Chapter 17: The Blackened Blade's Whisper
After a brief, almost meditative interlude where the quiet hum of the hive's psionic web thrummed faintly in the background like the steady pulse of a cosmic heart, we resumed. The air hung heavy with the latent charge of anticipation and exhaustion. Basic hand-to-hand combat, deceptively simple in appearance, was an insidious torment. Our motions—blocks and counters—were drawn from a newly forged martial discipline, born from the convoluted nexus of memories and data threads Kimchi had woven together with arcane precision. A combat art that bore the mark of her hybrid psionic-bioengineering genius, and yet, every movement sapped the last reserves of my mortal flesh.
Five minutes in, my arms screamed protest in aching pulses, muscles trembling beneath skin slick with the sour sweat of exertion. My lungs clawed for ragged gulps of air as if the very act of breathing had been turned into a cruel puzzle. And yet, there was an unholy ecstasy to the pain—a perverse delight—as my gene enhancements kicked into an unprecedented overdrive, the strands of my DNA flexing and bending like living circuitry, trying desperately to adapt and absorb the brutal demands of the training.
Once I found a rhythm—pain and breath syncing in a cruel dance—hours slipped by unnoticed. Kimchi's voice, calm yet firm, finally pierced through the haze: "Rest, Irvine. Now." I collapsed like a fallen statue onto the cold floor without argument.
"Are you alright, Irvine-mate?" Kimchi's concern was genuine, her psionic tendrils lightly brushing my energy signature as she hovered. "If you need to pause until tomorrow, Orchid will understand. There's no shame in resting." I wanted nothing more than to collapse and surrender to the tempting oblivion of rest, but a stubborn ember of resolve—fueled by countless promises whispered to myself in darker nights—kept me upright.
Pain and sweat were minor roadblocks. My enhanced body was an unwilling hostage to its own limits, but I refused to surrender. Opting to rest standing, lest my legs betray me and turn to gelatin beneath me, I engaged in a half-hour of teasing banter with Kimchi—her laughter a balm against the ache—before steeling myself for the final crucible of today's torment.
"For this last session, we forged weapons for you, love," Kimchi said, her voice a soft song laced with pride and anticipation. She lifted two swords from their resting place. Both were bone-white, sleek and cruelly elegant, veins of molten gold running like ancient runes spiraling down their shafts. Their blades curved gently, the lower halves serrated like the jagged spine of some abyssal predator, while their upper edges gleamed with a razor's lethal promise.
They reminded me of Kimchi's old weapons—the scythes she once wielded through centuries of war and survival.
"I like these swords, Kimchi," I said, tracing the golden accents with a reverent finger. "They remind me of your old scythes." Mentioning her former body—her old shell—was a small ritual, a reminder that beneath the shifting flesh and psionic storm, it was Kimchi's soul that captivated me, not the vessel that housed it.
Her smile bloomed, radiant and mischievous. "Yes, Irvine-mate. That was precisely my intent. My scythes have danced with death for centuries. A weapon of similar shape aids combat memory, the muscle's recall and the soul's rhythm." Her voice softened, eyes shimmering with memory. "Now, choose your weapon, dear. These are no mere blades—they are psionic constructs fused with non-biological essence, forged through great effort."
My gaze roamed the weapon rack—greatswords, short swords, curved blades, rapiers, estocs—each singing a siren's song of power and precision. Yet, none stirred my spirit quite like one: an arming sword, seemingly simple in design but striking in its details. The handle, wrapped in black leather worn smooth by unseen hands, was thick enough for a two-handed grip. The blade stretched 33 inches, slightly longer than standard arming swords. Its steel was a deep, inky black, engraved with swirling blue psionic sigils that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
The blade's blue runes flickered and glowed with a hypnotic pulse as I lifted it.
"This one," I declared, feeling a surge of raw, humming energy flood through my veins, awakening something ancient within me.
Kimchi's brow furrowed with concern. "Are you certain, Irvine? While this is an excellent blade, it is the only true power sword here. The others are standard psionic weapons, but this sword carries a unique—dangerous—consciousness."
She explained with a low voice, "Power weapons imprint a pseudo-consciousness during creation, a latent spirit that can manifest hostility or psychological interference. Such a blade can become a double-edged curse." Neither of us realized then that the sword had been infused not just with raw psionic energy, but a shard of the hive's love for me—a powerful but volatile essence—and something else... something darker, embedded deep within.
I grinned, feeling the sword's dark thrumming thrill like a lover's heartbeat in my hand. "My little worry bug, I think the sword is fine. When I touched it, a wave of power coursed through me like wildfire. It felt incredible." A faint blush colored Kimchi's cheeks at the endearment. "If you believe it is safe, then Orchid trusts your judgment."
"Now, stand over there and assume the stance we practiced earlier."
