Khazak was stuck in place, his uncle's back was burnt to ash, leaving behind a cross-shaped burn mark. His uncle was in Khazak's arms, and Khazak could neither move nor speak. All he could see was his uncle's lifeless body and the huge wound on his back.
His uncle slipped from his hands and fell completely to the ground. Khazak collapsed on top of him and let out a shallow scream. He couldn't even make a sound, he was absolutely terrified.
After a while Khazak's eyes fell on a silhouette coming from the forest; it was Roran. When he saw Khazak waiting by his fallen father, he couldn't move from his spot. After a moment, he took a few more steps, and when he reached his father, he knelt down on his knees.
He gently embraced his father, pressing his forehead against his father's forehead he let out a wail as he began to cry. After crying for a few more minutes, he looked at Khazak and asked, "What happened here?" Khazak's throat was choked with emotion, and he couldn't respond. Roran asked again, "What happened here, Khazak?!"
When Khazak didn't answer Roran punched him. Khazak that was still in the shock of the explosion fainted from the blow. Roran who didn't know what to do continued to cry.
When Khazak woke up, he found himself in bed. He quickly sat up, but as soon as he stood, his vision blurred. Once he regained his balance, he looked from the window. The villagers had gathered in the village square, he wondered what was happening. He tried to walk, but immediately collapsed to the ground, it was as if his body felt different than before. He looked around. convinced himself that he was just tired, he set off. He descended the stairs and saw the empty chair in the living room. In that moment, everything he had experienced and his uncle's death came to his mind like a rushing current.
The memory of the magnificent explosion and the sight of his uncle's body in the midst of the hell it had left behind took hold of his mind. Leaning against the wall, he managed to stand up. After taking a few more steps, the image of the huge wound on his uncle's back flashed in his mind, as he sank to the ground. He gagged a few times before he finally threw up.
He covered his mouth with his hand and took a deep breath. Another wave of nausea hit him, but he managed to hold it back and made it outside. His legs were shaking, but he could still walk. As he stepped out of the house, he saw the blacksmith's forge on his left and, trembling, he headed toward it.
The blacksmith's forge was made up of several parts. At the back stood a massive melting furnace that occupied an entire wall on its own. The adjacent walls were usually lined with cabinets filled with odds and ends. On the right side, there was a sword rack, with about six or seven swords hanging from it. Two of those swords were the ones Khazak referred to as his regular swords. The others had different shapes and sizes. His uncle had taught Khazak the names of the sword types, but Khazak hadn't paid much attention, so he couldn't remember them.
Khazak slowly made his way toward the anvil at the entrance. When he reached the anvil, his eyes trembled, but his body didn't move an inch. With fearful eyes, he stared at the sword wrapped in a brown cloth resting on the anvil. Though his hand trembled, he managed to place it on top of the cloth. Slowly, he began to lift the covering, but the moment he saw the metal piece underneath, the strength in his knees gave way, and he sank to his knees. Another wave of nausea hit him but he covered his mouth with his hand.
He stood up again and quickly lifted the cloth, producing a metallic sound that echoed in the air. Khazak stepped back a couple of paces and sat down, staring at the sword from a distance. It had a metallic color, but it seemed to shimmer with blue tones in his eyes. It was a peculiar sword; the blade was about a meter long, but the grip was only large enough for one of Khazak's hands to hold.
Between the hilt and the blade, there were three empty slots in the handguard. The blade started straight from the hilt, then widened into an oval shape before tapering to a sharp point. In the thickest part of the blade, there was a hollow space. It was an oval-shaped hollow that tapered to sharp points at the ends. He didn't know why it was designed this way, but he thought it might be to lighten the sword's weight. Finally, he decided to stand up and slowly approached the sword. The grip was made of wood in shades of brown and yellow.
He had never seen wood like that before. He tried to lift the sword, but as soon as he touched it, he felt a wave of nausea and vomited. When he regained his composure, he felt more determined. He grasped the sword, only to be stunned; it was at least five times heavier than he had anticipated.
He held the sword upright, gazing at his own reflection in the blade. His dark eyes stared back at him, judging him. This sword was the legacy his uncle had left him.
Suddenly, a series of clouds obscured the sun, and he finally saw the true color of the sword. It was actually a metallic shade of deep blue, something he hadn't realized in the sunlight. He plunged the sword into the ground and sat down beside it, seeing his own reflection in the blade. Yes, it was him, gazing at himself, judging himself. The sword before him was his uncle's... No, it was his uncle's legacy to him.
He pulled the sword from the ground, grasped it in his hand, and looked into his own eyes one last time. He glanced around a bit more and spotted a sheath behind the anvil; it was made for this sword. He strapped the sheath to his waist and decided to venture into the forest, into that hellish place one last time. He was very curious to find out what had killed his father.
He slowly ventured deeper into the forest, dragging the sword along the ground. When he finally arrived, he couldn't believe his eyes. The river that supplied water to the waterfall had filled the crater left by the explosion, but the ordinary rock in the center still jutted upward, and there was a Fenrir pup laying on it.