There is a discord for this fic. It has Live Updates about chapter progress and when they are completed, among other things. I'm also very active there and am likely to respond to any message sent there. Join at discord.gg/aWZ9qX9mAW
Glory to my Proofreader: Solare. For he is one who points out mistakes and acts as my favourite wall to bounce ideas off of.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The air still crackled with heat. Ash spiraled upward in slow, lazy drifts, carried on a salt-heavy wind that whispered across the shore like a sigh from some half-forgotten god. It fell like charred snow, settling over the sacrificial slab and the blackened wreckage of what used to be a Leonine Misbegotten.
The beast's twisted body had long since ceased to resemble any living thing, reduced to molten ruin by dragonflame and fury. Wings lay shredded, bones exposed and warped, the sigils on its flesh burned so thoroughly they no longer held meaning, they were just scars now, tangled and empty.
John let out a breath that tasted like old coins and burned meat, steadying himself as he leaned his full weight on the blade of his Zweihander. The steel bit deep into the scorched earth beneath him, steam rising in thin coils where the metal met blood-drenched stone.
His chest rose and fell slowly, not with exhaustion exactly, but with the deliberate rhythm of a man reining something in. The fight had ended, but the furnace still burned in his chest, the embers of wrath not yet cold.
"Seven thousand?" he muttered, his voice low, eyes flicking toward the faded glow of the rune reward. It hovered there in the air like a ghost of something more generous. "Seriously?"
The numbers blinked out a moment later without ceremony or apology.
He wiped a gauntleted forearm across his brow, smearing soot and sweat to the side.
"Whole-ass two-phase monstrosity, wings and bloodflame, and what do I get? A handful of pocket change and maybe a warm pat on the head?" His voice cracked upward in disbelief, caught somewhere between sarcasm and annoyance. "Hell, I've seen demi-humans drop more than that."
A wind rolled in from the sea, bringing the hiss of waves against stone and the low murmur of spirit jellyfish still drifting near the grave arch like aimless will-o'-the-wisps. Then, without fanfare, a familiar voice curled into the corners of his thoughts, velvet wrapped in authority, amused and unbothered.
"Pray, temper thy greed, mine Champion."
John did not turn toward the voice. He didn't need to. Marika's form had already begun to take shape behind the tall gravestone, golden light threading her silhouette into the world. She stood barefoot on the scorched stone, arms folded, watching him with amused patience.
"That beast, for all its fury, was no noble," she continued. "A creature made and broken in equal measure. A slave most of his days, I'd wager. And what slave hath leisure to hoard runes amidst chains and torment?"
John snorted, the sound lacking bite, and shifted his grip on the Zweihander. "Could've at least stuffed a pouch under the altar or something. You know. For effort."
He stood upright, groaning slightly as he yanked the blade free from the cracked ground. The edge came away mostly clean, the gore reduced to nothing more than fine, oily dust by the righteous hellfire he'd unleashed earlier. Still, he ran a hand along the fuller, checking for imperfections.
The blade disappeared into his inventory with a muted shimmer, the proverbial pocket dimension absorbing its weight without a sound. Then he turned, eyes locking on the other reward that waited beside the ruined corpse. Unlike the runes, this one carried real gravity.
The Grafted Blade Greatsword lay across the stones like a fallen monument. It was massive even by his standards, as thick as a man's torso, as long as a horse, and utterly grotesque in its beauty. A graveyard of blades fused into one, hilts sprouting like tumors along its spine, iron teeth lining the edge with violent promise. It radiated menace and pride in equal measure.
John crouched beside it, one hand extended. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, a low thrum reverberated up his arm and into his chest. Not loud, not overwhelming, just there, constant and undeniable, like a second heartbeat waiting patiently for him to match its rhythm.
A small, fanged grin crept across his lips. It wasn't giddy, and it wasn't cocky. It was quiet, satisfied, the expression of someone who recognized something kindred beneath the surface.
[One of Ten Legendary Armaments Acquired: The Grafted Blade Greatsword.]
"Hello, beautiful," he murmured.
Another notification blinked into place, hovering above the first with a faint flicker of static.
[Acquire all Ten Legendary Armaments to receive {????}]
His brows drew together, the humor fading into confusion. "Uh… huh."
