The training sword bent like a reed in a hurricane, metal groaning before it finally gave up and folded nearly in half. Avian stared at the ruined weapon with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance.
"Fucking cheap steel," he muttered, though he knew the blade wasn't really to blame. He'd been channeling too much aura again, pushing harder than any training weapon was meant to handle. The need to test his limits, to feel something real after days of playing weak, had overwhelmed caution.
The bent sword joined three others in the corner of his private training room — a growing graveyard of weapons that couldn't withstand what his body remembered doing. At this rate, he'd run out of practice blades before the month was over.
Need something better. Something that won't snap the moment I stop holding back.
Which meant a trip to the blacksmith. Not the prestigious weaponsmiths who served the main family — they'd ask too many questions about why a twelve-year-old tertiary branch member needed combat-grade steel. No, he'd have to go to the lower districts, where coin mattered more than credentials.
Avian changed out of his sweat-soaked training clothes, opting for plain garments that wouldn't scream "noble" to everyone he passed. A simple cloak completed the disguise. Just another customer looking for steel, nothing remarkable about that.
The lower districts still carried the bones of the old city — the one that had existed before the Demon War, before Saint Vaerin's "victory" had ushered in five centuries of prosperity. Here, buildings leaned against each other like drunks after last call, and the streets followed patterns that made sense only if you'd grown up navigating them.
For Dex, it felt like coming home.
Left at the bakery — still there after all these years, though the family running it has changed. Right at the intersection where we used to roll dice against the guard patrols. Straight through the market that used to sell more stolen goods than legal ones.
His feet knew the way even if the landmarks had shifted. Some things changed, but the soul of the slums endured.
The blacksmith shop squatted between a tavern and a moneylender, all three looking like they'd been there since the city's founding. Smoke leaked from the chimney, carrying the familiar scent of hot metal and coal. A sign hung above the door, so faded the words were barely visible: "Grend's Steel — No Questions, Fair Prices."
Perfect.
The bell above the door had probably announced customers when the shop was new. Now it managed a pathetic rattle that barely rose above the sound of hammer on anvil. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the accumulated grime of centuries.
"Be with you in a moment," a voice called from the back, followed by the ring of steel on steel.
Avian let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The shop was cramped, every surface covered with weapons in various states of completion or repair. Swords hung from the rafters. Spears leaned in corners. Daggers filled display cases that had seen better decades. And along the back wall...
His heart stopped.
There, among the detritus of five hundred years, hung a sword that shouldn't exist.
It was rust incarnate. Red-brown corrosion covered every inch of exposed metal, the blade looking more like a disease than a weapon. The leather wrapping on the hilt had long since rotted away, leaving bare tang that no sane warrior would want to grip. By any reasonable measure, it was scrap metal waiting to happen.
But Avian knew that weight. Knew the precise curve of that guard, even beneath the rust. Knew the way it would sit in his hand like an extension of his own arm.
Fargrim.
"Admiring my wall of orphans?"
Avian flinched, so focused on the sword he hadn't heard the blacksmith approach. The man was exactly what you'd expect — built like a beer barrel, arms thick as tree trunks, beard singed from years of forge work. His eyes were sharp though, taking in Avian's plain clothes and the way he stood.
"Orphans?" Avian managed, voice steady despite his racing pulse.
"Blades that've been here so long nobody remembers who made 'em or why." Grend wiped sweat from his brow with a sleeve already soaked through. "That piece of rust you're staring at? Been hanging there since before my grandfather's time. Won't take an edge, won't clean up proper. More decoration than weapon now."
"How much?"
Grend laughed, a sound like gravel in a barrel. "Boy, you could find better steel in a garbage heap. Why would you—"
"Sentimental value," Avian lied smoothly. "Looks like something my great-uncle used to carry. He had stories about the war."
"Which war?"
"The real one."
That got a different look from the blacksmith. Evaluating. In the lower districts, 'the real one' only meant one thing — the Demon War. Everything else was just politics with blood.
"Huh." Grend moved to the wall, reaching up to unhook the blade. "Well, if you want to waste your coin on nostalgia, who am I to argue? Though I should warn you — thing's heavier than it looks. And the balance is all wrong, like it was made for someone with gorilla arms."
