New fingering

The morning sun shone just as brightly, bathing the labyrinth of Rondon's cobblestone streets in golden rays. Artemon, whose sleepless night had been plagued by nightmares of the bleak future of these lands, woke up wearily. The first thing he did was open the window of his room, allowing the fragrant beams of light to warm the dark corners of his soul. The young man quickly washed with cold water, fastened his cloak, and headed down the stairs. As soon as he crossed the imaginary boundary of the first floor, the innkeeper's voice rang out: "Good morning, Mr. Feldrin. You're up early." Her voice was warm and gentle, like May dew on a hot, clear day.

Elara was a middle-aged woman with kind blue eyes that sparkled with wisdom and a soft, sunny smile. Her fair hair, streaked with silver, was neatly pulled back, and her simple yet elegant deep green dress gave her a calm grace.

Artemon nodded in response, smiling politely. "Good morning, Elara. Unfortunately, I didn't sleep well last night: nightmares kept me awake," he said, averting his gaze.

She nodded understandingly.

"Do you happen to know where a traveler might go to better see the city?" the young man in the cloak asked thoughtfully.

"You should visit the central market, Mr. Feldrin. It is undoubtedly the heart of our city," Elara responded kindly.

Thanking her for the advice, Artemon stepped out into the bustling street. According to Elara, the market was near the city's central square, down the street and to the left. That's where the young man headed. Walking through Rondon's busy streets, his soul was filled with the vibrant energy of its inhabitants. But before he could fully enjoy this atmosphere, Artemon found himself among stalls selling various goods. The market was filled with the noise of voices, blending into a single melody of chaos.

As he strolled through the market, Artemon felt a growing sense of anticipation slowly spreading through his body. Here, amid the hustle and bustle, he hoped to find the information and clues that would lead him to the person capable of helping him find answers to the questions that tormented him.

Suddenly, the young man's attention was drawn to a group of rough-looking men causing a commotion at a pumpkin stall. The vendor, a sturdy man with a kind face, was trying to fend them off: "I don't have what you need. Please, leave and stop scaring people." The gang leader, a bald man, merely smirked and shoved him aside: "We know you have it, Stefan. Give it back, or you'll regret it."

Stefan's face turned pale; it was clear he didn't want any trouble. But he stood his ground: "I told you, leave. I have nothing!"

Artemon's heart pounded in his chest, each beat resonating through his body. He could not tolerate this any longer and hastened towards the group of troublemakers, clenching his fists. Approaching them, the young man in the cloak loudly proclaimed, "Leave him alone! He said he doesn't have what you're looking for." The thugs turned to face the source of the shout. Noticing Artemon, they laughed mockingly.

"This is none of your business, kid," said a large man standing next to Artemon.

"Get lost, runt," joined in a bigger bald man standing slightly behind the first. "Or you won't be picking up your teeth later."

"He must be their leader..." the young man thought to himself.

The rough face was still staring at him with a fierce look. He was dressed in a patched vest over a dirty shirt, his muscular arms covered in scratches and bruises, speaking of his considerable experience in street fights. A silver chain hung around his neck, and his sides were adorned with crooked scars that spread across his body like small streams under the scorching rays of the golden sun.

Unwavering, Artemon took two slow steps towards the thugs, showing that he would not back down.

"So you won't back down... Seems like you've got some guts," growled the leader of the ruffians with a hoarse voice.

They burst into laughter again: what could an ordinary boy in a cloak possibly do? Especially alone.

Like an enraged monkey, the gang leader charged at Artemon with his fists. But, anticipating this reckless move, the young man dodged the lightning-fast punch that could have cost him a few teeth. Artemon's hand sparked with a surge of magic—he released a bright lightning bolt at the leader's legs, sending him crashing to the ground.

As the gang leader lay immobilized at Artemon's feet, a smaller thug shouted, "He's a mage!"

Fear was evident in the eyes of the others, for no one knew what his next move would be.

"I knew you were just a bunch of cowards," the young man said softly with a slight smirk.

Taking advantage of the confusion among the thugs, the young man in the cloak cast another spell, which instantly unbalanced those who were still standing.

"Grab Brooks and let's get out of here!" yelled a distant thug with a mace in his left hand.