He turned his head slightly, half expecting Marika to already be launching into a speech. Instead, he found her staring at the message too, her eyes narrowed and mouth parted, the expression caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. For once, she seemed as in the dark as he was.
"I'm guessing that's a no from you too, huh?" he asked, casting a glance her way. "Not secretly hoarding system patch notes in your crown or something?"
She gave him a long, slow exhale, the kind that was half patience, half disdain. "Forsooth, I know not what this portends. Mayhap it is a fragment left adrift in thy framework. Helios, in his ever-casual arrogance, once confessed the system he bestowed would be… How did he phrase it? 'Fragmentary by design.' The cause, he deemed unworthy of elaboration."
John winced and ran a hand through his hair. "Right. Of course. The bastard built me a half-broken UI and called it intentional. Figures."
Marika's look softened slightly, though her tone remained edged with cool finality. "To contact an Outer God, mine Champion, is no small feat. The rites required are... not trivial. When I summoned thou, the connection was burned away like thread in flame. He claimed he would reach out in time. But that time is not now."
John made a face somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. "So basically we're stuck waiting until he slides into our dreams with some cryptic nonsense and a riddle about fire and wheels."
"A crude rendering," she said, her lips twitching, "but not inaccurate."
He gave a tired laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah. Mystery remains a mystery. Got it."
The Grafted Blade felt heavier in his hands now, not in weight, but in presence. He stared at it for a moment longer, then looked up toward the distant castle wall where smoke still rose from the ramparts. The sound of steel clashing, faint but constant, reached his ears. The battle still raged beyond the cliffs.
Marika's voice turned sharper, though it never lost its melodic command. "Enough dalliance. The siege draws to its end, but only if thou return to finish it. Melina, Millicent, and Edgar hold the line. They will not do so forever."
John's fingers clenched around the hilt, jaw tightening. "Yeah… you're right."
He turned without another word, the greatsword hefted over one shoulder, and broke into a run. Each stride sent echoes across the stone, boots hammering the scorched earth as he sprinted back toward the castle. The jellyfish floated silently behind him, drifting over the battlefield like silent witnesses.
The castle loomed ahead, half-lit by flame and fury.
"Let's hope I'm not too late," he muttered.
The new blade hummed quietly, as if it was hoping the same.
…
The courtyard of Castle Morne was a ruin of smoke, blood, and steel. Shattered masonry littered the mud-churned ground where dozens had already fallen. Misbegotten howled like starving beasts as they surged through the gaps in the outer walls, their crude weapons swinging wide and wild.
Edgar's militia, hardened though they were by desperation and memory, had begun to falter. Shield walls splintered. Arrows flew, but the supply was thinning. Every breath stank of iron and ash.
Amid the chaos, Millicent spun through the melee, her one hand a blur as she carved a path with twin scimitars. Her grin was wide, teeth red with a smear of blood that wasn't hers. She moved with the practiced recklessness of someone who trusted her body, even the parts she no longer had.
A Misbegotten charged at her from the side; she pivoted on her heel, ducked low, and carved upward through its throat in one clean sweep.
Nearby, Melina strode between the broken bodies like a flame herself, golden light pulsing faintly from her palm. Her healing spells were few and far between now, used sparingly, surgically.
There was only so much Mana to go around after all, even with the Flask of Cerulean tears she borrowed from John to replenish her reserves.
She pressed a hand to a soldier's gut, cauterizing a gash just long enough for him to stand again. Then she turned, casting fire from her off-hand, the bright burst engulfing two Misbegotten mid-scream.
And still they came. Climbing over their own dead. Driven mad by pain, by blood, by hunger. One soldier slipped, his blade knocked from his hand, and a Misbegotten descended on him with a howl and a raised axe.
Before it could land the killing blow, something tore through the sky.
A whistle, sharp and sudden, ripped through the battlefield like a lightning bolt. Then came the impact. The ground split open where the massive sword landed, the Grafted Blade Greatsword burying itself halfway through the Misbegotten's chest and into the soil beneath.
The creature froze, twitched once, and went limp, impaled like a worm on a spit.
