Where did it all go wrong?
Sitting in a small cave buried deep within a dead forest, Luciel gritted his teeth and wrapped his shirt tight around where his arm was supposed to be.
The patrol had been routine. That was the word Narae Association used — routine — for a zone outside of the Noxian Federation's eastern perimeter that paid three times the standard rate, and it even allowed Dormants like him to take the mission.
He should have known better. Except money had a way of disappearing around Bambi, his travel companion, and what little they had left wouldn't last the week. So Luciel took the job without much compliant or worry.
And the unthinkable happened. A Class 4 Discordant that had no business being anywhere close a low-risk zone reduced him to this miserable state, tearing off his left arm, while his right thigh was mangled to oblivion.
Luciel pressed his back into the jagged rock and breathed through his teeth in pain.
'Bambi is going to kill me.'
He could picture her expression clearly. Colorless eyes going wide, then narrow, then the dangerous kind of narrow that didn't bode well for whoever was on the receiving end. She would probably hit him before checking his pulse, and maybe after, too, just to be thorough.
And then, she would cry, and then cry some more, until the tears dried out.
Luciel stared up through the canopy. The sky offered absolutely nothing but a grey hue and depressing clouds.
'What a miserable way to go.'
In the seventeen years living in the Outlands, he only knew how to kill people, plunder for food and water, and survive. Then Bambi came to his life, and he experienced the best year he could have had.
But he couldn't shed his ordinary shell. He wanted to become extraordinary. He wanted meaning in his life rather than being an ordinary human whose only goal was to survive for another day. At least, he didn't want to die like a fool. That was all he asked for.
'Fuck this stupid life. I didn't even get to become anything.'
All the words he despised came at him — ordinary, powerless, meaningless, forgettable. So, Luciel sincerely cursed his life with everything he had.
Then his eyes gradually closed, and the darkness swallowed him whole along with regret and misery.
***
"Urgh… Am I in hell?"
Luciel opened his eyes to a grey sky that stretched endlessly. The lasting agony had vanished into thin air, replaced by an unfamiliar airiness.
He looked down and found himself floating in the wind. Moreover, his left arm was intact. His whole body was regenerated brand new, like nothing had happened.
Confused, he scanned the area to better understand the situation. He first saw the desolate plains, barren and lifeless, where not a single blade of grass survived. From afar, he could see a cradle of swords laying silent and solemn. The two zones were separated by a dense line of trees.
'Where the hell am I?'
Just then, a strong wind current lashed at him, dragging him away from the withered landscape and into the forest. Luciel frantically tried to break free, but it was a useless endeavor no matter the struggle.
The wind shot him over the foliage and hauled him down the beaten path. Along the way, he started to see a different object — broken swords and shields. They stood upright in the earth like grave markers. Now ownerless, the blades trembled as though they were mourning the hands that had driven them into rest.
The path then opened up to a sparse forest, where Luciel saw horrors beyond comprehension.
Between the thin trees lay the fallen soldiers — their faces half-sunk into the mud, their mouths open in the shape of helpless pleas.
What could have possibly caused them to make that kind of face?
Did he die in the overworld just to die in hell again?
'Piece of shit gods, I won't die the second time!'
As Luciel cursed, the violent gust carried him deeper into the war-torn lands. The trees thinned, their trunks like stripped poles, bark flayed by an indescribable, inhuman force. The closer he drew to the end, the more bodies he saw, piled nearly as high as the trees themselves.
Luciel's breath hitched.
He noticed a jarring similarity between the corpses: their eyes, gaped or not, pointed toward one direction. Even in death, swallowed by mud and filth, their necks were craned toward the same point down the path.
He followed their gaze while the wind continued to push him.
At the end of the road, the swords lay scattered and defeated. These chipped blades had no witness to their death, their accolades, their sacrifice. The instruments of war that the humans wielded — Luciel felt more empathy towards them than the aggressors.
'We all have a choice, don't we. The swords don't.'
He scrutinized every blade for its scratches, chips, rust. Some were crude with no artistry, forged to be swung and discarded; others carried engravings along the fuller that had worn thin by time. Maybe they were heirlooms, entrusted to them by their families whose hope was for their sons and daughters to return with smiles and glory.
