Velren blinked, staring at the array of weapons lining the walls. His gaze drifted from the gleaming blades to the assortment of bows, staves, and daggers.
"Wait... by 'take your pick,' you mean... a weapon?"
Gramps gave him a flat look.
"What else would it be? We ain't here to shop for pastries, kid."
Velren's lips parted, then closed again. Right... obviously.
"Uh, I mean... armor? Potions? Something?"
"Armor?" Gramps snorted.
"Like hell you'd manage to move properly in those bulky things. You rely too much on gear, and you'll forget how to use what you already got. And potions? What, you plannin' to chug 'em every time you get a scratch? Waste of coin. No—if you're gonna survive, you'll need something that complements you. Not something that'll weigh you down or make you soft."
"But... why now?" Velren asked.
"I mean—suddenly giving me a weapon is kinda out of nowhere. Did something happen?"
Gramps sighed, rubbing his temple.
"What's with all the questions? Do you want it or not?"
"No—no, it's not like that!" Velren waved his hands.
"It's just... this is kind of a big deal, y'know? You never brought it up before."
Gramps didn't respond immediately. He leaned back against the counter, and his gaze was distant. Velren shifted awkwardly, flitting his eyes back to the weapons. Part of him was already mentally picking through what might suit him best—but another part nagged at the back of his mind:
'Why now?'
Moments stretched in silence before Gramps finally spoke again:
"Because it's time you carried somethin' of your own—something that ain't just mine or those wolves' teachings. Your path ain't gonna wait for you, and there are things tied to you..."
He trailed off, parting his lips like he was about to say something more. But then, with a sigh, Gramps closed his eyes and waved a hand.
"Anyway, just look around the store for a while."
Velren glanced at him, sensing there was something more the old man wanted to say—but he let it go, complying with the request.
Still... a weapon? How do you even know which one suits you? When he was eight, Fenrir had given him this knife—a simple but reliable blade. It had been invaluable for hunting, carving traps, and survival tasks. Small, practical, and easy to carry—it had served him well even until now.
So it only made sense to pick something similar, right?
"Hold up," Gramps said, crossing his arms.
"Before you go grabbin' whatever looks shiny, listen close. Pickin' your weapon ain't just about what feels comfortable in your hand—it's a choice that'll stick with you. You only get to pick once. So think carefully."
Velren blinked.
"Wait—only once? Why?"
"Ain't it obvious?" Gramps shot him a look.
"That bastard's store don't take refunds. So don't go wastin' my coin on somethin' you'll regret later."
'Right...'
Velren exhaled through his nose and glanced back at the countless weapons displayed before him.
Then Gramps spoke again with a more serious tone this time.
"Listen. A weapon ain't just a piece o' metal or wood. It's an extension of you—of your Ka. The right one will feel like it belongs in your hand, like it pulls at you in some way. When your Ka flows right through it, you'll know. Don't pick with your eyes—pick with your gut. Your Ka'll tell you if you're payin' attention."
Velren swallowed, glancing back at the racks. How the hell was he supposed to tell what his Ka wanted?
He glanced back at the old man, furrowing his brows.
"But... not everyone uses weapons, right? I mean, some people do just fine with their bare hands—or use staves. I heard they're good for channeling Ka more effectively. So... why are you so insistent on me picking a weapon?"
Gramps grunted, scratching at his beard.
"Sure, some folks do fine without one, and yeah—staves can be useful for channelin' Ka. But you? You ain't like everyone else, kid. You got a knack for close combat, and your Ka's... different. Somethin' volatile lurkin' under the surface. A weapon'll help ground that energy—give it direction. Bare hands might work for someone else, but for you? It's like tryin' to dam a flood with a twig. And a staff? Too focused on channelin', not enough on control. You need balance. Precision. A weapon that'll act as both anchor and outlet."
Velren processed Gramps' advice, glancing back at the rows of weapons. His Ka was... volatile? Maybe Gramps wasn't wrong. There were times when it felt like his energy simmered just under his skin, itching to burst free—probably because of his 'anomaly' status, being someone not of this world.
"Besides," Gramps added, jerking his thumb toward the counter.
"Me and old Harven over there go way back. I trust him with everything he forges. Not just because he's good—but because he knows what he's doin'. Some of these weapons? Not from around here. He studies the history, the designs—makes sure every piece has its purpose. So don't go pickin' somethin' shiny just 'cause it looks cool. These ain't toys. They're meant to last—and meant for fightin'."
Velren swallowed, feeling the weight of the decision settle on his shoulders.
Right... no pressure.
He exhaled slowly and turned back to the rows of weapons, letting his gaze sweep over them as he tried to listen—to feel. His Ka... his gut... something had to click, right?
Anything?
He wandered through the store, occasionally brushing his fingers over worn hilts and polished wood. The variety was overwhelming—swords of varying lengths, axes with gleaming blades, staves carved with runes, and daggers so sharp they seemed to cut the air itself. Yet, nothing seemed to call to him. Not until—
He froze in place.
Something... caught his attention.
His gaze drifted to a weapon nestled on the wall, partially obscured by a heavy leather strap hanging beside it. Velren reached out, gently brushing the strap aside to get a better look.
The curve of it, the simplicity—it was unlike the other weapons around it.
'Why... does this thing feel so familiar?'
Gramps, who had been observing from a distance, finally noticed where Velren's attention had landed. His eyes widened in surprise.
"That... huh." A faint chuckle rumbled from his throat.
"Maybe your guts—or your Ka—ain't playin' tricks on you after all."
Velren said nothing, still staring at the weapon. There was a pull, a connection that tugged at something deep within. It wasn't just the craftsmanship or the odd familiarity—it was as if the weapon recognized him in return.
Gramps rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"If I remember right... that foreign weapon's called—"
"—a katana..."