Book 5: Chapter 12 - The Dancing Blade (RAW)

A worthy man does not see success as the final rest, nor does he regard failure as a fatal end. Rather, it is the steady cultivation of courage and perseverance that truly shapes a noble character.

- A Quassian Aphorism.

It felt as though I had just been trampled by a stampede of charging beasts. My body screamed, every nerve ablaze, and something warm and sticky leaked from my lips. I tasted it before I smelled it—the sharp, metallic tang of iron. Blood. My blood.

Instinct took over. I wrenched my visor up, gasping as I scanned my Status. My Health sat at just under half, a grim confirmation of what my body already knew. Pain pulsed everywhere, an intricate patchwork of agony. A wry grin pulled at my mouth. Still alive. There was a silver lining: even now, the Lesser Regeneration granted by my Mark of the Adaptive Helix was knitting me back together, slowly but surely. My eyes flicked again to my Mimic Shield—the thing was sitting at fifty points of Health left. It had taken the brunt of that explosion so that was no wonder.

With a grunt, I tried to rise, pushing my hammer against the ground. My feet obeyed—barely. The weight of my armor dragged at me, but the heavy Adamantine alloy had held, stubbornly unyielding against Canis’ blast. It did its job. But the force of the explosion still damaged me as there was no getting around physics in this world.

I stood there, swaying, my breath ragged. And yet, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, my mind locked onto one thing: the devastating spell.

My boosted Intelligence brought every detail back with crystal clarity. The memory sharpened, pulling me back to the moment Canis had spoken the words. I remembered them—not a chant, not a song to coax Mana into obedience. No, they had been… raw. Simple. A command, as simple as it was terrifying.

A compulsion surged through me—a hunger that burned brighter than the pain. What was it? What had he said? The need to know overwhelmed reason, swallowing me whole. I couldn’t resist. My hands moved instinctively, and I cast Sage’s Sight on my own memory, pulling the words from the past, translating the arcane syllables that had tumbled from Canis' lips.

Shiptu Sarareshsattu, The First Spell. The spell of beginnings and the spell of becoming.

The knowledge returned like a whispered secret, slithering through my thoughts. The voices inside me stirred, murmuring warnings. This is a tool. A terrible tool. A forbidden one. One that must never be cast.

Especially, not by me. 

Because the effects were clear. Canis had proven it: the First Spell was explosive, uncontrollable. Worse than an unshackled god.

Even in the stillness of the aftermath, I shivered. My Lesser Regeneration continued to tick away, knitting flesh and sealing wounds, but that knowledge, that terrible truth, carved deeper into my psyche.

The explosion had dismissed my Aura spell, and it was just as well—I needed clarity now more than ever. Taking a small step forward, I cast a simple Healing spell, the warmth of it flowing through me and raising my Health to a safer margin. Times like this made me grateful the spell worked by percentage rather than a fixed amount; I would need every drop of strength for what came next.

I surveyed what remained of the Grand Bazaar. The earthen dome above had collapsed, allowing thin shafts of celestial light to pierce the gloom. All around me lay charred ruins of stone and earth, splintered and sundered. Fragments of bodies littered the ground like grotesque confetti. The scene left me doubtful the Necromancer had survived.

Then I saw him, Vincenzio, his body slumped against the jagged edge of the ruined dome. He was still alive, or something close to it. Urgency sparked within me; I could not fail now, not after coming this far. If the NPC died before I obtained his scroll, I’d lose the promised rewards and experience. It would all have been for nothing.

I rushed to his side. His sallow face, somehow even paler now, caught a dramatic beam of light from a crack in the dome above, framing him like a dying hero in some tragic finale.

“Good… you have survived,” he rasped. “Unfortunately… the same cannot be said of me… one is surely dead.”

The lower half of his torso was gone, and charred bone had fused into a macabre seal. Even I could tell he was beyond ordinary salvation—unless I intervened.

