Chapter 335

The sword was an accident, like everything else in Robert's life. He wasn't the kind of guy to find anything truly magical. To him, life was mostly just sitting in his dark room, staring at the computer screen, scrolling through forums, reading about things he'd never experience. Society hated him, and he hated it back. The world had its own way of giving him a taste of despair.

But that sword—it was something different.

It was on a day like any other, when Robert had wandered into the old pawn shop, the one where the owner looked half-dead and his breath stank of stale cigarettes. Robert didn't care. He was numb to everything.

The shop was dim, shelves overloaded with stuff no one wanted, cluttered corners, the smell of rust and dust mixed. He didn't know why he went in there; it was a habit, a kind of place where the world couldn't hurt him, but also, where he couldn't hurt it.

It caught his eye the moment he entered. Half-hidden behind a pile of broken watches and cracked picture frames, a blade rested on a dusty pedestal. It was crude, not like the fine, sharp designs you'd see in movies.

Rusted and heavy-looking, but there was something about it, something... demanding. He didn't even notice the old man behind the counter, the one who hadn't moved a single muscle in the time it took for Robert to step in and walk toward the sword.

"Don't touch it," the old man said, his voice a rasp, hoarse like it hadn't been used in decades. Robert paused but didn't turn to face him.

"Why?" Robert asked. His voice felt dry, even to him. As if saying more than a few words was a strain.

"It's not a normal sword. It was... forged for someone else," the old man croaked. "Not for someone like you."

Robert felt a rush of anger that he couldn't explain. Who was this guy to tell him what he could and couldn't touch? Society had told him enough times he was worthless, and now this ancient relic of a man was doing the same.

"I'll take it," Robert said, not thinking, just acting. A pull, a force he couldn't understand, tugged at his chest.

The old man didn't fight it. He only nodded, like he was watching a disaster unfold. Robert handed over the crumpled bills he had left, leaving with nothing but a strange sensation of unease that somehow didn't fully hit him until later.

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That night, Robert sat in his room, staring at the sword. He ran his fingers along the rusted blade, tracing the symbols carved into the hilt. They were foreign, unfamiliar, but somehow... recognizable. It made no sense. Nothing in his life made sense. But he couldn't tear his gaze away. He wasn't sure what it was, but something about it made him feel important. Powerful, even.

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The first night, he didn't notice much. He thought he was tired, his mind playing tricks on him. But it happened again the next. A hunger, a pull, a gnawing urge inside him, telling him to do something. He didn't know what it was, but the sword was calling to him. The first time, he grabbed it instinctively.

The weight of it felt right in his hand, heavier than he expected. But there was something more. His pulse quickened, his mind filled with ideas of destruction, of revenge. The sword seemed to hum in a way he couldn't explain, a deep vibration that seemed to echo in his bones.

The next morning, Robert went outside for the first time in weeks. He stood in the middle of the street, holding the sword by his side, the tip just brushing the cracked asphalt. People passed him by, eyes down, no one daring to make contact. Robert didn't care. The sword made him feel like a king, like everyone around him was beneath him. He wanted to test it. To see if it was real, if this power he felt was real.

A group of people walked by. Robert stared at them for a moment, the anger rising inside him, as it always did. The sword pulsed again, stronger this time, like it knew what he wanted.

With a single motion, he stepped forward. The sword arced through the air, and the first person—no, the first thing—he struck, the blade sank deep into their flesh. There was no scream. No surprise. Just a gurgling sound as the person collapsed to the ground, blood spilling onto the cracked pavement.

The world didn't stop. It didn't blink. Robert's heart raced, but it wasn't out of fear. It was excitement. His breath came fast, rapid, as if he had done this all his life, as if it was a part of him now.

People ran. They screamed. But Robert couldn't hear them anymore. His focus was on the power—the control—the sword had given him. It didn't matter who they were, didn't matter how many there were. It was all so meaningless now. His body moved without his mind. The sword did the work. The people—no, the ants—they scattered before him, easy targets, easy kills.

When it was over, Robert stood there, the blood still fresh on his hands, dripping from the tip of the sword. His breath was shallow, like he had just run a marathon. And then something strange happened.

A voice, not his own, seemed to echo in his mind. It was soft, but it was commanding.

You are not the one who controls me. I am the one who controls you.

Robert shook his head. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, trying to dispel the odd sensation. The sword felt heavier in his hands, like it was alive.

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From that point on, Robert's life changed. The sword, with its strange power, guided him. It fed his hatred, his bitterness, and gave him purpose. He grew stronger with every swing, his body becoming more attuned to the blade, more capable of wielding it.

His mind, though... his mind started to fracture. Slowly, the world became a blur. He no longer saw people, just obstacles in his way. The world was just a game to be played, and Robert was the only player left.

He killed without thought. Men, women, children—it didn't matter. He was a god now. Nothing could stop him. He found his way to a building, and as he walked down the halls, the sword at his side, the floors slick with blood, he smiled. People scattered. People feared him. And yet... the pull from the sword grew stronger.

Is this all there is?

It echoed again in his mind, like a chant. You are not in control.

The sword had been his tool, but now it seemed to be controlling him. He was no longer Robert. He was something else, something dark, something hungry. And yet, he still felt... empty.

He stumbled across the remnants of a life he had destroyed, the scattered bodies of a family, a mother, a child. He hadn't meant for them to be there. They were never meant to exist in the same world as him. But something was different. His heart—his soul—felt something he couldn't place.

He lowered the sword. The blade pulsed again, stronger this time, its hunger deeper. It seemed to beckon him, urging him to finish what he had started. But Robert... Robert couldn't.

No... this isn't me.

But it didn't matter. His hands moved without him. The blade sank into the last body, cutting deep, and the pain—the deep, gnawing pain—grew in Robert's chest. It wasn't his pain, but the sword's. He felt it, like it was pulling him apart from the inside.

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The sword had taken everything. It had taken his will, his mind, his humanity. Robert had become something else entirely, something less than human. As he fell to his knees, the sword still gripped in his hands, his mind split in two, he understood what had happened. The sword had consumed him. The power had drained everything from him, leaving him a hollow shell.

But it wasn't enough. It never would be.

He looked up at the shattered remains of the world he had made. The blood, the broken bodies, the ruins.

The sword had given him everything he wanted. And it had taken everything in return.