Chapter 6 - Enhanced

His fingers trembled as he reached for the sword's hilt.

The moment his skin touched the cold metal, something stirred inside him. It wasn't a jolt or a wound, but a soft, warm current like the faint pulse of a sleeping creature. The sensation was subtle and oddly comforting, as if the weapon was slowly beginning to recognize him.

This wasn't a delusion. It wasn't the exhaustion or hunger clouding his senses. He knew exactly what he held in his hand.

This sword… was Enchanted Grade.

He stood still. His body frozen, his mind pulled into a whirlpool of memory. Stories came flooding back. Fragments told by scavengers, slurred words from drunk soldiers, and lines from stolen pages read under candlelight. All of them spoke of weapons that only existed in legends.

This world recognized six tiers of weaponry, each defined by its quality and the power it held.

The lowest of them were forged by ordinary blacksmiths, made without elements, without spirits, without hope—these were called Common Grade, nothing more than iron and wood. Then came something slightly more refined, forged with rare metals or infused with basic enchantments—Refined Grade, crafted by blacksmiths who dabbled in magic, though never enough to create anything truly wondrous.

But this one... this one was different. Far above both.

This sword had softly glowing runes etched along its surface. Embedded within its silver blade was a core of magic crystal—not a mere ornament, but the source of its power. The material was pure, dense, as if fused with the energy of the earth itself. A faint light shimmered along its edge, at times releasing tiny particles that floated into the air before vanishing like smoke in a dream.

Enchanted Grade—weapons that held magic within their very form. Not merely forged, but shaped through ritual. Whispered to with incantations. Given a name, an identity. Few commoners ever laid eyes on an Enchanted weapon, let alone carried one.

And now… he, Riven, a nameless scavenger from a ruined battlefield, was holding it in his hands.

Riven could feel the faint vibration within the blade. A breath. A presence.

Something inside him wanted to shout. To laugh, or cry, or collapse from the overwhelming surge of emotion. But his body remained silent. Only his eyes darted across the surroundings. He was afraid, afraid someone would take it away, afraid the world would notice he had touched something it never meant for him.

He looked down at the sword as if seeing his future etched in steel.

A quiet smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm rich."

The words stayed locked in his head, but they rang louder than cannon fire.

For the first time in a long while, his eyes held something other than despair… they gleamed with light. With hope. With ambition.

And perhaps, just a sliver of madness.

Riven bit down on his lower lip and bent forward quickly, tearing strips of cloth from the dead soldiers around him. Some were charred, others soaked with blood gone black. But he didn't care.

With swift, careful hands, he wrapped the sword tightly in rags. He bound it with worn leather straps, concealing its glow and distinct shape. Once satisfied, he tied it to his hip, hidden beneath his tattered cloak.

The sky above had turned pitch black. A pale moon hung like a weary eye behind scattered clouds. Night wind rustled the grass, and from far off, a howl pierced the silence, wolf or worse.

But Riven felt no fear tonight.

When his arms could no longer carry anything more—when both were laden with burlap sacks filled with broken blades, dented daggers, shattered spears, and discarded gear—he finally decided to head home. His steps were heavy, not from doubt, but from sheer physical weight. Yet his thin frame didn't complain.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he was burning with resolve.

His footsteps on the dirt trail back home felt lighter than usual. Even with screaming shoulders and numb fingers from hauling the dead man's iron, a quiet smile tugged at his lips.

"I guess… behind every bad thing, there's something good," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Earlier that day, he had nearly died—dragged down by a reckless choice, stubborn enough to kill him. But tonight… he wasn't returning empty-handed.

He carried an Enchanted weapon.

A miracle of fortune. One that most soldiers and treasure hunters only dreamed of. A weapon usually kept behind castle walls or in noble hands.

And now it was his.

If he sold it, even for a modest price, it would buy a small house on the city's outskirts. A permanent roof over Mira's head. A home for the both of them. No more moving. No more sleeping with one eye open, ears straining for footsteps in the night.

With the contents of both sacks, their savings, and what he planned to scavenge later tonight… Riven knew they were close. So close to crossing that line he and Mira whispered about every night.

A normal life.

Three meals a day. No stealing. No hiding. No trading blood for moldy bread.

Tonight, his struggles finally felt worth it.

He looked ahead, toward the house that had sheltered him and Mira. His heart swelled with warmth, as if wrapped in an invisible cloak.

The night stretched on. But for the first time in a long while, the future didn't look completely dark.

After he dropped off these weapons, he would return to the battlefield. There were still scraps worth gathering.

Or so he thought.

.

.

.

Riven's steps halted as moonlight reflected off something wet on the ground.

He squinted.

Blood.

Fresh, dark red and glistening, still clinging to the dirt like it had spilled only minutes ago. His body tensed. His gaze followed the trail, veering slightly to the right, leading directly to the path toward his and Mira's home.

His heart began to race. The hope and euphoria that had filled him moments ago drained away, replaced by a cold dread tightening around his chest.

"Mira…"

He moved quickly, though quietly, careful not to drop the sacks. The heavy fabric dragged behind him, but he didn't stop, eyes locked on the trail.

Then he saw it.

A woman, collapsed before the door.

The door to his home was still chained shut—locked tight, the way he had left it. That meant Mira was still inside. Hopefully safe.

But the woman—

Riven stopped a few paces away. His eyes scanned the surroundings. No movement. No sound. Only leaves rustling and the wind.

He narrowed his eyes.

She looked to be in her early twenties. Her long hair, crimson like her blood, was tangled and half-covered her pale face. She slumped against the door, as if she had fallen mid-knock or attempt to enter. Her clothes were torn, stained red—not enough to suggest a fatal wound, but the scratches across her thigh and arm raised alarm.

And her breathing… it was faint. Too faint to be sure of anything.

Riven's hand gripped the dagger at his hip.

Danger could wear many faces. He wouldn't be fooled by weakness.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, he set the sacks down. Then, one cautious step at a time, he moved forward—dagger in hand, ready to draw another blade if needed.

There was no gasp. No flicker of a trap. No glint of hidden magic.

Just a girl, unconscious, crumpled at his door.

Riven controlled his breathing as he approached, closer and closer, step by wary step.

And with every heartbeat, caution and anxiety clashed like blades within his mind.