As I approached the village, something felt… wrong. The air was thick with tension, a weight that settled deep in my gut. The paths I knew so well, where children used to laugh and traders would haggle, now felt alien, like the world had shifted while I was gone. My eyes darted around, trying to catch what was different, but at first glance, everything seemed… normal. Yet, the unease gnawed at me. The sword in my hand felt heavier with every step, its dark presence more pronounced, like it was feeding off the tension.
The whispers hadn't stopped, faint voices echoing in my mind, too ancient to understand but impossible to ignore. I tried to shake it off, focus on the road ahead. But that feeling of dread clung to me, refusing to let go.
Then it happened—a scream, sharp and terrified, cutting through the stillness of the village. My heart lurched, cold dread crawling down my spine. Without thinking, I broke into a sprint, feet pounding against the dirt as I raced toward the village square.
When I got there, chaos had already unfolded. Marauders—brutal and wild-eyed—were tearing through the village, pillaging everything in sight. They struck down anyone who dared stand in their way. My chest tightened as I watched people I knew, people I'd grown up with, fleeing in terror or worse, lying motionless on the ground.
I froze for a second, unsure of what to do. I wasn't a warrior. I had no training, no idea how to fight. But then I felt it—the sword. It pulsed in my grip, like it was alive, feeding off the violence, the fear. Something inside me stirred, something I didn't understand but couldn't ignore.
Before I knew it, I was stepping forward. My body moved on instinct, my grip tightening around the hilt of the sword. I didn't feel like myself. It was as if the sword was guiding me, pushing me toward the fight.
One of the marauders, a massive man with cruel eyes and a jagged axe, spotted me. His lips curled into a sneer, like he found the sight of me ridiculous—just some kid with an old relic. He barked a laugh and charged at me, his axe gleaming in the light.
I didn't think. I couldn't. Everything happened so fast. My hand tightened on the hilt, and before I even realized what I was doing, I raised the sword. The air around me seemed to shift, the whispers growing louder in my head. Time slowed, and I felt something—*power*—rushing through me, through the blade.
The marauder swung his axe with brutal force, but I stepped to the side, faster than I thought possible, the sword guiding my movements. I could feel it hum in my hands, almost as if it were alive, feeding off the energy around us. I slashed out, and to my surprise, the blade moved with precision, cutting through the marauder's defenses as if he were nothing more than paper.
Blood splattered, and the marauder fell to the ground, his sneer frozen on his face in shock. I stood there, staring at the body, my heart pounding in my ears. I had no idea how I had done that, how I had moved with such speed and precision. But I didn't have time to dwell on it. More marauders had noticed me now, their eyes narrowing as they realized I wasn't just some helpless villager.
I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the sword again. Whatever had just awakened in me, whatever power the sword was lending me—I was going to need more of it. Because this fight was far from over.