Chapter 2: The Black Sword
The boy sat on his knees, staring at the sword.
It was buried deep in the earth, but the ground around it had cracked wide open. Red light pulsed from its blade like a slow heartbeat. The runes on his arms still glowed faintly.
Wind howled across the ruins.
Ash swirled around him like smoke.
The boy touched his chest. His heart was beating too fast. His skin was hot. He looked at his hands—his fingers trembled. Black veins crawled across his forearms, pulsing with the same light as the sword.
He didn't know what was happening.
He didn't know who he was.
No name. No past.
Only this sword, and the voice inside it.
> "Chosen. You survived the call."
The voice wasn't loud. It wasn't spoken with a mouth. It came from the sword. Or maybe from inside him.
> "Most are torn apart. But you... you belong to me."
The boy took a shaky breath. "What are you?" he asked, voice hoarse.
> "I am Valteris. The last blade of ruin. The death of empires. The end of gods."
The boy stared at the blade.
It didn't shine like silver. It didn't gleam like steel. It was black, dark as night, with cracks along the blade that glowed like lava. It felt alive. Breathing.
He reached for the hilt again.
His fingers brushed it—and this time, the sword didn't fight him.
Instead, the glow spread into his palm. His bones ached. His skin burned. But he held it tight.
He pulled.
The sword came free with a sharp, ringing sound.
The ground trembled.
Ash blew away in a wide circle. The wind screamed.
The boy stood, sword in hand.
It was heavy—but it didn't drag him down. It fit his hand like it was made for him. The runes on his arms pulsed stronger, brighter.
He didn't know how—but he felt stronger.
And then… he heard it.
Footsteps.
He turned fast, sword raised.
Shapes moved between the rocks. Shadows.
Cloaked figures stepped out of the mist. Six of them. Faces hidden under hoods, armor wrapped in black cloth.
The leader stepped forward. A tall man, his armor dull and cracked. A black emblem burned on his chest—three jagged lines around an open eye.
He looked at the sword. Then at the boy.
"You should be dead," he said.
The boy didn't answer.
The man's voice was calm, cold. "The Ruin Blade kills everyone who touches it. It feeds on the soul. But you... you called its name."
The boy raised the sword slightly. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "We are the Seekers of the End. And you just awakened the final war."
The others drew weapons—blades, spears, glowing knives.
The boy stepped back. His heart pounded again, but this time it wasn't fear. It was something sharper.
Readiness.
The sword pulsed in his hand. As if eager to be used.
The man raised his hand. "Bring him down. Do not kill. The blade must stay bound."
The cloaked warriors charged.
The boy gritted his teeth. He didn't know how to fight—but his body moved on its own.
Clang!
He blocked the first strike with the flat of the blade.
Slash!
He swung wildly—too wide, too slow. But the sword screamed, and the air burned where it passed. One attacker fell back, cloak smoking.
The second came with twin daggers—fast, sharp.
The boy ducked. His shoulder burned. Blood.
He turned and kicked the attacker away. Pain sharpened his focus.
He raised the blade with both hands—and struck down hard.
BOOM.
A wave of red light burst from the blade.
Two cloaked enemies flew backward, slamming into rocks.
The boy stared at the sword. "What are you doing to me?" he whispered.
> "We are bound," the voice replied inside his head. "When you bleed, I wake. When you strike, I feed."
He didn't understand—but there was no time.
The last three attackers came at once.
He moved faster now. His body burned, but it moved like it had done this before.
Block. Turn. Strike.
A cut opened across an enemy's chest.
The boy spun, parried another, then shoved his blade forward.
CRACK!
One of the Seekers fell, unmoving.
The leader stepped forward, calm and quiet.
"You fight like a shadow reborn," he said. "The blade remembers. And now, so will you."
The boy stood panting, sword shaking in his hands.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
The man lifted his hand.
Magic burst from his palm—dark tendrils that snapped through the air.
The boy raised the sword.
The magic struck—and the sword drank it.
The red glow turned darker. Hungrier.
The man paused. "Ah. It's already feeding on you."
The boy's eyes narrowed. "Tell me who I am."
"You are nothing," the man said. "You are a shell. A broken vessel. But the blade… the blade remembers your true name."
> "He is wrong," the voice said. "You are more."
The man took a step back. "We'll meet again. When your mind starts breaking."
He snapped his fingers.
A black fog rose around the survivors. In seconds, they were gone.
The boy dropped to one knee. Breathing hard. Shaking.
Blood dripped from his side.
He looked at the sword.
It pulsed softly now. Like it was waiting.
> "You live," the voice said. "Good. The weak die. But you... you may become worthy."
The boy closed his eyes.
No memories came.
Only whispers.
Only the name that still echoed inside his head.
Valteris.
And as the sky rumbled, and the ash continued to fall, the boy stood again.
Alone.
But not empty.
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