Silence spread outward like a ripple on still water as the soldiers turned and the Misbegotten froze mid-swing. Every gaze lifted toward the source.
High above, standing on the scorched lip of the barricade wall, was John.
His armor was scorched and streaked with gore, smoke rising in lazy coils from his pauldrons. A deep gash ran along his left side where Bloodflame had kissed him earlier, now dried and blackened. His gauntlets dripped with soot and ichor.
Char clung to his hair in burnt strands, hiding the white strands that usually peppered through it. And yet he stood tall, one foot perched on the stone, the other braced back like a statue carved from war itself.
His empty hand lowered from the throw. His eyes swept the battlefield with the cold clarity of someone who had already died once and found it boring.
Melina, halfway through casting another flame, saw him and stilled. Her features relaxed, a small smile ghosting across her lips. She gave him a subtle nod, nothing showy, just a quiet signal passed between battle-worn allies.
"Well done."
John met her gaze and returned the nod, a flicker of warmth behind the ash-smeared steel of his expression.
"Always..."
Millicent, on the other hand, let out a bark of laughter so sudden it startled the soldier beside her. Her blood-slicked hand shot out, grabbing the man by the shoulder and shaking him violently.
"See?" she shouted over the roar that had begun to rise again. "Told you the cavalry was coming!"
The soldier, eyes still wide, gave a confused nod as she whooped and turned back toward the fray with a renewed spring in her step.
High above the fray, Edgar stood still on the ramparts, staring down at the greatsword that had split a Misbegotten in two. Recognition hit him like a blow. His breath left his lungs in a quiet exhale, almost reverent.
"The heirloom," he murmured, voice rough yet softened ever so slightly with relief. "Returned."
He lifted his blade high, pointing it forward.
"To arms, Mornians! The tide is with us! Break their line! Drive them from our home!"
A cheer erupted across the walls and battlefield alike.
The moment broke like a floodgate.
John launched himself from the barricade. His legs flexed, and he dropped down from the wall with a hard slam, landing near the impaled Misbegotten. Without ceremony, he seized the Grafted Blade's hilt and tore it free from the corpse and earth alike. The weapon groaned in his grip, hungry for more.
Unfortunately, he had no more Mana to spare for the Legendary Armament's innate powers. That last burst of dragon flames took with it whatever he had left in him.
So he fell back on the most reliable weapon in his arsenal.
Pure physical effort.
He moved forward like a battering ram, cleaving Misbegotten left and right with the sheer weight of the Grafted Blade. The weapon hit with bone-breaking force, crashing through armor and flesh with each swing.
He didn't bother with finesse. He didn't need it, not when he was swinging around the weapon equivalent of the Iron Throne. Every strike was decisive, every motion fueled by nothing but grit and purpose.
Millicent fell into step at his right, her blade flashing with precision beside his brute power. Melina took his left flank, hurling searing flames at the outer edges, pushing enemies inward toward John's blade.
Together, the trio cut through the enemy line like fire through dry brush.
Misbegotten morale had long since shattered. Some broke ranks and fled toward the inner keep, scrambling over corpses. Others went mad in their despair, rushing at the Mornians in blind rage, only to be cut down.
One particularly large Misbegotten attempted to rally the others, roaring out commands in a garbled mess of syllables. John responded by hurling his entire body into a shoulder slam, knocking it flat, then driving the Grafted Blade down through its ribs with a roar that echoed off the castle walls.
From above, Edgar's archers rained down a final volley, thinning the last of the enemy resistance. Militiamen surged forward, reclaiming ground step by step, rallying around their commander's call.
A few enemies reached the inner gate, thinking to make a final stand. John answered by lifting a chunk of fallen masonry and throwing it with a grunt, crushing two where they stood.
One last Misbegotten tried to flee through a side passage.
Millicent bent low, scooped up a fallen dagger, and hurled it with a flick of her wrist. The blade hit the creature's leg, dropping it to the ground. John was already there. He didn't speak, he didn't pause. He brought the Grafted Blade down once, then again, then a final time to finish it.
Then there was nothing but the hiss of cooling blood and the low chant of the wind across ruined stone.
Edgar's banner rose once more atop the central tower.
Morne was theirs again.
And for a moment, no one moved.
