The Weight of a Blade

The cot in the old church felt softer than he expected, but sleep wouldn't come. Kaito lay there, staring at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling, the dim moonlight tracing patterns he couldn't decipher. Elara's words replayed in his mind, a cold, hard dose of reality. Maria was likely dead. His newly acquired power, the legendary Durandal, was "laughably weak" compared to the true forces at play. And the Order, his reluctant saviors, wouldn't lift a finger to help him now that their petty rivalry had been sated. He was alone, the feeling of powerlessness solemn.

His mind drifted back to the moment of his near-death, to the surge of power and the mysterious figure that had appeared before him. He was certain now that it was Durandal itself, or at least a manifestation of its will. He'd made a contract, hadn't he? Her condition had been simple, concise: she would grant him her immense power, but in exchange, he had to secure her freedom from the physical form of a blade. If he failed to do so by the end of his life, or if his lifespan simply ran its course, she would take his body as her vessel.

It wasn't a harsh contract, considering he'd been in death embrace, it felt almost... generous. A desperate man, clinging to the faintest hope, didn't haggle over terms. He just accepted.

At last, exhaustion claimed him, and Kaito drifted into sleep, entering the familiar darkness once again. It was the same void he'd found himself in during his first encounter with Durandal, a space that felt like the boundless sea.

From the depths of the darkness, Durandal appeared. This time, she was shimmering faintly, a contrast to her previous appearance where she had been masked by blinding radiance. As his eyes adjusted, she resolved into the form of a bountiful woman with long, flowing white hair, clad in provocative, Greek-goddess-like attire of pure white. Much of her skin was exposed, yet for some unknown reason, Kaito perceived it as possessing a holiness to it, an almost sacred beauty, despite its apparent lewdness.

"You were reckless, Kaito," Durandal greeted him, her voice resonating with an ancient disapproval. "To use my power to such a degree, to the point of nearly dying again... I do not wish for you to become like my previous wielder, Roland, consumed by stupidity."

"I... I apologize," Kaito stammered, unsure what more to say. The magnitude of her presence, even in this dreamscape, left him awestruck. He mustered his courage. "What... what can I do to be stronger? I need to save Maria."

Durandal's radiant gaze seemed to pierce through his very soul, seeing his earnest intention. "Your sense of justice is commendable, Kaito. However, Justice without a clear path, without sufficient strength, will only lead to further destruction. I do not wish for my new wielder to perish so soon."

"As my wielder, you are blessed, Kaito," Durandal stated, her voice softer now. "Unlike others, you only need to increase the resonance between wielder and blade to become stronger. Although, I would suggest against doing so at this moment, for your fragile body may not be able to handle another breadth of my power." Her luminous form radiated thought. "For now, you simply lack skill."

"Is there anything I can do?" Kaito pleaded, feeling his utter reliance on her. "Right now, I can only rely on you."

Durandal considered, her luminous form radiating thought. "This realm, between reality and fiction, the conscious and unconscious, is where you can grow. Here, you may train your combat skills. If you so desire, you could even fight against my former wielder, Roland, to truly test your mettle. Or explore the memory constructs of foes I have fought with and slain in the past, to learn from their strengths and weaknesses."

Unsure of the best path, Kaito decided to challenge Roland. Fighting against a human, even a simulated one, felt like more useful experience than facing abstract monsters. Durandal simply nodded. The scenery shifted dramatically. Beneath Kaito, a vast, circular arena manifested, its edges fading into the swirling darkness. Then, a silent, pitch-black figure appeared at the opposite end of the circle.

"Is that Roland? Why is he just a silence black silhouette?" Kaito asked, confused. "What about his appearance?"

Durandal's voice held a sharp edge. "I do not wish to see his face too much. It makes me mad just thinking about it."

A shimmering copy of Durandal, in her blade form, manifested in Kaito's hand, feeling impossibly real. The true Durandal floated to the side, observing. Kaito steeled himself and stepped into the circle.

The world exploded in immediate pain. Kaito found himself standing back where he had been, the arena and the black figure still in front of him. "What happened?" he gasped, disoriented.

"You died," Durandal stated plainly.

Kaito was shocked. He had died, just like that. Durandal's next words cut through his pride. "Do you wish to lower the difficulty to train in, Kaito?"

Not give up so easily. Kaito stepped forward, ready to try again. And again. And again. Each time, the black silhouette stood unmoving, and each time, Kaito was reset, the pain brief but jarring. After several more futile attempts, his stubbornness finally broke. He slumped, breathing heavily. "Alright," he conceded. "Lower the difficulty."

Durandal's faint shimmer seemed to almost sigh. "This Roland," she explained, "is a sick in body, depressed in spirit, drunk nearly every waking hour, and exhausted like a man who hasn't truly slept in years. He's financially ruined and cursed by ancient sorcery. This version of him is the weakest that I have ever seen him. It should be enough for you, for now."

"What happened to him for this to happen?" Kaito asked, eyes narrowed with unease.

Durandal's voice was flat, almost scornful. "Gambling." She didn't elaborate further, as if the single word alone carried centuries of shame.

Unsure how to response, Kaito steeped into the arena.

This time, Kaito managed to engage Roland. He caught a flash of steel, felt the rush of displaced air as a strike tore past him, and raised Durandal's manifested copy just in time to block. The clang of metal reverberated through his bones. For a fleeting moment, he thought he could hold his ground. But less than a minute in, it struck again—that searing, paralyzing pain that coursed through his body like lightning. His vision fractured, and he was thrown back to the beginning of the trial. Yet, he clutched the memory of that moment tightly. He had seen the attack. He had reacted. He had lasted more than just a breath. That small victory, however minuscule, blazed like a stubborn ember in his chest. It was progress.