The rust on the swords told another story. Some were eaten so deeply by corrosion that only the faint shape remained. This meant the place had been collecting the dead for a long, long time.
Luciel continued examining each blade, absorbing the stories told, until one particular sword captured his attention.
It stood alone in the sea of swords, driven upright. There was nothing special about it in terms of design: a straight, double-edged blade that blinked as the light reflected, a simple crossguard, and a leather-wrapped grip darkened by years of use.
Yet, despite its simplicity, Luciel could tell the blade was flawless. He had no knowledge of the sword, nor had he ever held one.
The weight sat exactly at the center above the crossguard. It had the kind of balance that made the sword feel like an extension of the body. The vegetable-tanned pigskin leather grip was wrapped in a tight, overlapping spiral, firm enough to hold in wet hands, and soft enough to swing for hours on end.
A thought unwittingly popped up in his mind.
'I want it.'
"A remarkable sword, indeed."
Luciel's body stiffened. The voice wasn't his.
"A fine sword is often inconspicuous. But for the refined eyes, it sticks out like a sore thumb."
A hand then slowly rested on the pommel of the sword. Gauntleted, scarred at the knuckles, and steady as stone, Luciel's gaze stood frozen before slowly travelling up the arm, then toward a shoulder plated in dull silver, and then to a face buried beneath a thick grey beard.
The man studied him with pale, quiet eyes.
"You're late."
Shivers ran berserk down Luciel's spine. How could the man have seen him? Still, he managed to squeeze out a question.
"Who are you?"
The man studied Luciel's face for a moment before lowering his head, his eyes dimmed while watching the surface of steel shone against the ground.
"Funny that you asked that."
He paused momentarily before drawing the sword from the earth. He turned the steel in his hand, studying his own rugged reflection.
"I once had the chance to interact with a brave man who sacrificed everything to save his world. Though it was destroyed in the end, he managed to leave his legacy for future generations. They managed to become Wanderers. You know what he said before he died?"
Luciel wore a confused expression, not understanding where this rambling even came from. He decided to just go with the flow.
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'I die out of the selfishness of wanting to live another day.'"
The man let the words settle before continuing.
"'I cannot die. I will not die, for my death will be colored in glory and legend, and every piece of me belongs to those who come after.'"
Luciel let the silence simmer. The quote echoed in his mind. A man with a conviction was an image to admire.
"That man," Luciel started cautiously. "What's his name?"
The old man stopped studying the blade and smiled for the first time. He flipped the sword in his hand and extended it toward Luciel.
"You already know."
Luciel's eyes widened slightly.
'What does he mean, I know?'
He stared at the offered blade, then looked at the old man again. He knew those who spoke cryptically never gave out any answers, so he refrained from asking again.
"Seems like this isn't a simple dream."
The old man kept silent; his arm steady, the blade still extending.
Luciel swallowed. He understood what to do next.
With a heavy sigh, he reached out to the sword. His fingers closed around the leather grip, and the sword settled into his hand as if it had been waiting for him. It was what he had imagined — the perfect balance, the delicate weight, and the shining steel.
Then, in one fell swoop, the blade ignited in flames, swallowing his hand, his arm, then his chest. It climbed his body in a single breath, consuming even his insides.
'Shit! It fucking hurts.'
The pain was unbearable and overflowing. Luciel tried to scream, but the fire filled his lungs before sound could escape. All he could do was curl into himself and winced against the agony.
The withered forest burned until nothing was left. The battlefield also vanished.
Luciel agonizingly clawed through the roaring light for the old man and found him at the heart of it, burning away like autumn leaves. The intense heat shuddered around his silhouette, and for a fleeting moment, those intense pale eyes met Luciel's.
Then the old man opened his mouth, his voice cutting through the crackle like a temple bell:
"Zhar tal'ra. Taza sha'er kheir, uru sha'er naz'ra. Kha daqir'ish."
The last syllable fell, and his body broke apart into a spiral of sparks that the wind devoured… until there was nothing left but a crippling void and the burning sword in Luciel's hand.