My Blade Is Alive?

I stared at the remnants of the battlefield before me—the broken, discouraged mages whose trembling hands and pale faces told a story of cowardice and failure. Soon, they would be dragged off to face interrogation, their lives destined for suffering far worse than death. For death, in its cruel finality, was a mercy they would not receive. My lord had no intention of allowing them an easy escape. And yet, deep within me, doubts stirred like shadows in the recesses of my mind.

Torture, to me, was distasteful. A waste of precious time and resources on men who would yield nothing of substance. These zealots, indoctrinated and intoxicated by a faith steeped in blood and terror, would cling to their convictions even in the throes of agony. What could we possibly gain from breaking their hollow shells, their fractured souls? I glanced at one of them, a man kneeling amidst the dirt and gore, shaking and pleading pathetically. His words spilt out in incoherent fragments, prayers to whatever god he thought might spare him. There was no dignity in his cries, no honour in his trembling form. I looked upon him with disdain, my lips curling into a faint sneer.

This man was no warrior—just an ant grovelling beneath an inevitable boot.

My attention shifted downward to the sword in my hand, its crimson sheen catching the dying light of the battlefield. Once pristine, its blade now shimmered with a faint red hue, as though it had drunk deeply of the blood it had spilled. The intricate engravings along its surface pulsed faintly, the ornate hilt humming softly, its resonance imperceptible to all but me.

The sword sang.

It was not a joyous melody but something darker—an insidious, gleeful hunger that sent faint shivers up my arm. The blade had tasted carnage and found it to its liking. It longed for more. A weapon of unparalleled craftsmanship, yet bound by a soul steeped in malevolence and vengeance. I tightened my grip, feeling the faint vibrations travel through my fingers, up my arm, and into my very being. It whispered to me, faint and echoing.

More. Feed me more.

Fascination and disgust warred within me. This blade—my greatest ally and most loathsome burden—was both a masterpiece and a curse. Bound to it, I could no more escape its hunger than I could sever my own shadow.

"You seem… discontented," came a voice, silken and laced with mockery.

I turned to see Albedo approaching, her alabaster skin glowing faintly in the dim light of the dying sun. Her golden eyes shimmered with amusement and curiosity, framed by the ever-present adoration that clung to her like a second skin. Her every movement was graceful, calculated, yet there was a predatory edge to her presence, a constant reminder of the dangerous being that hid beneath her beauty.

"Or is it guilt I see?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, her expression playful. "Your actions today were… expected, after all. Why wouldn't you—of all people—save those beneath you?"

I met her gaze, unflinching. Her tone was honeyed, but the sarcasm that laced it was unmistakable. She knew well enough what I would do, but she sought to needle me regardless.

"Do you think so little of honour, Albedo?" I asked, my voice calm but edged with steel.

She blinked, feigning surprise, though the slight twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement. "Honour?" she echoed, her tone dripping with feigned innocence. "Forgive me, but I fail to see how protecting such pitiful creatures serves any notion of honour."

I stepped closer, allowing my shadow to loom over her. Though she stood her ground, I caught the faintest flicker of hesitation in her gaze as my tone deepened, firm and resolute.

"It is a knight's duty," I said, my voice steady and sharp, like the edge of my blade. "To protect the weak, to uphold justice, and to allow honour to flourish in a world consumed by chaos. Gazef Stronoff may be but a human, but he is a warrior. A man who stands against the tide of despair when so many others would flee. To abandon him would be to abandon the very principles that give strength to the sword I wield."

Her lips parted slightly, as though to retort, but she hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the sword in my hand, then back to my face. Her adoration for me warred with her disdain for humanity, and for a moment, her perfect composure wavered.

"You would risk yourself for such an insignificant cause?" she pressed, softer now, her voice almost questioning.

I straightened, my gaze moving past her to the horizon where the last remnants of the enemy forces were being rounded up. "There is no insignificance in duty," I replied, my tone unwavering. "A knight who chooses when and where to act based on convenience is no knight at all. It is through our actions, through our choices, that honour is forged."

Albedo said nothing for a moment, her golden eyes studying me intently. Whether she agreed with me or not mattered little. My resolve would not falter.