Until Edgar descended from the wall and crossed the ruined courtyard, his boots crunching over gravel and ash. He stopped in front of John, eyes flicking between the man and the blade he carried.
John glanced Edgar up and down, still catching his breath, then shifted the colossal sword in his grip. The Grafted Blade Greatsword hung low, its edge dragging through the blood-slick earth until John lifted it upright, blade resting against the ground. With a wiry, toothy grin spreading across his face, he held it out, offering it hilt-first to the Castellan of Morne.
"I believe this belongs to you?"
Edgar's eyes remained fixed on the weapon for a long second. Slowly, reverently, he stepped forward and gripped the hilt just below John's hand. His expression hardened, not from anger, but from the weight of memory.
The moment lingered between them, a shared recognition of blood, loss, and legacy. Then, together, they raised the massive sword high into the sky, its jagged silhouette cutting across the smoke and sunlight.
"Castle Morne stands!" Edgar shouted, voice ringing out like a horn across the courtyard. "By blood and steel, we take back what was ours!"
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Soldiers raised their blades and roared. Some broke into laughter and gripped one another's shoulders, weeping openly as they embraced. Others, more solemn, simply looked out over the sea of corpses and nodded, knowing that vengeance had been served for the friends and family they had buried.
John, his arm still raised, reluctantly let go of the blade. It wasn't easy to release something so powerful, so viscerally satisfying to wield. Edgar handled it like a relic, not a weapon, turning to one of his men who quickly came forward with a length of cloth. Together, they began wrapping the blade, careful with every movement, as if restoring a sacred artifact to its rightful place.
From behind his eyes, Marika's voice surfaced with that familiar, teasing lilt.
"Forsooth, I am surprised, mine Champion. I expected thee to concoct some excuse not to part with it."
John sighed inwardly, watching the sword vanish beneath layers of cloth and reverence.
'Oh, I would've liked to keep it.' He admitted, quiet but honest. 'The skill's got potential, especially when stacked with other buffs. But it's too damned heavy. Feels like dragging a cathedral through a forest. Great for clearing fodder, sure. But up against someone fast? I'd get carved like ham.'
His gaze lingered on Edgar, who nodded to him gratefully before stepping away, promising to return shortly.
'And…' John added, glancing away. 'It's not worth taking by force. Not after all this. I've got enough enemies without pissing off the one guy holding this place together.'
Marika was quiet a moment, then spoke again, her tone filled with surprised delight. "That is… surprisingly well thought out for thee."
John barked a laugh and threw his hands in the air. "Hey! I'll have you know I am a smart, mindful individual!"
Marika giggled openly and without reservation.
Before he could continue his mock-indignant rant, another voice called from behind him.
"You know," Melina said dryly, "smart, mindful individuals don't usually feel the need to announce such things. Especially not to thin air."
John clicked his tongue and turned to her with a shrug, already expecting the look she gave him. Deadpan, unimpressed, but with a spark of amusement in her eyes.
Between them, the familiar shimmer of golden light twisted upward from the bloodied stone. A Site of Grace manifested where he stood, softly humming with divine resonance. Without ceremony, John reached out, activated it, and sank to one knee beside it, groaning as the warmth of Marika's grace poured through his body.
His wounds closed. His blood burned clean. The scorch on his armor faded, and he felt his Mana stores refill with slow, glowing heat.
Behind him, Millicent approached, giggling at his expense as she awkwardly slid her gore-slick scimitar from between her teeth and sheathed it alongside the other.
"She's being mean to you…" She said, pouting at Melina. "After everything he did? That's just cold."
Melina sighed, her smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.
"I suppose I am." She admitted. Her voice softened, just slightly. "You did well. Hard work. Risking yourself for strangers. And you returned their legendary heirloom without even attempting to lie your way into keeping it. I'll admit... I half-expected some excuse."
"As did I." Marika added, still laughing lightly. "Truly, thou art an ever-unfolding surprise."
Millicent hummed, crossing her arms. "It did look kind of cool when you used it, though. Big sword, big swings... kinda shame you're not keeping it."
John's grin crept back in slowly, that old spark of mischief glinting behind his teeth. "Yeah… it would be a shame to let it sit and gather dust, wouldn't it?"