“Wait, just a moment,” I said, mustering my calm. “I can heal you with my magic.”

He laughed bitterly, a rattling sound. “No… I would not survive Her touch, and I will not suffer it,” he said, refusing my offer.

“What about potions?” I insisted. “I have—”

“Beyond the reach of Alchemy, Gilgamesh,” he cut in. “Stop wasting time… it already hurts to breathe. Quickly, in my bag.” He nodded weakly toward the charred remains of his satchel.

I tore it open, my hands fumbling past half-melted potions and a fine dagger sheathed in ornate metal. “You must seal that creature in the dagger,” Vincenzio gasped. “It is a Vessel. Canis must have had one as well. That’s why they fought the Djinn—the Consumed One—for themselves, not to save this city.” He coughed, spraying blood. “Bah! Enough… of an old man’s complaints!”

“What do you want me to do with this?” I demanded.

“Kill the creature with the Vessel, the dagger,” he said. “Its soul will be trapped inside, creating an Artifact. Not as mighty as one forged by the Ancients, but still powerful. Better in your hands than theirs.”

I slipped the blade from its sheath with a soft whisper of steel against leather. The dagger was a thing of cruel beauty, slender and keen, its polished surface a silverine hue. It was as long as my forearm and tapered to a wicked needle’s point, fit to slide beneath a mail shirt or through the joints of a fine-wrought breastplate. A small crossguard of darkened steel held a single red gem at its heart, a ruby maybe, or a red garnet the color of old blood. The grip was carved from dense Ironwood and at its pommel coiled a bronze serpent’s head, fanged and hollow-eyed. It was a beautiful weapon, this dagger, but a part of me doubted that it would be able to seal or defeat the Djinn.

“I see, Vincenzio… and what of our Accord? I have kept my word,” I growled.

He smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You have indeed, strange Traveler, free of the Divines’ influence.” He paused, his voice growing distant. “But one has always paid in advance and in full. Bellringer,” he said, nodding toward my hammer, “the rest is up to you.”

I gritted my teeth, stifling my frustration. “Enough with the riddles,” I snapped.

“Allow a dying man some mystery, Gilgamesh,” he answered, mocking me gently as he hovered at death’s edge.

“Tell it plainly,” I said flatly, no patience left for theatrics.

He drew a ragged breath. “Feed it death. The hammer is my Manzaza Shiptu. One of my greatest works. Use it well, use it often, and it will reveal its secrets when you are ready.”

So I just needed to spill more blood to awaken a new school of magic. Fine by me.

“A final request… from a friend,” the Necromancer pleaded softly.

Without hesitation, Bellringer answered for me, caving in Vincenzio’s skull and ending his suffering. A single, brutal moment of clarity.

You have slain Vincenzio Barbierri 1200 experience gained.

Shrugging, I decided I might as well get started. The weapon, having consumed Vincenzio’s soul, felt almost sated—just a bit more and it would be truly satisfied.

I hadn’t forgotten his betrayal, nor the five long years I’d lost in that Dust Dream. Five years I could have spent reaching similar heights without risking possession by some ancient specter. Vincenzio might have preferred paying in advance, but I always made sure to settle my debts in full. A satisfied smirk twisted my lips at that thought.

Now there was only Zariyah to deal with, and by Vincenzio’s own words, it seemed I’d soon be adding another magical weapon to my arsenal. When it rained, it certainly poured.

*****

My feet carried me toward the center of the square as I scanned the ruins for the Djinn. What was it like to be consumed by your own magic? I wondered. Was that the fate waiting for me too, or had Zariyah failed simply because she lacked the will and discipline? Who knew—and who cared? I was already on this path, and there would be no turning back now.

More death, more destruction. None of it mattered as long as I could ascend a few more levels.

I felt the Grace of Avaria settle heavily upon my shoulders, the silent and blind Goddess of Justice pressing her weight into my soul. It was fitting. After all, I had sacrificed the minions of her hated sister in her name, tipping some invisible scale toward balance. But with so many powers tugging at me, each demanding fealty, it grew harder by the moment to find a path that was truly my own.