The battlefield was quiet now, save for the distant cries of the captured. My eyes fell once more to the blade in my hand, its hum subdued but ever present. I wondered, not for the first time, how much of myself I had poured into this weapon. How much of my soul had been bound to it, alongside the one that already resided within. The sword's presence within my mind was like a shadow, watching, waiting, always judging.

Is this honour you seek? it seemed to ask, its voice faint but clear in my thoughts. Or is it merely another mask to hide what you truly are?

I exhaled slowly, forcing the whispers to the back of my mind. Whatever darkness the blade carried, whatever burden it sought to place upon me, it would not control me. Not today. Not ever.

"Perhaps," Albedo said finally, her tone softer now, though her eyes still glimmered with curiosity. "Perhaps you truly are the last of your kind. A knight in a world that no longer values such ideals."

I glanced at her, meeting her gaze once more. "If the world has abandoned honour," I said, "then it falls to me to remind it."

She smiled then, a small, almost wistful smile that I could not decipher. Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the ever-watchful blade in my hand.

As I stared at its crimson-tinged steel, I could feel it again. That insidious hum, that sinister joy that pulsed faintly beneath its surface. It was a weapon of unparalleled craftsmanship, but it was not merely mine to wield. It watched me as much as I commanded it. And in its depths, I could feel the echoes of a soul far older, far darker than my own.

More. Feed me more.

The blade would never be satisfied. But as long as I drew breath, it would not be the one to decide my path. That choice, at least, remained mine.

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[ ??? POV ]

In the endless twilight of the sword's realm, I stood atop the mountain of corpses, the ground beneath me damp and soft with the blood of the fallen. Their faces haunted me—countless expressions frozen in anguish, some pleading, others resigned. All had met their end on this blade, the same one I had once wielded with pride. Now, it served another.

It was a fate I had foreseen but had desperately hoped never to witness.

Bound to the sword by forces beyond mortal comprehension, my soul resided here, trapped in this accursed weapon. Though my body had long since turned to dust, my essence endured, tethered to its unrelenting thirst for blood. This realm, this grim domain within the blade, bore the scars of its history. Broken banners fluttered in a wind that carried the stench of rust and decay. Shattered armour and splintered shields littered the crimson-stained ground, relics of the countless wars the sword had seen.

And atop this mound of misery, I watched.

Through the crimson haze of this cursed place, I saw him—my new wielder. At first, his form was faint, a shimmer of light flickering in the darkness as the sword began to bond with him. His hand, steady yet hesitant, wrapped around the hilt, and in that moment, a thread of connection wove between us. He had no idea of the burden he now carried or the legacy of destruction that came with it.

I remembered the day he received the blade—my blade. It had been given to him by the one they called Touch Me, a knight of great renown and greater ideals. His words echoed in my mind as he placed the sword in the boy's hands. He spoke of pride, of strength, of legacy. Hollow words. Pride and legacy had once meant something to me, too, but this blade had taught me otherwise. It demanded blood, and blood it would take, no matter the cost.

I watched as the boy—barely more than a child—gripped the weapon, his awe barely masking the apprehension that lingered in his eyes. The weight of the blade, both physical and spiritual, was immense. Yet, there was a steadiness to him, a resolve that intrigued me.

Touch Me fastened the weapon to the boy's side, speaking its name with reverence—the Sword with the Red Hilt. The words stung, as if spoken in mockery of all I had endured. Did they know what the name truly meant? Did they understand the curse they had passed on to him?

From within the sword, I stirred, my presence a faint whisper in the connection we now shared. His thoughts were closed to me, but I could feel his uncertainty. Was it courage that steadied him? Or ignorance?

As the knight's voice softened, I felt a flicker of sorrow in my new wielder's heart. Touch Me's final words lingered like a shadow: "If I had known sooner you were cursed, I'd have turned you away, so the curse might never have taken hold."

Yes, a curse. That is what this blade was. And now, it was his to bear.

I sighed—a sound that echoed faintly across the battlefield of souls in this accursed realm. The corpses beneath my feet seemed to shift, as though lamenting the beginning of another chapter in this blood-soaked saga.