Melina's smile flattened. She narrowed her eyes. "No."
"That's why…" He rose to his feet, turning to face them fully. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and he gave all three women a thumbs up with a devilish grin. "We're gonna sneak back into the castle tonight and yoink it while they have no idea!"
Melina just stared at him.
Millicent burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.
Marika let out a full-bodied chuckle, regal and delighted. "Mine Champion… thy audacity remains unmatched."
"I want to help!" Millicent barked out between laughs. "That sounds fun!"
"You're scum." Melina muttered with a bit of disgust, still wearing her deadpan mask. "And I apologize for thinking better of you."
John couldn't keep the grin in check any longer. He let the laughter spill out, leaning back on his heels as he waved a hand at the surrounding battlefield.
"Kidding! Just trying to lighten the mood. Figured after all this…" He gestured broadly to the field littered with corpses, smoldering ruins, and broken banners. "We could use something a little less... horrifying."
Melina exhaled slowly. Her lips finally curved upward into a weary, but genuine smile. "We really have to work on your sense of propriety."
Millicent pouted, kicking a nearby rock. "Would've been fun, though."
Melina turned to her and, with a pinch to her earlobe, gave her a firm scolding. "You're learning all the wrong things from him."
"Still learning, though," Millicent grinned.
Their banter faded only when Edgar returned, his armor freshly polished, though his face carried the weight of exhaustion. He stopped before them, nodding to each one in turn.
"My thanks again," he said, voice quiet but firm. "You've given Morne something we feared lost. Not just our keep, but our hope. This battle deserves a feast... but with the state we're in, it'll have to wait. The dead must be honored, the walls rebuilt. The Peninsula still burns."
John nodded solemnly. "It's not over yet."
At that, Marika's voice returned with solemn gravity.
"The village," she reminded him. "The ailing one. It must be cleansed, or it shall fester further."
John's jaw clenched as he turned to the others. "There's still work to do. The Frenzied Flame outbreak, it's not far from here. We've got to deal with it before it spreads."
Melina's face darkened. Millicent gave a quick, grim nod. Edgar's hand clenched at his side.
"There is much to be done," Edgar said. "And I swear I shall not rest until this Peninsula knows peace again."
He looked to John with sudden clarity. "But for now… Go. Return to the Roundtable Hold. Tell my daughter we're safe. That Morne stands once more."
Melina crossed her arms, an understanding look coming to her face. "We could bring her here. If you wish to see her sooner."
Edgar's eyes softened, but he shook his head.
"No," he said. "Not yet. Not like this. Her heart is pure... too pure to bear what this place has become. I will not have her weep for the home I failed to protect. Not until I make it whole again."
There was a heavy silence. Then John placed a hand on Edgar's shoulder and nodded.
"We'll tell her everything she needs to know."
And with that, the group turned toward the Grace.
Its light beckoned.
…
The grace-light faded behind them with a gentle shimmer, and in its place came the dim warmth of stone torches lining the familiar halls of the Roundtable Hold. The silence here was different. Not the silence of aftermath, but one of stillness, of memory, of walls that had seen more than they ever told.
John walked a step behind the others, his boots echoing lightly against the stone as Millicent and Melina led the way. Their pace was relaxed, unhurried, their spirits light with the taste of victory still fresh. Laughter flickered between them like torchlight catching on glass.
But he moved slower than usual, letting the echoes stretch between his steps. His head was bowed slightly, expression warm, but dulled at the edges. Worn. Like armor that had taken just a few too many hits and hadn't been fully mended.
Millicent slowed her stride and glanced back. "You okay, Johnny?" she asked, eyeing him with a tilt of her head.
He lifted his hand and waved her off with a tired smile. "Just tired," he said simply.
She gave him a skeptical squint but didn't press further, skipping forward to catch up with Melina again. The two continued chatting softly ahead as they turned toward the corridor that led to the smithy.
The sound of a hammer rang out long before they reached the room. Master Hewg was already at work, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal keeping time like a forge-born heartbeat. Sparks danced across the stone floor in short-lived bursts.
