A Worthy Blade

Andre's whole body felt sore as he observed his men assisting the villagers in securing the village entrance. He had never experienced such a combination of physical and emotional exhaustion before.

His attention was caught by a squeaking sound of wood. A man, with wide shoulders and a grey beard resembling iron shavings, walked up to him.

"You must be the one who saved us," the man said, his voice rough and weary but laced with gratitude.

"Corporal Andre," he corrected, offering a tired smile. "And it wasn't just me. My men were pretty damn good too."

The man chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Malkof," he said, extending a calloused hand. "Blacksmith of Nefari. And from the bottom of my heart, thank you."

Andre winced slightly as Malkof's firm grip squeezed his hand. Looking down at the shattered handle hanging from his waist, he felt a surge of sadness.

As if reading his mind, Malkof asked, "Your sword... can I take a look at it?"

Andre hesitated, then brought out the broken hilt. "Actually," he said, surprising himself, "I think I need a new one."

Malkof's eyebrows shot up. "A complete rebuild then? Quite the undertaking."

"Not just any rebuild," Andre clarified, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes. "I want something… different."

He paused for a moment, envisioning the weapon that would help him attain Supreme villainhood.

A bastard sword," he said, "black as night, forged from the strongest material you can find. Indestructible, if possible."

Malkof's eyes gleamed with a blacksmith's passion. "Interesting. And what about magic?"

Andre hadn't considered that, but the idea sparked something within him. "Yes," he said, his voice growing firmer. "I want it to be able to manipulate Mana. And add my personal rune to it, the one that amplifies my strikes."

Malkof's whistle was low and respectful. "A tall order, Corporal," he said, a grin splitting his beard. "But a challenge I relish. Tell you what," he continued, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'll gather what materials I can find around here, rare metals, enchanted crystals, whatever you think might fit the bill. I'll see what magic I can weave into it."

A surge of gratitude washed over Andre. He might be leaving Nefari, but he wouldn't be walking away empty-handed. "Deal," he said, a smile stretching across his face for the first time since the battle. "Just give me a weapon worthy of the nightmares we're facing.

Malkof clapped his massive hand on Andre's shoulder. "Done. Deals a Deal"

Andre walked off, feeling accomplished. He was going to use this sword to kill the Vor'talon's and rule Decaoria with an Iron fist.

...

Andre had gathered all his men here for one reason. He needed more men, skilled fighters who understood the brutal realities of this war. Nefari, however, presented a new possibility.

"Alright, listen up!" he barked, his voice echoing across the makeshift training ground. The men snapped to attention, their gazes locked on their young corporal.

We liberated Nefari," he said, his voice gruff but laced with pride. "But the war is far from over. We need more fighters, more blades at our backs." He scanned the faces around him, his eyes lingering on the younger recruits, a glint of challenge in his gaze.

"So," he continued, his voice dropping down a notch, "anyone here from Nefari interested in joining the fight? Anyone want to learn how to defend their home against undead filth and possibly whoop some Vor'talon ass"

A tense silence followed his question. Then, from the back of the group, a young man stepped forward. He wasn't much older than Andre, his face still etched with the horrors he'd witnessed but his blue eyes held a steely resolve.

"I'm in," he said, his voice firm. "My name's Kai. The Vor'talon took everything from us, but they won't take our fight."

One by one, more stepped forward, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and defiance.

Andre couldn't help but grin. This wasn't just about bolstering his ranks, it was about giving these people a chance to fight back, to reclaim their lives.

"Um, then welcome to the 10th Legion," he said, his voice ringing with pride. "Let's get to work."

...

Malkof looked closely through the smoke coming out of his forge, his grey beard illuminated by the flickering orange glow. He had sweat on his forehead, yet his eyes had a determined spark.

He put his hand in a secret compartment under his workbench and took out a piece of metal the size of a fist. Onyxium, a valuable and hard-to-find substance, that was said to have originated from the sky in a meteor shower millions of years ago. It was rumored to be a lighter than steel but stronger than any alloy created by Dwarves before their indefinite extinction, it had a deep black color and a slight shimmer of purple. Ideal for a bastard sword – a weapon designed for a combination of speed and strength.

Malkof put the Onyxium into his furnace, the extreme heat of the fire slowly turning the metal a threatening red color. Whispering a quiet invocation to the Fire Deity, Vulthar, he skillfully worked the bellows with his rough hands, encouraging the flames to intensify even further.

When the metal was in its molten state, resembling liquid gold, Malkof delicately poured it into a prepared mold, an intricately made copy of the design described by Andre. The Onyxium hissed in the air as it flowed into the detailed crevices, and Malkof anxiously held his breath, hoping it wouldn't solidify too fast and break.

After a few painful minutes passed, he took off the mold and uncovered a crude replica of the sword. It was flawless. He had a victorious smile on his face, spreading from one end of his beard to the other. Next was the actual test - infusing magic into the weapon.

He submerged the heated red blade into a bottle full of a sparkling liquid. It was known as Likor - water from the famed Frostwood Realm, believed to have remarkable tempering qualities. The blade made a hissing sound as it touched the cold liquid, causing steam to rise in a small geyser.

Malkof maintained a firm grip on the blade while beads of sweat ran down his face, reciting an ancient Dwarven rune in a deep, low voice. The runes were used for enhancing strength, harnessing Mana, and adding a personal touch - Andre's unique rune that boosted his attacks.

After completing the last verse, a brilliant white light burst from the sword, briefly covering the entire forge. Malkof shut his eyes tightly, clenching his teeth in response to the sudden strong sensation. After the light faded, he slowly opened his eyes.

The sword rested on the anvil, no longer in the dull grey of the casting. It was a sight of stunning loveliness. The Onyxium, black in color, shone with a supernatural purple light, its edges incredibly sharp. He lifted it, finding it surprisingly light despite its size. In his hand, it had a pulsing energy, feeling very much alive.

Malkof wiped the blade using a rag soaked in oil, running his rough fingers over the elaborate pattern. He understood that the path ahead for Andre would be challenging, but with this weapon, he could have a shot at success.