"Will you carry this burden with honour, as I once did?" I murmured to the void. "Or will you succumb to the whispers, to the blade's unquenchable thirst for death, as so many others have?"

He could not hear me. My words were for myself alone, a quiet prayer to the countless souls that lingered here, their spirits forever bound to the sword's legacy.

And yet, as I watched him, something within me stirred.

There was a fire in him—a flicker of light buried deep beneath the surface. It was faint, but it was there. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would be different. Perhaps he would wield the sword, and not the other way around.

But the blade would test him. It would push him to his limits, whispering promises of power, vengeance, and glory. I had seen it before, and I would see it again. And when the whispers came, I would watch.

I could do nothing else.

The blade forged their bond through blood, and with each battle, that bond deepened. At first, the boy was raw and untested, his movements unrefined and his strikes clumsy. But under the tutelage of Touch Me, I watched as he transformed—not only in body but in spirit.

Each lesson imparted by the knight was absorbed with a fervour that bordered on obsession. Techniques that should have taken years to master came to him in mere weeks. His footwork grew precise, his swordsmanship fluid, as if he had been born to wield a blade. Every parry, every feint, every strike carried a grace that defied his youth.

He was a genius. There was no other word for it.

Touch Me had seen potential in him, but even the knight could not have foreseen the heights to which the boy would ascend. His growth was a marvel, and though I had trained disciples in my time, none had possessed the brilliance that this boy displayed.

From within the blade, I marvelled at his progress, even as I lamented the price it would one day demand. For as he grew stronger, so too did the sword's hunger.

Yet, I could not deny a flicker of pride as I watched him. He carried himself with a sense of purpose, a determination that reminded me of who I had once been. Perhaps he would succeed where I had failed.

But the whispers were growing louder. The sword's thirst for blood was insatiable, and it would not be long before it tested him.

The fire within him would be his salvation—or his undoing.

From the depths of the blade to which I am bound, I could only watch. The battlefield lay strewn with the remains of the fallen, silent witnesses to a story that was both tragic and triumphant.

"Had he lived in my time, I would have claimed him as my disciple without hesitation," I muttered into the void. My voice, unheard and unseen, echoed faintly within the cursed confines of the weapon. Beneath me, the lifeless corpses offered no solace.

A part of me burned with envy—envy toward Touch Me, who had the privilege of guiding this prodigy, of shaping him into a warrior unlike any I had ever known. Though my existence was confined to this blade, I yearned, even hoped, that the boy would carry my legacy. That he would wield the sword with the honour and discipline I had once strived for.

Years passed as I observed him from within. The awkward youth I first encountered grew into a man of unparalleled skill. His frame was honed by unrelenting training, his spirit tempered by discipline. Touch Me's guidance was evident in every deliberate movement, every strike. Yet there was something uniquely his own—a spark that set him apart, a brilliance that defied any mould.

But then, the change came.

I had heard of such dark rituals in my time, whispered in shadows and forbidden texts, but to witness one unfold through the bond of the blade was another matter entirely. When he became a ghoul, I felt the shift in our connection. Subtle at first, like the faint warping of an image reflected in water. His strength grew, his speed sharpened, but there was a shadow now—a hunger gnawing at the edges of his being.

And then came the day of his full transformation, the day he was turned into a true vampire.

The moment it happened, I recoiled within the blade. The change was not merely physical; it was a fundamental upheaval of his very essence. I could feel the power coursing through him, an immortality that defied the natural order. But I could also feel the price he had paid. The boy I had admired, the prodigy destined for greatness, was gone. In his place stood something… other.

It was then that my ire turned toward her—Shalltear Bloodfallen.

From the confines of the blade, I could sense her presence, even faintly. She was the architect of his transformation, the one who had twisted his path into something unrecognizable. Her aura reeked of indulgence and cruelty, a mockery of the principles I had once held sacred.

"A creature like her has no right to shape his destiny," I growled into the emptiness of my prison.

I hated her. Not just for what she had done to him, but for what she represented. Shalltear embodied unrestrained power, wielded without purpose or principle. She was the antithesis of honour and discipline, a being of decadence and excess.