The group of men, clad in light chainmail, quickly grabbed their leader and began to flee into the shadows of the market stalls, catching the disdainful looks of the locals who had suffered from their tyranny for years. One of them dared to shout as they left, "We'll deal with you later, mage! Your end is near!"

"Are you alright?" Artemon extended his hand.

"I've had worse," Stefan replied in his tenor voice.

"My name is Artemon," the young man introduced himself politely.

"Stefan. Nice to meet you," the merchant replied, slightly out of breath.

Before Stefan could get up, a crowd of onlookers who had witnessed the defeat of the local tyrants surrounded the young man in the cloak. They immediately began to cheer for the hero. The local residents encircled the young man, but he did not show that he had done anything special, knowing the bandits would return soon. The poor guy had no place to escape from the noise of the crowd enveloping him from all sides. Suddenly, someone grabbed Artemon's hand from the crowd. It was Stefan. He pulled him aside and led him into his stall. The crowd began to disperse. However, a little boy dressed in rags ran up to the young man in the cloak and asked, "You won't let them hurt us again, will you?" To which he replied kindly, "No, I won't." Before the young man could finish his sentence, the boy's mother rushed over. "There you are, you rascal! If he bothers you, please forgive him. Lately, he's been dreaming about a hero who will restore Rondon to its former glory. He reads too many fairy tales and makes up all sorts of things." Artemon quietly said, "It's alright." The mother and her child left.

Stefan, watching the scene, sighed deeply and began to restore his stall to its usual order.

"Looks like you already have your first admirers," Stefan chuckled, admiring the scene.

"Don't say that. I haven't done anything yet," the young man replied sarcastically.

"Well, you certainly made an impression. Not many have the courage to stand up to those thugs," Stefan laughed softly.

The merchant looked at the young man with his blue eyes, his kind but stern face turned towards the hero. Stefan was dressed in a merchant's tunic, worn from his time as a trader.

An awkward silence fell.

"Listen, Stefan, do you happen to know where I can find someone who understands magical barriers?" Artemon broke the silence.

The merchant pondered for a moment, as he knew nothing about the local mages. But he did know someone who might help.

"I may not know much about magical barriers, but I think I know someone who can help you," Stefan replied seriously. "However, there are more pressing matters," he added mysteriously.

"More pressing?" the young man raised an eyebrow.

"That group of bandits you chased away. They will return. These people have suffered enough. We need to deal with them," Stefan replied.

"We?" Artemon was surprised.

"Yes. Don't you want to help those in need? Lend a hand?" the merchant asked, raising his voice. "Believe me, there's no one else," Stefan added coldly.

The young man in the cloak was torn by doubts: on one hand, darkness was encroaching on these lands closer with each passing moment, and he needed to hurry, or everything would be in vain. On the other hand, the people who had lived under tyranny and oppression for many years—didn't they deserve to feel the gentle, warm rays of light, bringing peace to their hearts, even if just for a short time?

Artemon stood in thought for about five minutes. His body defied his mind, ready to crush the local oppressors, while his thoughts dwelled on the foggy future looming on the horizon of coming days.

Clenching his fists tightly, he sharply declared, "I'm in. What's the plan?"

Stefan's eyes sparkled with faint specks of light.

"Well... I propose we raid the lair of these filthy animals. I know where it is: not far from the central market, near Rosalia Street. If you turn right and go about thirty meters forward, that's where they stash their loot taken from the weak and defenseless," Stefan said. "I'll prepare the gear: we can't go into battle empty-handed..."

Artemon stood idly, watching the merchant prepare. His eyes were fixed on the floor. After all, a mage needed no equipment—he could perform magic with his bare hands, capable of mesmerizing some and sending others to their graves in seconds.

Suddenly, the young man's gaze fell on an elegant axe, partially covered by a burgundy cloak in the corner of the room. The designs on such an axe were usually preserved in ancient scrolls, which the young man seemed to know by heart. With each passing second, staring at this axe, Artemon thought it was some divine weapon, capable of felling an entire army with a single swing.

"Aixatellia..." the young man whispered. "Could it be... Is it really him?.. I only read about it in scrolls... I thought it was a myth... This merchant is clearly not who he claims to be..." the young man continued his mental dialogue with himself.

