Locke's hand missed, swinging at the air. He was inwardly stunned, so much so that he opened his eyes. His sword had always been there, it was the one thing that never failed him, and even with access to all the spatial treasures he could ever hope to use in a single lifetime, he still chose to hang it by his waist. He was so used to this sword that he could find it blindfolded in the depths of a blackhole if he had to, so how could he have…
The sword wasn't there. Locke's eyes snapped open and he looked at his waist. It was all gone, his trusted sword wasn't there.
The blade of that sword had changed over the years, but the hilt was always the exact same. He asked every swordsmith he had ever worked with to transfer it over. It was the blade hilt his father had passed down to him, and a blade hilt his grandfather had passed on to his father before him.
