Taro left his little cottage behind, just as he had so many times before. But this time, everything felt different. This time, he wasn't coming back.
His thoughts kept drifting back to Doran. Doran had been Taro's teacher, his best friend, and in many ways, a father figure. Though their relationship had started on a teacher-student basis, over the years, it had evolved into something deeper, something Taro could never quite put into words. Doran wasn't just someone who had taught him about combat, about the use of different weapons, or about the ancient stories of his journeys—he had taught Taro what it meant to be more than just a sword, more than just a weapon in a world full of chaos. Doran was the one who had shown him the path, who had guided him when he felt lost, who had been there when no one else was.
Now, Taro was about to embark on a journey of his own, one that would take him far from the peaceful life he had known, far from the cottage he had grown so attached to. The weight of his decision hung heavy on his shoulders, and yet, there was a sense of urgency that pushed him forward. He had to do this. He had to leave. The Sword of Creation was waiting, and it called to him in a way that nothing else could.
Taro had always admired Doran's sword. The stories Doran had told about how he had acquired it, about his travels and battles, had fascinated Taro. As a child, Taro had dreamed of one day holding such a weapon in his hands, but now, as an adult, he was setting off to find the very sword he had always admired. But it wasn't just about the sword anymore. It was about answers. About uncovering the mysteries of his past, the secrets that had been buried deep within him for so long.
His feet moved on their own, carrying him towards Doran's cottage. It wasn't a long walk, but it felt like an eternity. His mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over each other in a frenzy. He had just spoken to Kael, just an hour ago. He had asked questions, sought counsel, and now, he was going to find the answers—answers that had eluded him for so long. And yet, a part of him wished that this moment would never come. He wasn't ready to leave, but he knew he had no choice.
As Taro approached Doran's cottage, he couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. The small, humble home sat nestled in the heart of the Nightless Forest, a place that had been Taro's sanctuary for most of his life. The forest was always bright, always bathed in an ethereal glow that made everything feel calm, serene, and safe. It had been Taro's world, his comfort, his escape from the harsh realities beyond its borders. But now, that world was about to change.
He knocked on the door, his heart thudding in his chest. It felt like a lifetime had passed since he had last stood here, knocking on this very door. He had never felt this sense of finality before.
The door creaked open, and there stood Doran. His expression was one of mild surprise, but there was something else there too—something Taro couldn't quite place. Doran's eyes flicked down to the large battle axe slung over Taro's shoulder, and a smile slowly spread across his face.
"Taro," Doran said, his voice warm but with an edge of pride, "What brings you here?"
"I—" Taro hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. "I need to talk to you."
Doran stepped aside, gesturing for Taro to enter. As Taro walked into the familiar interior of the cottage, memories rushed back. The walls were lined with books and weapons, relics from Doran's many adventures. The scent of herbs and leather filled the air, and the crackling of the hearth in the corner added to the cozy atmosphere. But today, it felt different. The air was thick with tension, and Taro could sense that Doran knew this would be their last conversation.
Taro sat at the table, where Doran's sword lay, its blade gleaming in the firelight. He couldn't help but stare at it, mesmerized by its beauty. The sword was a symbol of everything Doran had accomplished, everything Taro hoped to achieve.
Doran placed a hand on the table and pulled out his tracker, a small device that could scan and analyze weapons. "Can I take a look at it?" he asked, his voice casual, but there was a note of curiosity in his tone.
Taro nodded and handed over the heavy axe. As Doran activated the tracker, the device hummed to life, scanning the weapon with a soft whirring sound. The numbers and data flashed across the tracker's screen.
Weapon: Ranged Battle Axe
Power Level: 10
Ability: Handle Extension
Doran raised an eyebrow, impressed by the weapon's design and functionality. "Not bad," he said, handing the axe back to Taro. "It's certainly a solid choice. You've made good progress."
Taro felt a surge of warmth in his chest. Hearing Doran's praise meant more than anything to him. He had worked tirelessly, honing his skills, crafting this axe to be a weapon worthy of his journey. It wasn't much compared to some of the legendary weapons he had heard about, but it was his. And that meant everything.