Aixatellia—one of the nine divine artifacts created by Lunaris, the Moon God, served as a testament to his unparalleled skill in blacksmithing. Renowned through the ages, Lunaris' creations, imbued with celestial power, forever altered the established order. Among this flawless weaponry were nine great artifacts, capable of changing the fate of an entire people with a single swing.

Forged from shards of star iron and tempered in the blood of ancient dragons, Aixatellia granted its wielder extraordinary strength. Legends of warriors who wielded this magnificent axe are inscribed in the annals of history, though they have languished in oblivion for thousands of years.

But such celestial power came at a price. Each artifact demanded a toll, requiring something of equal value in exchange for the bestowed abilities.

However, despite its glorious past, Aixatellia was lost among the ruins of the ancient world, lying dormant until this moment, waiting to once again take its place in the tapestry of fate, hidden from both mortals and gods. At least, until now.

Stefan could not help but notice Artemon's intense gaze at the axe resting in the corner.

"Is something wrong?" the merchant asked politely.

"It's just..." Artemon muttered under his breath, still staring at the axe.

"I see you can't take your eyes off my axe. Want to buy it?" the merchant smirked.

"No... This axe... I've seen it before," the young man said awkwardly.

"Don't be ridiculous. I found it in a pile of junk many years ago. Thought I could get a good price for it," Stefan dispelled the doubts.

"Can I take a closer look at it?" Artemon asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.

"Sure," the merchant replied, crossing his arms.

The young man in the cloak slowly approached the axe. As he reached out his hand to the weapon, his fingers trembled slightly. As soon as his fingertip touched the axe, memories of its previous owners flashed through Artemon's mind at a furious pace, merging into a terrible scene: the death of the owner by his own hand in a fit of rage. The young man jumped back sharply, his fingers still shaking.

"What happened?" Stefan asked, puzzled.

Artemon took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart.

"The axe. It's... The weapon that wiped out entire nations..." the young man said, his voice trembling. "Where did you get it?" he suddenly raised his voice.

The merchant stood silently, staring at Artemon with empty eyes.

"Answer me! And don't give me any nonsense. How could a divine weapon end up with an ordinary merchant who sells vegetables? You say you found it in a pile of junk? Hard to believe." The mage continued his questions. "Who are you?! Maybe you're a murderer who killed innocents?" Artemon almost shouted, taking a defensive stance.

"Calm down, Artemon," Stefan said deeply. "I found this axe in the Whispering Sands a long time ago. I haven't touched it since," the merchant continued, his voice tinged with anxiety.

Looking into Stefan's kind yet infinitely empty eyes, Artemon calmed down a bit; his heart returned to its normal rhythm.

The merchant's eyes softened. He took a few subtle steps toward the axe.

"It has just been gathering dust since I found it. I have no idea what you're talking about," Stefan slowly reached for the axe. "After all, nothing bad or strange has happened while it's been in my stall."

"Don't do it! Step away from the axe!" Artemon shouted.

"See for yourself," Stefan replied sarcastically, taking the axe in his hands.

Artemon was ready to attack the merchant at any moment. He felt a light influx of magic in his fingers, which was growing stronger. Tension filled the shop, as if a monstrous storm was about to break in clear weather, ready to sweep anyone away: darkness had once again found a way into the hearts of the light.

Suddenly, the merchant began handling the axe like a royal paladin: he wielded the massive weapon with such ease, as if he were holding not a divine weapon, but a light feather gliding through the air. Such skillful handling had not been seen in the last hundred years.

"See? Nothing special. Just a regular weapon, albeit crafted in an elegant style, similar to the royal guards' arms," Stefan said calmly, slowly placing the axe back. "What got into you?"

Artemon relaxed. But something deep inside told him: this axe was not to be trusted.

"Alright. Sorry. It's just not every day you see an axe of such quality," the young man muttered. "Back to business. First, we need to deal with the local bandits. Then you'll help me find someone who understands magical barriers. Right?" the mage confirmed.

"Yes," the merchant replied seriously.

After finishing his preparations, Stefan stopped by the axe and stared at it.

"I should take the weapon; how can I go without it?" Stefan thought.

"Take it... You shouldn't go there without the axe. Alright, I'm a mage: I don't need a weapon. Besides, I saw how you handled it. Don't worry about my previous words," Artemon interrupted.

"So be it," the merchant reluctantly agreed.

Artemon and Stefan headed towards the bandits' lair.