Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 66: Ready for the Inevitable

Chapter 66: Ready for the Inevitable

I then went to the Master Blacksmith to retrieve my weapons.

A detail, long buried in my memory, came back to me on the way: my base class, Light Warrior, allowed the use of sabers.

This possibility resonated with my deepest preferences.

I had always favored reach, the fluidity of long blades, their precise and lethal dance... rather than the short and blunt brutality of daggers.

My choice had been clear.

Two long sabers awaited me, perfectly crafted to my expectations: blades about one meter each, identical in every way.

Their balance, their discreet shine, the finesse of their curve... everything about them breathed mastery.

As I took them in hand, I immediately felt they were perfect.

My companions for the trials to come.

With a gesture, I activated my Identification skill.

Identification (Adept) – Name: The First Slash | Rank: Legendary | Bound to its bearer and its twin saber, the blade cannot be passed on without consent. In case of theft or betrayal, it becomes dead weight in unworthy hands. It can also whisper to warn of an impending betrayal.

Identification (Adept) – Name: The First Slash | Rank: Legendary | Bound to its bearer and its twin saber, the blade cannot be passed on without consent. In case of theft or betrayal, it becomes dead weight in unworthy hands. It can also whisper to warn of impending love.

When my fingers brushed their surface, I instantly knew what I was dealing with.

The precise weight, the perfect balance, the rigorous symmetry: everything betrayed an extraordinary mastery.

These two twin sabers seemed born from a single forge, shaped in a unique surge of creation, as if the blacksmith had imbued his soul into every hammer strike.

There was no difference between them, not even the slightest irregularity; they were the reflection of one another, two fragments of a single will crystallized in metal.

It would have taken an exceptional craftsman, a master at the pinnacle of his art, to recreate with such fidelity the sensation of a legendary weapon.

And yet, that was exactly what I held in my hands: not mere copies, but the vibrant echo of ancient greatness, captured with an almost unreal precision.

Every detail, from the grain of the metal to the tension of the blade, testified to a craftsmanship so rare it seemed almost sacred.

These sabers held a place of exception, just below the prestige of Lysara’s legendary armor—and that was more than enough.

Their effectiveness left no room for doubt: every curve, every edge was designed to strike true and with relentless certainty.

They did not need to reach the heights of mythical perfection to inspire respect; their mere presence evoked a silent power, brutal in its simplicity and formidable in its execution.

I held them firmly, one in each hand, feeling their perfectly balanced weight extend into my arms like a natural extension of my body.

The cold metal vibrated slightly under my fingers, charged with contained energy, almost impatient.

Then, suddenly, a sound pierced the silence:

Ding!

Your skill [Dual Dagger Style Mastery (Novice)] has changed to [Dual Saber Style Mastery (Novice)]!

And, as if these sabers had always been the natural extension of my being, I felt an emerging mastery awaken within me.

From the very first moments, despite my inexperience, I sensed a strange affinity with their handling, a raw intuition that guided my movements.

Of course, I still remained at a novice level—clumsy, hesitant—but something, deep inside me, had aligned, ready to evolve.

With time and perseverance, I knew I could refine this skill.

The essential was there: the connection between the sabers and me was made, and the path to mastery had just opened.

I pulled out of my belt my enchanted bag, a precious item I had commissioned as soon as circumstances allowed.

Its supple and stretchable fabric, woven from rare magical fibers, could withstand the most extreme temperatures and bear tremendous loads without fail.

The internal structure, solidly reinforced by a complex network of stability glyphs, gave it remarkable sturdiness: it would not tear, never deform, and, crucial detail for any discreet adventurer, it remained perfectly silent, even when filled to the brim.

This bag was not just an accessory; it was an extension of my will, crafted to survive the harshest trials.

Identification (Adept) – Name: Zagnaroth’s Bag | Rank: Legendary | Bound to its owner, this near-indestructible artifact is capable of containing almost any object in the world.

Beside it lay my magical flask, one of the two precious relics I had already managed to recover.

Seemingly modest, almost banal hanging from my belt, it concealed powerful enchantments: designed to endure the worst conditions, resist shocks, flames as well as the harshest frost.

Its discretion was its asset, but I alone knew its true value.

In the hostile lands I was preparing to venture into, this flask would not be a mere comfort—it would be, on many occasions, the thin line between survival and death.

Identification (Adept) – Name: Zagnaroth’s Flask | Rank: Legendary | Bound to its owner, this near-indestructible artifact is capable of containing almost any liquid in the world.

I retrieved the other weapons I had ordered, accompanied by a multitude of tools, each designed to meet a specific situation.

The order was gargantuan, matching the dangers I anticipated.

