Paragon of Destruction

Arran’s mind was filled with worry as he drew his sword and prepared to practice. While the portal was foremost among his concerns, it was far from the only one.

Whether or not the portal closed, he would soon leave the caverns. And when he did, he would finally set off to accomplish his original tasks — to retrieve the Forms and to infiltrate the Hunters.

The first of these things would rely more on luck than on skill.

Although Arran knew where to find the battlefield that had claimed the life of Elder Nikias, finding the Elder’s writings would be no simple matter. Even assuming there were writings in the first place, decades had passed since the battle — plenty of time for the battlefield to be looted.

But that was just the beginning.

After he searched the battlefield, he would travel to the Hunters’ lands and try to join their ranks, to find information that would help the Ninth Valley in the approaching war.

The plan bordered on madness, and Arran knew he would be risking his life. That Brightblade believed he could succeed was only a small comfort — it meant he could survive the task, but not that he would.

And if he somehow managed to not only infiltrate the Hunters but also escape with his life, he would find no safety back in the Ninth Valley. Instead, he would return just in time to join the Shadowflame Society’s war against the Hunters.

Arran knew he would see little peace in the years that lay ahead, and the burden of his responsibilities felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Yet when he began to practice with his sword, all those worries faded away almost instantly.

There had been no chance to test his weapon properly in the Shadow Realm — although the journey had taken months, they hadn’t had even a single hour to spare for training.

But now that Arran finally wielded the weapon in earnest, he found that it surpassed his expectations.

Although the sword was still subdued after witnessing Arran’s Destruction Realm, the bond they shared meant that he could feel the weapon as it cut through the air — almost as if it was part of his own body.

Moreover, as he used the weapon, it subtly adjusted itself to his needs. It grew slightly longer and much heavier, and its balance — already better than that of any normal weapon — improved further, reaching a level of perfection Arran had not thought possible.

And that was with only a few hours of free practice.

Excited at the results, Arran moved on to the styles he had learned in the House of Swords — the Stalwart Blade, the Floating Leaf, and the Thousand Cuts. Each of these focused on a different aspect of swordsmanship — defense, avoidance, and offense — and he was curious to see how his weapon would adjust to them.

With a few days of training, it became apparent that neither the Stalwart Blade nor the Floating Leaf suited the weapon’s nature especially well.

Although it performed with all the effectiveness of a perfect blade — further encouraged by Arran constantly feeding it Essence — it was clear that defense and avoidance weren’t its natural strengths.

Yet the Thousand Cuts style was a different matter.

When Arran began to execute the long series of attacks contained within the style — well over a thousand, despite the name — a feeling of familiarity came from his sword. And not just familiarity. There was enthusiasm, too, as if the weapon was keen to learn the style.

Perhaps the sword had little affinity for defense and avoidance, but attacks were evidently something it knew and valued.

Arran spent a week going through the Thousand Cuts many times, and he was pleased to discover that both he and his weapon seemed to benefit from his practice. Not only did the sword become more effective as it learned Arran’s moves, the sensations and images that came through their bond also became more familiar to Arran.

But there was another step to take. Although the styles from the House of Swords were all treasures in their own right, none of them could compare to Arran’s greatest achievement — his own sword style.

And when he set to work on introducing his sword to his style, it only took him moments to discover that the two were perfectly matched.

This was no surprise — his style was built around his true insight into severing, and its viciousness rivaled that of his sword. The weapon appeared to realize this as well, and it welcomed the style like a long-lost brother.

With both Arran and his weapon training zealously, their progress was rapid. After just two weeks, there was no doubt in Arran’s mind that despite his still-weakened body, he had already surpassed his previous might.

There was more than just progress, however.

As Arran wielded his sword, faint images would sometimes come through their bond. Shreds of memories, he suspected. And if these were indeed memories, then the weapon’s past was a bloody one.

Each of the faint images held the same thing — death.

Again and again, Arran witnessed his blade taking lives. With some shock, he realized that these were no enemies on a battlefield. Rather, they were prisoners — countless thousands, and all of them mages. And every time the weapon cut one down, it feasted upon its victim’s Essence.

Arran had known from his weapon’s original shape that it had been an executioner’s blade, but witnessing its victims was still unsettling, even with the faintness of the images that came through the bond.

Yet the memories suggested something else, as well. If the sword held memories from before its world was ruined and filled with Shadow, then it must have gained its first sliver of consciousness long before it ever turned into Living Shadow.

Perhaps it was a result of absorbing the Essence of numerous mages. And if that was the case, it might explain why the weapon was stronger than the other pieces of Living Shadow in the armory — it had begun its journey to consciousness long before any of them.

But the weapon now belonged to Arran, and regardless of its bloody origins, he would make good use of its power.

When he finished his sword training, he turned his attention to his final task — studying Brightblade’s wards.

It was the last thing he would do before leaving the caverns. And if the portal hadn’t closed by the time he finished, he would have to return eventually to complete the task that Karanos had started.

The book of wards Brightblade had given Arran was much like he’d expected. It contained a variety of concealment wards more advanced than the ones he already knew, but with his keen Sense and the sword’s help, learning most of them took only a few weeks.

There were two that stood out, however, both of them far more complex than the others. And as Arran studied them, it was obvious that Brightblade had included them specifically to help him in the Hunters’ lands.

The first was an advanced Shadow ward that concealed small objects — a way to hide his void ring from even the most thorough examination.

His sword offered further improvements to the ward, and with a few weeks of study, Arran was able to hide his void ring so well that even his weapon could only barely Sense it.

The second ward posed a bigger challenge, however.

This was a concealment ward, too, but one intended to mask the Essence within one’s body, which was a far more difficult task. Yet although the ward was hellishly complex, Arran knew he’d have to learn it — even without the Hunters, he suspected that this was what Brightblade had used to hide her Essence in the Ninth Valley’s mountains, and a skill like that would be invaluable.

Arran struggled with the ward for over a month. But even with his sword’s help and improvements, the result left him unsatisfied.

While the ward was good enough to hide his Essence from normal mages, he now knew that there were people and things whose Sense was far more accurate.

Even after a month of careful study, the only Essence Arran was truly confident in hiding was his Shadow Essence. That, he could conceal so well even his sword had difficulty Sensing it.

But the other kinds were a problem — anyone with a Sense not much stronger than Arran’s own could detect them if he left his Realms unsealed.

He did not know whether the Hunters’ lands held such people, but this wasn’t something he could be careless about. Before he entered the Hunters’ lands, he would have to seal his Realms.

Still, he spent another two weeks fiddling with the ward, using his sword’s insights and Sense to make minor improvements to it. The work wasn’t particularly useful, but he knew that once he finished, he would have to leave.

Yet the portal didn’t close, and Arran knew he could wait no longer. It was time for him to depart.

He gave the portal a final look, and as he gazed at the black vortex, he thought of the man who was trapped behind it.

There was nothing he could do about the situation, however — he could not close the portal, and he certainly lacked the strength to save Karanos even if the man was still alive.

"When I return, I’ll have the strength to close this damn thing."

No response came from the portal, but Arran knew he would make good on the threat. Once the war was won, he would find a way to destroy the portal once and for all.

But right now, there was nothing useful he could do. Of all the wards and seals he knew, only Master Zhao’s seal might have a chance at stopping anything that emerged from the portal. And although he knew the seal well, he still lacked the strength to create a version large enough to seal away the black chasm.

With a sigh, he turned around and left.

There were other dangers that needed his attention. And if he let himself be distracted by this task, he might die before ever gaining the strength to accomplish it.

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