Chapter 30: A New Edge
For two days, they did nothing but sleep, eat real food, and let the deep-seated fatigue leach out of their bones. The phantom aches faded. The platinum in Azazel's cube was a quiet, immense comfort. On the morning of the third day, with bodies reset and minds clear, the conversation turned practical.
"We resupply," Azazel said over a breakfast of eggs and thick sausage at Greta's. "Top-tier potions. Rations that don't taste like despair. Then we decide: another dive, or a different kind of job."
Reginleif stirred her tea. "The dungeon is ours to map now. No one else has our intel."
"Exactly," Azazel said, a calculating look in his eyes. "Which is why we let others try first. Let some ambitious Silver or a cocky new Iron party spend their resources and risk their necks pushing past the twenty-second floor. We watch. We listen. And when they find something valuable or hit a new wall… we move. We steal the progress out from under them. It's cleaner."
Reginleif gave a slight nod. It was a broker's strategy, not a warrior's. She respected it.
After settling the inn bill, their first stop was the blacksmith's quarter. Azazel went to a forge known for practicality over show—a soot-stained shop run by a man named Harken, whose arms were as thick as the hammer he wielded.
Azazel pulled the broken remnants of his kukri from his inventory and laid the pieces on the scarred counter. The blade was cleanly snapped near the hilt, and the steel around the break was discolored, veined with a faint, oily blackness.
Harken picked up the pieces, squinting. He ran a thick thumb over the corrupted fracture line, then held it close to his ear as if listening. After a moment, he shook his head and tossed the pieces into a nearby burning barrel used for scrap. The metal hissed as it hit the coals.
"Sorry, kid. Can't fix that. You corrupted it. Your Mythic energy fused with the steel at the break. It's brittle as old glass now. Would shatter on the first parry." He wiped his hands on his leather apron. "Need a replacement?"
Azazel's expression didn't change. "You have anything similar?"
"Not that style. It was foreign. Simple, but mean. What are you looking for?"
Azazel's voice dropped, becoming low and precise, the words carrying an old, specific weight. "I seek a blade. Not just any blade, but a Kilij — a sword with a curve like the crescent moon, light enough for swift strikes, yet deadly as a viper's bite."
Harken's bushy eyebrows rose. Interest sparked in his soot-lined eyes. "A Kilij, eh? Not many ask for that around here. You a collector? Or a user?"
"Something like that," Azazel replied, stepping closer to the counter. "I need it forged with care. The steel must hold an edge that can part flesh and shadow. The balance must live in the hand."
Harken chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "You talk like a man who's used one. I've got the steel for it—good, tough stuff. But a proper job takes time. A week."
"Time is a luxury," Azazel said, his gaze unwavering. "I need it by tomorrow."
Harken studied him, then the iron dog tag visible at his throat. He nodded slowly. "For a significant price, I can work through the night. But know this—a blade made in haste is a hungry blade. It'll demand to be fed."
Azazel reached into his cloak and produced a heavy pouch. It hit the counter with a solid thunk of gold coins. "Then let it be hungry."
Harken hefted the pouch, his respect visibly growing. He selected a bar of dark, layered steel. "Be back at dawn."
---
The next morning, the Kilij lay on the counter. It was a beautiful, brutal thing. A forward-curving blade of about twenty-six inches, its single edge gleaming with a wicked sharpness. The curve was elegant, designed for devastating draw-cuts and powerful chops. The hilt was simple, wrapped in dark leather.
Harken gestured to it. "There you go, kid. One of my finest works. It was a nightmare to get the temper right on that curve, I'm just messing with you—it was easy."
Azazel picked it up. The balance was perfect, settling into his grip as if it belonged there. He gave it a few experimental swings; the air whispered as it parted. "Thanks." He sheathed it in a simple scabbard Harken provided. "Hey, by the way, can you make weapons out of monster materials? Scales, bone, that kind of thing?"
Harken's demeanor shifted, becoming more serious. "Yes. But that's a different craft. Takes a long time. Have to use my own Mythic to bind the essence to the metal, keep it from degrading. Always custom work. Very, very expensive."
"So, more money," Azazel stated.
"You're catching on, kid." Harken's eyes flicked to the dwarven spear on Azazel's back. "By the way… where'd you get that spear? Looks… old."
"Ancient? How ancient?"
Harken leaned in, squinting at the runes. "Hard to say. The craftsmanship… I'd guess Raining Moon Era. Maybe late."
Azazel filed the name away. Raining Moon Era. History book said that was when fragments of a shattered moon fell to the planet. A whole age named after celestial debris. "Good to know. Thanks for the blade." He turned to leave.
"Come again, kid," Harken called after him. "I'll be seeing you."
---
Azazel met Reginleif at a quiet fountain plaza, her own shopping done. She'd acquired new, finer-grade potions and a set of lockpicks made of whispered-steel.
"Got all the supplies," she said. "So, are we going back to the dungeon?"
Azazel rested a hand on the new Kilij at his hip. "No. I'm rethinking the plan. We have power, but we used it like a sledgehammer. We survived on instinct and overload. That's a losing strategy. We need to train. Specifically, our Mythics."