But Taro's gaze was drawn back to the sword on the table. It wasn't just any sword—it was the one he had heard so much about, the one he had dreamed of holding in his hands. He had seen it in action countless times, but he had never truly understood its power. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hilt.
Doran followed his gaze and nodded. "You want to know more about it, don't you?"
Taro's voice caught in his throat, but he managed to say, "I've seen it in action. I've heard the stories. But I don't understand it. I don't understand how it's so powerful."
Doran smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You will. But not yet. Not until you're ready."
Taro pulled out his tracker once again, his hands trembling slightly as he scanned the sword.
Weapon: Nature Sword of Great Thorns
Power Level: 2500
Ability: Thorn Shower
Taro's eyes widened in shock. He had known the sword was powerful, but this? This was beyond anything he had ever imagined. The sheer magnitude of its power was almost overwhelming. He stared at the screen, his mind racing.
"It's... it's incredible," he murmured, more to himself than to Doran. He felt small in comparison, like his axe was nothing more than a toy beside this weapon. "How did you—where did you get this?"
Doran didn't answer right away. Instead, he simply gave Taro a cryptic smile, one that only deepened Taro's confusion. But Doran's eyes softened as he looked at Taro, and he said nothing more.
Doran stood and walked to the door, motioning for Taro to follow. They stepped outside into the warm evening air, and Doran pointed toward the sky. The clouds were drifting lazily across the heavens, their soft white forms contrasting against the bright blue expanse above them.
Taro followed Doran's gaze, his mind still reeling from the revelations about the sword. The sky was breathtaking in its beauty, the kind of sight that made you forget about everything else, if only for a moment.
They stood in silence, watching the sky together. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees was the only noise. Taro felt a strange sense of peace wash over him, but it was short-lived. The stillness was broken by Taro's voice, barely above a whisper.
"I have to go," he said. "I need answers."
Doran didn't say anything at first, but after a moment, he nodded. "I know. And you will find them. But remember, Taro—be careful. The world beyond this forest is not kind."
Taro nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "Thank you, Doran. For everything."
With a final glance at his teacher, Taro turned and made his way out of the cottage, his heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. He had never ventured far from the Nightless Forest before. He had always stayed close to home, where the light was always bright, and the world seemed safe. But now, as he stepped beyond the familiar trees, he knew he was entering the unknown.
The trees around him began to change. The bright golden leaves of the Nightless Forest gave way to darker, more somber trees. The air grew colder, and the light seemed to dim with every step he took. The change was gradual at first, but soon it became unmistakable. The forest of dark, dead trees stretched out before him, a stark contrast to the lush, vibrant world he had known.
Taro continued walking, his thoughts focused on the journey ahead. He had no idea what lay beyond this forest, but he knew it was the next step in his quest. He had to find the answers, and he had to do it alone.
Hours passed, or maybe days—Taro couldn't tell anymore. He felt as if he had walked for an eternity, but at last, he found a small clearing in the forest. He set up a small camp, the fire crackling softly as he sat on the ground, staring up at the sky.
As the sun began to set, Taro's heart began to race. He had never seen the night before. The light of the Nightless Forest had always kept the night at bay. But now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he felt the weight of darkness settle over him.
And then, as the sky turned dark, Taro was struck by the sight before him. The night sky was exactly like the Sword of Creation. The stars twinkled, their bright light scattered across the black expanse like dots of light on a dark blue blade.
Taro gasped, his breath catching in his throat. It was no longer a coincidence. He could see it now, the shape of the sword in the sky, mirrored in the stars. The truth was undeniable. The Sword of Creation had always been connected to the night sky, to the stars themselves. It meant something but Taro couldn't yet know what. That night, Taro couldn't sleep. He lay on his back beneath the open sky, staring up in awe at the constellation he had traced with his eyes over and over again—the shape of the Sword of Creation, drawn in starlight. The stars shimmered with a quiet, ancient energy, and the silhouette of the blade stretched across the heavens like a memory waiting to be awakened. It was beautiful, haunting, and strangely familiar, as if the cosmos themselves were whispering a secret meant only for him.