Perhaps another magical weapon would help set my course?

I saw it. Securing the dagger to my worn belt, I advanced, pushing toward the storm of wind that was coalescing at the heart of the square. My Sage’s Sight flared, confirming what I already suspected: the wounded Djinn, Zariyah, awaited me there. A twisting pillar of roiling Wind surrounding the vague shape of a woman. The very air crackled with the last remnants of elemental fury, but I would not hesitate. My armor and Skills were ill-suited for stealth, yet I needed no grand announcement. My forced respite had restored my Stamina, and that was enough.

Heedless of cooldowns and caution, I invoked Dash thrice in rapid succession, tearing across the broken ground. Hesitation had no place here—every second risked the Djinn’s recovery. Could I endure an all-out battle with such an elemental being? Possibly, but the cost would be steep. Better to strike now, while she still reeled.

Still, a hint of prudence whispered in my mind. I urged the voices within to begin casting Greater Drain, and they complied with eager malice. I drew close—only ten paces separated me from the withered Elemental—and released the dark tendrils of hunger. They latched onto it, sinking into a thing both primal and human, raw magic interwoven with mortal essence.

At this proximity, I took in more than just power. Through the parasitic link of Greater Drain, emotions flowed into me: raw, unfiltered feelings laid bare. Gratitude. It stopped me cold. Jaded as I was, it stunned me that Zariyah could still feel thankful. She knew what I’d done for her. She had always cherished freedom above all else, as much as she prized sacrifice. Now, memories rushed into me, fragments of her life, her struggle.

I tasted her awkwardness, her inability to express what simmered beneath the surface, and the guilt that gnawed at her for failing to reciprocate the feelings I had shown. Wind was her element, wild and unfettered. Free from her Contract and stripped of mortal bonds, she had become an unbound force. With no discipline, no focus, no ties, it was inevitable. Thus, she had turned into a Consumed One, a Djinn of the Wind and Sands.

But now, at the edge of oblivion, she felt gratitude. Soon, she would be free—free of everything. And for a moment, just a moment, I felt that freedom echo in my own soul.

For I too, wished to be free.

“Thank you,” the Wind whispered all around me as I used Improved Rush Strike. 

There was resistance, the Wind pushing itself to turn my blow in a last act of desperation, but my strike was heavy with greed and I plunged the Vessel blade into her.

I felt the blade sink into the tenuous shape of her form, a blow that should have liberated her at last. Yet as I drew it forth, cutting away at the Wind itself, her outline wavered, dimming like a candle guttering in a sudden breeze. The faint womanly shape gave a startled gasp; her mouth formed what might have been a smile, slender and hopeful, before twisting into horror. The ruby on my dagger’s crossguard flared—a crimson eye swallowing the pale blue soul-light—and a slender thread of her essence drew inward, siphoned into the weapon’s hungry depths.

A moment before, she had been almost joyous, relieved that her long servitude was about to end. Gratitude and liberation had welled up in her, and through the parasitic link of the Greater Drain, I felt it all—the rawness of her heart laid open to me. Then came the shock, the terror as her spirit was snared. The gem’s surface gleamed brighter, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

Her memories rushed in like a gale: flickers of her laughter, the salt-taste of her tears, the swirl of desert sands dancing in sunlit cyclones. She had cherished freedom as one cherishes life itself. Now that freedom was mine to hold. I stood there trembling, the dagger heavy in my hand. The wind whispered through the broken stones, calling me by her voice, though fainter now, distorted by the ruby’s silent hunger.

There was satisfaction as even more experience filled me.

I had stolen not just her power, but her longing. And in that silent agony of her trapped soul, I rejoiced. 

My Sage’s Sight revealed to me of my new named weapon.

Zariyah the Dancing Blade.