"You mean before I had my delicious lunch?" I teased, watching Kimchi's cheeks flare crimson again.
"Yes—precisely. Now, we begin by moving back and forth, engaging in slow, deliberate clashes. Afterward, I will teach you a solo technique."
The dance with the sword was a revelation. Unlike the brutal chaos of hand-to-hand, the blade seemed to sync with my subconscious, correcting my posture, guiding my swings. But I dared not grow complacent; whenever I made real progress, Kimchi would quicken the pace, introduce feints, or deliver playful but stinging hits with the flat of her blade.
After hours of this beautiful violence, she taught me the Meyers Square—a solo practice drill of precision and flow—and finally, I collapsed into exhaustion. "Phew, what a day! I'm going to sleep like the dead tonight. What about you?"
Kimchi purred through the psionic link, "Orchid sleeps peacefully every night, as long as she is with you, dear Irvine."
I shot her a warning glance. "This sword... it's incredible. What is it made from?"
She turned to me swiftly, a flash of lightning in her eyes. "Humans often call their weapons 'she,' like a lover or a ship, because when you care for them, they become more than steel."
Kimchi studied the blade carefully, her expression reverent. "This sword's components are... remarkable. It was forged from the remnants of a queen from another hive we vanquished long ago. Our queen preserved her biomass in reserve, a psionic seed bank meant to overtake any biomorphs she might create if powerful enough."
I blinked, stunned. "The hive fought another hive—and won?"
Kimchi nodded solemnly. "A war older than Orchid herself—before we left our solar system through the psionic tendrils for the first time. At least seventy-five thousand years ago."
The weight of that epoch rolled over me like a tidal wave. "By all that is psionic, that's ancient. And this sword is that old? Then I've got myself a damn relic."
The blade hummed softly in response, the blue engravings thrumming like a heartbeat beneath my touch.
Returning the sword to its rack, Kimchi and I moved toward the main room where Crystal waited. But as I neared my bed, an eerie shift rippled the air. Two twenty-meter-tall hive guards—the silent sentinels who had never moved before—turned their immense heads to fix their gaze on me. The first time they had stirred since my arrival.
Then, through the psionic link, a chilling, jagged voice shredded the calm:
"Ư̴̬̌̌̏̿̉͝n̸̲̍̌͆̈́ä̸̲͎͙͖͎́͘ủ̷͚̅͋̈́̃̒̈́͂̚t̵̩͚̼̫͐ḩ̷̳̲̘̫̰̟̐̓͊ǒ̵͈̤͎͔̼̳͖̜͋̅͂͘ṛ̴̨̦͍̐i̸̲̥͇͐ș̸̿͒̓͑̑͐̈̈̅e̸̛̦͖͗͒͒̏̐̀̔͗d̵̩͂̂!
̷̧̖̤̲̘͈̄̓̾̌́̋͛͠Ṕ̶͈̞̰̣̬̤̘̬̿̆r̷̤̬͍̤̣̮̙͊̍̐̄̓ẹ̵̡̲̯͙̅͗̂̿̾͆̃̊̏p̷̮̞̥͉͆̏̒̚̕̚͝a̶̢̭̰͙͇̬̾͗́̅̉͐͝r̸͎̞̼̟̟̗̓̄͂͋̚̕ȅ̷̛̩̲͖̇͂͋̆ ̵̧̡̡͇͙͔͙͚̥͙͋̑̿̆͘f̴̗͖̥͓̗̲̺͐́̈́͠ö̶̤͂̏̒̍̿̕ȑ̷̡͇̏̅̚͝ ̶̹̺͚̲̘̠͙̏̏͠d̸͉͉͍͔̠̀͑̈͂̎̓ḙ̴̻̮̥͕̭̗̘̀̐̀͂͗̍̕ͅs̷̨̝͈̻̥̋͜ͅt̵̝͚͈̱̞̎̏̽̉̕r̵͚͉̎͊̑͊̌͒̏u̷̧̠̬̝͉̮̱̓̊͝c̵̨̹̗̭̳̳̺̝̫̭̀͆̈́͋̌̂t̸͖̣͇͖̹̲̝̫͙̬́į̷̡͔̟͔̩̟͚̟̠̿͛̿́͒̿̿̂̚͘o̶͈̜̣̗̫͋̓̔̇̈́̔̈͒͜͠ņ̴̳͍̯̣̩͈͖̎̓͌͛̊̐͊̕ͅ"
The raw psychic assault of those words crashed into me like a tsunami. My stomach churned violently, bile rising unbidden as my limbs seized in helpless paralysis. I was the lesser of the two victims; Kimchi crumpled convulsing on the floor, her bio-psionic form overwhelmed. These anti-psionic beings were leagues beyond our pay grade.
As the monstrous sentinels advanced to finish their grim task, Crystal's presence surged through the psionic web, sharp and terrifying.
"STAND