His mind refused to rest. He kept replaying the moment he had first noticed the sword in the sky—the surreal feeling of recognition, the certainty that it wasn't coincidence. He didn't know how or why, but something inside him told him that the sword and the stars were bound together, and that bond was tied to him as well.
Eventually, sleep took him—not a restful sleep, but one filled with vivid dreams. He saw fire and light, metal and magic. He stood at a forge made of stone and flame, in a place that didn't exist in the waking world. The sword was there—glowing, pulsing with life—as he hammered it into shape with hands that weren't fully his own. Sparks flew like stars, and each strike of the hammer echoed through a void that stretched into eternity. He wasn't just forging a weapon—he was forging fate itself.
When he awoke, the dream clung to him like smoke. For a long moment, he stayed still, eyes fixed on the now-empty sky above. The stars had faded with the dawn, but the image of the sword lingered in his mind, sharp and unwavering. He didn't fully understand it, but something had changed.
With a deep breath, Taro packed up his camp. His muscles ached from the long walk, but there was a fire in his chest now—a purpose that refused to be ignored.
Before moving on, he took time to train with his axe. He found a sturdy tree and faced it like an opponent. He shifted his stance, gripped the weapon tight, and began his practice. With a focused mind, he activated the axe's magical ability, extending the handle mid-swing. The balance shifted dramatically, and Taro had to compensate quickly. Again and again, he practiced—lengthening the handle, adjusting his strikes, learning the weight and rhythm of the weapon as if it were an extension of himself. The cold morning air filled with the sound of strikes, grunts, and the occasional crack of bark splitting.
By the end of the session, he was panting and drenched in sweat, but a confident grin tugged at his lips. He was getting better. The axe felt like it belonged in his hands now—not just a tool, but a companion.
Then he saw it. Far ahead, rising like a titan from the earth: a tall, craggy mountain cloaked in dark clouds. It stood like a monument to some forgotten god, silent and still, its rocky flanks stretching high enough to scrape the sky.
Taro moved toward it, crossing the dead forest where the trees stood like twisted shadows of life. The further he walked, the more the light seemed to die, swallowed by the gray gloom that blanketed the land. It felt like walking through the ashes of a memory.
As he neared the mountain, a flicker of light caught his eye—a soft orange glow coming from the base, deep within a cave. The firelight pulsed like a heartbeat, a sign of life in a place that felt completely void of it.
A dirt path emerged from the trees, illuminated by old lanterns that swung gently in the wind. The quiet path wound its way toward the cave like a silent invitation. Despite the eerie stillness, there was something oddly calming about it, like a lullaby in a graveyard. Taro walked slowly, listening to the soft crunch of dirt beneath his boots, his hand never straying far from his weapon.
He took out his tracker, hopeful that there might be a weapon nearby he could claim, something to aid him in whatever awaited in the cave. The screen flickered on and displayed the map—but only one dot glowed: his own. No green dots, no signals. Just the solitary blue mark pulsing in the middle of a lifeless grid. He sighed and slipped it back into his cloak.
As he walked, a strange feeling crawled up his spine. It was like being watched. The silence around him felt deliberate, calculated—too quiet. He slowed his pace, eyes scanning the treeline. Every shadow suddenly felt deeper. Every rustle carried weight.
And then it happened.
A spear whistled through the air and slammed into the ground just feet from where he stood. The sound of impact snapped through the quiet like thunder. Taro turned sharply, his heart pounding in his chest, and saw a small, green-skinned figure standing in the trees.
It was a goblin—tattooed, wiry, and snarling. War paint streaked its face in jagged lines, and its beady black eyes glinted with violence. Taro knew it instantly from Doran's stories. These creatures were natives of Grimthorn, a treacherous region where no sane human dared to tread.
The goblin extended a clawed hand, and the spear leapt from the earth back into its grasp, humming with some unseen magic. Taro swallowed hard, the weight of Doran's warnings echoing in his mind. The goblins of Grimthorn were known for their brutality. And their leader—he was a name spoken only in whispers.
Fear twisted in his gut, but Taro didn't falter. He reached for his axe and gripped it tightly, grounding himself. His stance widened, and his breath steadied. This was no longer practice. This was real. He was being tested. And he was ready.