He handed it over, and Avian had to fight not to react as his hand closed around the familiar grip. Even through the rust, even after five centuries, Fargrim knew him. He could feel it in the weight, in the way the sword settled into his palm like a key finding its lock.
But the blade was sleeping. Where once it had hummed with power, drunk on demon blood and Dex's own massive aura reserves, now it was just dead metal. Starved. Waiting.
I'm here, he thought, letting a trickle of mana seep into the tang. I'm back.
For just a moment, he could have sworn the rust flaked slightly. A tiny response, like a dying man's fingers twitching at the promise of water.
"How much?" he asked again.
Grend scratched his beard. "Honestly? Just take it. Thing's been cluttering up my wall for longer than I've been alive. Though..." He rummaged under the counter, producing something wrapped in oiled cloth. "If you're taking it for sentimental reasons, might as well have this too."
He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a sheath that had survived the centuries far better than the blade. Black leather over what might have been steel or something stranger, with fittings that had tarnished to green but still held their shape.
"Always assumed they went together," Grend said. "Previous owner must have really loved that blade to spring for a sheath that quality. Shame the sword didn't age as well."
You have no idea, Avian thought, taking the sheath with hands that barely trembled. This was Fargrim's home, crafted by the same demon-smith who'd forged the blade. Made to contain power that could cut through reality if properly fed.
"Thank you," he said, meaning it more than the blacksmith could know.
"Yeah, well. Just don't come crying to me when that rust bucket snaps the first time you swing it." Grend was already turning back to his forge. "Now, did you actually need something that works, or was this whole visit about adopting orphans?"
"Right. Yes." Avian carefully set Fargrim aside, pulling out the bent training sword. "I need something that can handle... enthusiastic practice."
Grend's eyebrows rose as he examined the twisted metal. "Enthusiastic? Boy, this looks like you tried to parry a charging bull. What the hell were you doing?"
"Training gets intense sometimes."
"I'll say." The blacksmith tossed the ruined blade into a scrap pile. "I've got some pieces that might survive your 'enthusiasm.' Won't be pretty, but they'll hold up better than this. Give me a week."
"Fair enough." Avian counted out coins, adding a generous tip. "For the inconvenience. And the orphan."
Grend grunted approval, already pulling stock steel from racks. "Come back in seven days. And boy? Maybe ease up on the training a bit. All the enthusiasm in the world won't help if you break every blade you touch."
If you only knew how much I'm holding back.
Avian secured Fargrim in its sheath, the weight across his back so familiar it hurt. Even dormant, even starved of mana, the sword felt right in a way nothing had since he'd awakened in this new life. A piece of his past, tangible and real.
The trip back through the lower districts passed in a blur. His mind was already calculating — how much mana he could feed Fargrim each day without anyone noticing, how long it might take to fully awaken the blade, whether anyone would recognize it once the rust fell away.
Probably not. Who alive would remember one specific demon sword? The Church burned most records, and the few drawings that survived wouldn't look much like a restored blade.
Still, he'd have to be careful. A supposedly worthless sword that gradually became a masterwork would draw attention. Maybe he could claim he was slowly restoring it? Learning metalwork as a hobby?
The lies were getting complicated, but what else was new?
As he walked, Avian let more mana trickle into the blade. Through the sheath, through the rust, into the sleeping core of what had once been his most trusted weapon. The sword drank it greedily, five centuries of starvation making it desperate for any taste of power.
Patience, he thought. We've waited this long. A few more months won't kill us.
Though it might kill anyone who got in their way once Fargrim woke properly.
The thought should have bothered him. The old Avian — the noble boy he pretended to be — would have been horrified at such casual thoughts of violence. But Dex had never pretended killing bothered him. It was just another tool, like lies or truth or the sword slowly awakening on his back.
He was so lost in thought he almost missed the sounds of fighting.
Almost.
The clash of steel on steel cut through his reverie like a blade through silk. Not the controlled ring of sparring, but the desperate crash of actual combat. Someone was fighting for their life.
And from the sound of it, they were losing.