With almost ceremonial rigor, I packed each item into my enchanted bag, assigning each a carefully chosen place.

Nothing was to move, nothing was to clatter once the journey began; order was the condition of my survival.

After all, it would have been foolish not to make the most of my newly acquired wealth to prepare myself as best I could.

In this unknown environment awaiting me, every advantage, however slight, could make the difference between life and death.

The only item I had not ordered was armor.

Of course, I could have wrapped myself in a legendary relic, a piece forged for the greatest heroes, gleaming with glory and power.

But to what end?

My most precious weapon was neither steel nor enchantment: it was my own blood.

It had to flow, it had to burn in my veins with every confrontation.

I had chosen the path of blood and pain, that of a beast that retreats before nothing, that knows neither comfort nor mercy.

Now, there was no turning back.

All that remained was to fully embrace this brutal path I had carved with my own hands.

At the end of my reflections, I closed the bag with a precise and assured gesture.

At the touch of my fingers, it vibrated imperceptibly, releasing a magical shiver that briefly rippled across its surface, like a docile beast sealing its contents at its master’s command.

Under the effect of my will, the enchantments activated silently, locking each compartment, stabilizing each load.

Now, everything was ready.

Nothing would shift, nothing would fail.

The journey could begin.

Everything was finally in order, every detail in place, every preparation complete.

A strange calm settled within me, the heavy and tense calm that precedes great crossings, when one knows that nothing more depends on organization, only on what one is ready to sacrifice.

The weeks that followed were of an almost unreal agitation.

I ran from place to place, never finding the slightest respite.

Preparations for the road monopolized my mornings, while my afternoons slipped away between final lessons delivered with discreet urgency, and evenings were swallowed by a succession of invitations, issued by nobles sometimes curious, sometimes wary.

Each day seemed to blur into the next, carried away by a whirlwind of obligations and pretenses, until time itself lost all substance.

But, amid this incessant turmoil, one thing alone managed to rekindle in me a true joy, pure and untamable: her.

Lysara.

Her mere presence was enough to dispel fatigue, to erase the weight of obligations.

In this chaos of intrigues and preparations, she was my anchor, the steady light reminding me why I pursued this shadow-laden path.

I had entrusted her with a magic bag, fashioned on the same model as mine, as well as one of my precious enchanted flasks.

To that was added a handful of Varkh—enough for her to subsist for a long time, never needing to beg from anyone.

And she... She managed.

By herself.

With fierce determination and silent grace, she faced each challenge without ever faltering, forging her own path far from my shadow.

She learned with disconcerting speed.

She observed attentively, tested without fear, imitated precisely, then improvised with an audacity that commanded respect.

Each day, her resourcefulness surprised me more, revealing a sharp intelligence and a fierce will.

She was beginning to exist on her own, fully, no longer as a child guided step by step, but as a truly autonomous person, building her own path despite her young age.

And I was... proud.

Proud of her, of that silent strength she cultivated day after day.

Proud of the person she was becoming, shaped not by the world’s conveniences, but by the trials she had already faced and overcome.

Each scar, each success, each fall she had turned into a lesson strengthened that burning feeling within me.

She moved forward without denying her weaknesses, and that, more than anything, inspired my admiration.

But I was also afraid.

A dull fear, discreet but tenacious.

Because she was still young, after all—not only in years but also in experience, in humanity, in landmarks to guide her in a world that offered no favors.

Her strength, however radiant, was not enough to erase her vulnerability.

She moved forward bravely, yes, but sometimes audacity does not protect from invisible traps, and I knew that, despite all I could pass on to her, some pains, some lessons, she would have to face alone.

For a moment, a doubt crossed me, fleeting but piercing.

Was I projecting too much onto her? Too soon, too hard?

Perhaps I saw in Lysara what I desperately wanted to believe was possible: an early strength, a maturity forged in urgency, capable of defying years and scars.

Perhaps I was imposing a burden on her that she had not yet chosen to bear.

And if, in my impatience, I risked breaking her before she even had time to build herself?

Then I remembered: this world was not Earth.

Here, norms, expectations, the rhythms of life were radically different.

Children did not wait patiently to become adults; they became adults when circumstances demanded it, without warning, without a gentle transition.

They grew up in urgency, shaped by necessity, not by time.

And Lysara would not escape this merciless rule.

In her own way, she was already crossing that invisible threshold where innocence is sacrificed to survival.

So I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind.

There was no room for doubts, not now.

I buried them with the rest, where they could not hinder my progress.

And without looking back, I kept moving forward, carried by that fragile but necessary certainty: sometimes, moving forward was the only thing we had left.

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