In a corner of a battlefield drowning in the scent of blood, a young man sat huddled, hugging a saber in one hand and a barely recognizable woman in the other.
Whenever he had ti, he could only check on her like this. Within his heart, there was a constant weighted fear that seed to drive its erratic beating. It was a fear that she might breathe her last at any mont, that their next seconds might be their last seconds together.
By so miracle, she had managed to last for this long, but the bleak future ahead made every mont that passed only grow more suffocating. It was like the laws of probability themselves were toying with his fate.
Every mont she survived should have been a happy event, and yet it was just a reminder that every following second only made it more likely.
It was tis like this that he wished he was stronger, wished he was more like his cousin, more unrestrained, more powerful, more capable.
Half of his body tensed, the other half so gentle and unwilling to harm the woman in his arms that it split him into an odd dichotomy. Even so, he pushed so hard that his saber pierced into his flesh, tearing into him.
He didn't seem to notice. He already had so many wounds, what did one more an? What did ten more an?
'Weak. You're weak. He wouldn't have given up already. He would already have a plan, ten plans, a hundred plans. He would have already healed his woman. He would have already crushed his enemies.'
The voice of insecurity, inferiority, and rage bubbled within him. Every day, they seed to get more and more difficult to rein in.
Hot tears stread down his cheeks. It was impossible to tell beneath all the mud, gri, and caked blood, but the searing heat felt more painful to him than even the saber blade from earlier.
He just wanted to be better, to be more capable. But every step he took felt lacking.
When it was just about himself, he was able to maintain his calm outward deanor. But now the life of the woman he loved more than anything in this world was hanging on by a thread because of his weakness. It was no longer just about him.
He bit down on his tongue, hard, seemingly not caring even if he bit it off. What good was the ability to speak if it couldn't be with her?
She should have been safe. She should have gone with the others and stayed by the side of his grandfather. But she had insisted on coming with him, on being by his side like she always had been. And he couldn't even reject her firmly enough to make her stay.
He was always like that. Unable to say what he really thought, what he really felt. This tongue of his was truly useless.
Move. He needed to move.
The words echoed in his mind. He couldn't stay here for long; he would be found soon. Those beasts had strong noses and the scent of blood was accumulating too much.
He got up, carefully tying her to his back again and raising his saber. Not a single part of his body was without a wound, and yet the most crimson part of his were his very eyes.
He began to move again, and the battles raged on. He didn't know how long passed, but he did it again and again.
He would fight. He would stop. He would check if she still lived. He would cry. He would fight.
Then he ca across a cave entrance that radiated an aura that enticed him. It was without a doubt the aura of a saber, but when he approached, it wouldn't allow him inside.
He knew that he had to be cautious. His grandfather had inford him not to absorb any energy from corpses, and he had also warned him to be wary of any benefits that he might gain.
What he didn't expect was that just when he had finally co across one of these benefits, even though it so very obviously suited him, he couldn't even enter.
At that mont, he seed to snap.
A bubbling rage billowed out from within him as he raised his saber. He didn't care about anything else. He just wanted what was before him now to be split in two.
Everything his path seed to co with a roadblock. He couldn't advance as fast as his cousin, he couldn't protect his woman, he couldn't even tell his "woman" that she was his.
At that mont, he seed to realize that none of these roadblocks were even caused by others. They were all his own weakness, his own inferiority.
He was tired of it.
He was exhausted. His legs could barely stand beneath him. His ankles ached, his shoulders scread under the weight of his saber, even his eyelids felt heavy. The very blood that caked his body felt like too much for him to carry.
But none of it mattered. He had had enough.
And in that mont, he felt his Saber Force react to him in a way it had never before.
The sword was a weapon of elegance, of nobility, of reservation and calmness. Maybe had he picked it, he would have sensed such a change long ago. However, he had felt that a sword was incompatible with his Ability Index. It wasn't a weapon that could expand in size and heaviness along with him and maintain its deanor.
A saber was the weapon of a savage, of a warlord that ruled over war-torn lands. It wasn't a weapon of reserved emotion and calculated steps. It was a weapon of fury and violence.
He was weak. He was much too weak. And much of it was because his own steps were hesitant and lacking in conviction.
In that case, he would just hack all of these barriers before him to pieces!
His Saber Force flourished and from a white-silvery light, it beca a blinding gold tinged with just the slightest sheen of a majestic green.
The barrier before him was split in two and he walked in with rage still on his mind, not facing any danger at all until he suddenly reached the end.
On a pedestal ahead, a ring lay.
Reviews
All reviews (0)