Reginleif's head tilted. A slow, sinister smile spread across her face. "You think I need training?"
Azazel blinked. "Wait, what?"
The smile turned into a quiet, unsettling laugh. "I don't need training, Azazel. You need training. And I," she said, her eyes gleaming, "am about to enjoy this."
A cold pit formed in Azazel's stomach. "Wait, hold on a minute. It feels like somebody already did this to you, and now you want to do it to me. I'm not into this whole… idea."
"You don't have a choice," she said, the smile not fading. "Nobody else is going to train your ass."
Shit, Azazel thought. She's right. I can only trust her with this, because my Mythic is taboo. But she's got her own agenda. I suggested the idea, and now I'm about to pay the price.
---
Moments later, they were in a grassy field outside the city walls. Azazel was on his hands and knees, gasping for air, sweat pouring down his face.
Reginleif stood over him, arms crossed. "We just started, and you're already out of breath."
What the fuck is this? Azazel's mind reeled. She's not teaching me spells. She's manipulating the air around me, thinning it, making me run sprints in a vacuum, then demanding I summon Black Ice. It's like trying to light a match underwater.
"Reginleif," he wheeced, "I don't think… this is going to work. Let's just go back to the basics."
She sighed, the intense trainer persona melting away into something more familiar. "You're right. I was just… so excited to do that one." She almost looked embarrassed.
Your master must have sucked, Azazel thought, pushing himself up. But wait… the method revolves around controlling wind and breath. She's trying to teach me the foundation first—control under duress.
"Okay," Reginleif said, sitting cross-legged on the grass. "You've already done half the basic. We'll just go over it again. Sit. Meditate. Try to connect to your Mythic Tree. Don't reach for a power. Just… look at it."
"I thought it was a seed," Azazel said, mirroring her posture.
"I don't think it's a seed for you anymore. Could be a root. A tree. Mine is a tree. Check yours. See what it is."
Azazel closed his eyes, sinking inward. The world faded. He felt the grass beneath him grow cold and brittle. Reginleif, watching, saw the vibrant green around him bleach to a dry, inky black in a perfect circle. "Of course," she murmured. "The grass turns dark. A little bit creepy."
In his mind's eye, Azazel didn't find a tree.
He found a Qliphoth Sphere. A dark, inverted orb. From its core, lines of shadow branched out, not up, but down, connecting to stark, geometric boxes that floated in the abyssal space around it. It was clean, structured, and utterly alien.
He focused. The first box, connected directly to the sphere, was labeled with a concept, not a word: You Shadow. Another line branched from that box to one labeled Black Ice. And from Black Ice, a further line connected to a third, more complex box: Abyssal Vortex.
What the hell? he thought. It's a flowchart. A skill tree. Like from a video game. The realization was jarring. His Mythic wasn't a growing thing; it was a system. A logical, almost bureaucratic expansion of a central, void-like core. At least I have a map now.
He pulled himself out of the meditation, opening his eyes to the sun. The circle of dead black grass remained around him.
"Reginleif."
"Yeah? How was it?"
"I saw it. But my 'tree'… it's upside down."
Reginleif's playful demeanor vanished, replaced by genuine unease. "That's… kind of creepy."
"What do you mean?"
"Mine grows sideways. To the right. Yours is growing down. What you saw as the 'start' is the roots. The rest are connections, branches into abilities you've used or unlocked."
"It was easy to understand," Azazel said, standing and brushing off the dead grass. "But I think there's more to it."
"There is," Reginleif said. "But new 'branches' aren't permanent just because you think of them. Your Mythic has to accept them. Like the time I tried to make a 'Wind Fist.' My Mythic thought it was a stupid move. It never took."
"It doesn't think it's stupid," Azazel said, the logic of his own system informing his words. "It just doesn't suit the core structure. The path wasn't efficient."
Reginleif stared at him, then a slow, genuine smile returned. "See? You're starting to get it."
I need to be careful, Azazel thought. I can't treat it just like a video game. But the similarity is undeniable. And it feels… sinister.
To his surprise, Reginleif then pulled a woven blanket, a small kettle, a tin of tea, and a paper-wrapped package of honey cakes from her inventory. She began setting up a small picnic on the living grass nearby.
Azazel stared. "Are you… seriously making a picnic right now?"
"Yes," she said, not looking up as she poured water into the kettle using a minor wind-funnel. "Come on, sit down. I went to this teashop and bought tea. I wanted to try it. And I have sweets."
What, is she British? The random, anachronistic thought flitted through his mind. Wait… oh. I kinda forgot. She's a girl. Beneath the thief, the killer, the wind-wielder, was a person who might enjoy tea and cakes on a sunny day.
He sat. They drank tea that tasted of flowers and citrus. They ate sweet, crumbly cakes. They didn't talk about dungeons, Mythics, or survival. For an hour, on a blanket in a field, with a circle of dead grass nearby, they just had a picnic. The training would continue, low and steady. But for now, they rested. The race was long, and they had only just begun to understand the track.
End of Chapter 30