And yet, I could not deny the allure of the power she had bestowed upon him. My wielder was no longer bound by mortal limitations. His strength, his speed, his endurance—all surpassed even the greatest warriors I had ever known. But at what cost? The boy who had once trained with such fervor, who had once dreamed of honor and glory, was now a creature of the night, his existence entwined with blood and darkness. I could see the struggle within him, the remnants of his humanity warring against the instincts that now defined him.

From within the blade, I could only watch. Powerless to intervene, powerless to guide him back to the path he had once walked. I was a silent observer, bearing witness to his triumphs and his tragedies.

The battlefield erupted in chaos, a maelstrom of light and shadow as angels descended upon him. Their radiant forms, their unearthly cries of judgment, pierced the air as they bore down on their prey. Yet, amidst the turmoil, he stood calm and unshaken.

He shifted into Vom Tag—the "From the Roof" guard. The blade rested high above his shoulder, angled slightly forward, a stance poised to strike down judgment itself. The light of the angels reflected off the blade's surface, but the shadows that clung to him devoured their brilliance.

They attacked in unison, their golden spears thrusting forward like synchronized waves. He stepped into the strike, his blade snapping downward with such precision it seemed to cleave the air itself. The first angel faltered, its radiant form bisected in a brilliant spray of light.

"Magnificent," I murmured. Even after all I had seen, his mastery left me in awe.

Two more angels descended, their wings beating furiously as they sought to flank him. He transitioned seamlessly into Pflug—the "Plow" guard. The blade was held low and forward, angled to intercept their strikes. As the first angel lunged, his sword shot forward in a direct thrust, impaling it through its luminous chest. With a quick twist, he used the faltering form as a shield against the second, forcing it to hesitate.

That hesitation was its undoing.

He pivoted smoothly into Zornhau—the "Wrath Strike." The blade slashed diagonally, a blur of dark steel that tore through the second angel's body as if it were paper. Their forms disintegrated into motes of light, their cries fading into the cacophony of battle.

It was almost unfair. The angels, for all their divine grace and radiant power, were no match for him. Their strength was trivial compared to his overwhelming might. And yet, he fought as though they were his equals. Every movement was precise, deliberate, and lethal.

A third wave descended, their numbers greater now—five, perhaps six angels, all converging at once. He stepped back into Ochs—the "Ox" guard. The blade was held high and to the side, the tip angled forward like the horn of a great beast. The stance bristled with latent aggression, a coiled spring waiting to be unleashed.

The angels struck from every direction, their golden weapons gleaming with holy fire. He moved like water, flowing around their strikes with an ease that bordered on arrogance. The blade weaved a deadly tapestry around him, intercepting blows and countering with brutal efficiency.

A half-turn and a sweep of the blade severed one angel's wings. A thrust through the chest dispatched another. He spun low, cutting through the legs of a third before rising into a devastating upward slash that sent it crumbling into light.

From within the blade, I felt our connection deepen with each strike. His mastery of the weapon was absolute, his understanding of its balance and purpose unparalleled. For all my disdain for what he had become, I could not deny that he was the finest wielder I had ever known.

And then I saw him.

Amidst the chaos, a lone figure stood surrounded, his armor battered, his sword heavy in his hand. Gazef Stronoff, the warrior who had fought valiantly but was now on the brink of collapse. The angels closed in around him, their radiant forms a cage of light.

My wielder turned his gaze to the captain.

He did not hesitate.

With a burst of speed, he carved a path through the angels like a scythe through wheat. He fought not as a knight, not as a protector, but as a predator. His strikes were ruthless, efficient, and final. The angels fell before him, their light extinguished one by one. He reached Gazef just as the last of them disintegrated, their forms scattering into the wind like embers.

For a moment, the battlefield was still. Gazef looked up at him, his face a mixture of awe and fear. My wielder said nothing, but his presence spoke volumes.

And then, the air shifted.

A rift opened, a portal of swirling darkness. From it stepped a figure clad in regal robes, his skeletal visage radiating an aura of power that dwarfed even my wielder's.

Ainz Ooal Gown.

The Sorcerer King was calm, almost casual, as he surveyed the scene. Without a word, he extended a hand toward Gazef. The warrior vanished in a flash of light, teleported to safety.

My wielder stood silent, the blade in his hand still dripping with the remnants of the battle.