Irina and Roderika sat together near the far wall, voices low, the tone soft and sisterly. Irina's hands were folded in her lap, her eyes unfocused but peaceful, while Roderika sat beside her, excitement bubbling just beneath her skin. Hewg said nothing as the girls talked, though his grumbles suggested he was trying to ignore them.
Melina was the first to enter, followed quickly by Millicent. Irina's head lifted at the sound of their approach, and she stood with a soft intake of breath. "You're back…"
Roderika looked up and let out a delighted gasp, she had heard about the entire problem from Irina and was quite sympathetic for their plight. She rose quickly and stepped forward. "Did it work? Is Castle Morne…?"
Melina nodded. "The castle is safe. The siege has ended. Edgar still lives, so do his people."
Irina's hands flew to her mouth, eyes already welling with tears behind her blindfold. "He's alive…?"
Millicent grinned and threw her hands in the air. "Alive and looking like a legend, I might add. He even got his big ol' sword back. Well, we got it back. Made Johnny give it up."
"Didn't think he had that much sense in him," Hewg muttered from the forge, never pausing his work.
Irina let out a breathy laugh, her hand to her heart. "That's such good news. Thank you, thank all of you."
The group huddled together in quiet celebration, voices overlapping in laughter and tears. But John lingered just outside the circle, his back against the cool stone of the archway. He watched them with quiet eyes, arms crossed over his chest. The smile he wore was faint and genuine, but something in it never reached the rest of his face.
"Thou art unwell, mine Champion," Marika's voice murmured into his thoughts, tender and observant. "Speak, what burdens thee?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, about to answer her with the lie he'd told everyone else. That he was fine. That he just needed sleep.
"It's been quite some time, brave champion."
The voice came from behind.
He turned, slowly, and found Fia watching him from the corridor, her head tilted just so, a faint look of worry playing at the corners of her mouth. She stepped into view, her robes trailing softly behind her, blonde hair braided down one shoulder, a single loose strand falling past her ear to frame her face in a way that seemed deliberate, though it wasn't.
"You seem… Tired." She said gently. "Is everything alright?"
John straightened, pulling on his old armor of sarcasm, already halfway to dismissing her. "I'm fine. Just a long day."
But Fia didn't move. She watched him with the calm patience of someone who had spent her life listening to what people didn't say.
"I've seen that look before…" She whispered. "The look of a man who's seen too much. Who's carried too much. You wear it like they did. Like a weight on your soul."
She stepped forward and reached out, her hand brushing gently against his wrist. "Are you truly well?"
John turned fully toward her, the warmth of her touch still faint against his skin. His eyes lingered on her face, on the quiet concern in her gaze, on the way that one golden strand danced near her cheek. The way she looked at him, it wasn't pity nor admiration. It was just care, simple and honest care.
Across the room, Millicent nudged Melina with her elbow and nodded toward the hallway.
Melina looked, her eyes finding John and Fia in the corridor. She went still. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her arms folded across her chest. She said nothing, made no move to interrupt.
But something in her posture shifted, her shoulders tensed, eyes narrowing just slightly, a flicker of jealousy in the back of her expression that she quickly buried.
John, for his part, didn't notice.
He stared at Fia a moment longer, then let out a long breath through his nose, his shoulders sagging.
"I don't know…" He admitted quietly.
Fia smiled, slow and understanding. Her hand drifted up from his wrist, fingers sliding across his arm until they found the back of his head.
She ran her hand gently through his black hair streaked with white, the strands cool and soft beneath her touch. Her fingers wove through it like silk, resting with a tenderness that disarmed him completely.
"Would you like to be held?" She asked softly. "Just like last time?"
The world around them seemed to pause. He closed his eyes.
"…Yes."
She pulled him into her arms, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder. Her embrace was warm, comforting.
And for a moment, John let himself rest.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:
STONES PLEASE
Poor Johnny boy…
He's not ready for what's next, is he?
As for those who might have some complaints about some of the drama, there is a point to it.
Just let me cook chat, I promise what's coming is peak.
Just Let It Happen.
…
Next Chapter Title: The Herald of Madness.
…
If you want access to all my stockpiled chapters, up to 16 chapters ahead, as well as special privileges on Discord among other things, you can go do so on my Patreon!
Join at patreon.com/Helios539