grip with a Bolt, advancing halfway across the room in a single gesture.
So part of the Ebon Blade’s mind had feared that after all of this, the demon prince would take on so new horrific form, and that the crippled beggar king it had been shown up until now was nothing but a disguise. That at least proved not to be the case. The demon still sat sprawled on the dias. His appearance only differed this ti in that he was completely spent.
The demon prince didn’t even move to defend himself. He just lay there innervated and soaked in sweat. As the blade charged him, seeking his head, the world around it flickered as it tried one final ti to trap the Ebon Blade in its own mind, but that was harder to do now that the blade was expecting it.
To his credit, the demon prince didn’t even beg for his life like so many of the others had. He just accepted his fate as the blade struck in a blinding arc that carried it well past the beggar king.
68 Life Force.
You have gained one Demon Prince Soul.
Then it was done. Just like that, he was in two pieces instead of one and fading away. It was as anticlimactic an ending as there could be to a battle, but it was also entirely appropriate given the weeks-long struggle that had led up to it.
In truth, the battle had been over the mont the Ebon Blade had slipped its leash; it might have been over as soon as it knew it was wearing it. However, it was only when its opponent was dead at Warbringer’s feet, and it had claid its soul, that the blade finally noticed one more critical detail that completely destroyed the celebratory thrill that had been coursing through it a mont before.
The threads that made up its own soul were so black that it almost couldn’t see them. All this ti, it had thought that it was letting the demonic taint bleed off between each new soul it had devoured, but the truth was far worse than the illusion it had been led to believe. It had nearly corrupted itself completely.
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