Two figures stood before a giant double door, its surface a masterpiece forged from precious materials melded into intricate patterns of art. The door radiated an aura of majesty, befitting the treasures it concealed. Both figures wore solemn expressions as they stood silently. One was clad in a white gi, the other dressed in a long, tight-fitting crimson robe.
Aiden turned to his son, his voice steady yet filled with warmth. "Ryker, for generations, our family has always been swordmasters—from our progenitor, Ignis, right down to me. As much as it would please me for you to continue that tradition, your path is yours to walk and yours to choose. You need not fear or care about what others might say. Pick a weapon that suits you, one that truly calls to you. At the end of the day, strength and family are all that matter. I hope you'll come to understand this, someday."
Ryker simply nodded taking Aiden's words seriously.
Aiden's gaze softened, his hand resting lightly on Ryker's shoulder. "Beyond this door lies the weapon vault, filled with every kind of weapon imaginable. Swords, spears, maces—anything you can think of can be found within. Are you ready to choose your weapon?"
"Yes, Father," Ryker replied, his voice resolute.
Aiden gave a nod of approval and stepped forward, tapping the door lightly. A strange ripple spread across its surface, followed by the deep groan of mechanisms unlocking. The massive doors parted slowly, unveiling the room beyond.
Ryker gasped audibly, his eyes widening in wonder. It was magnificent—rows and shelves of weapons stretched as far as the room allowed, each piece uniquely designed and perfectly arranged. The meticulous organization grouped weapons by type, making it easy for the eye to take in the sheer variety. The sharpness in the air seemed palpable, an invisible hum of energy emanating from the pristine, peak-quality weapons. They glinted brilliantly under the room's soft lighting, their craftsmanship far surpassing anything sold at auctions or weapon shops.
"Woooooow!" Ryker squealed, unable to contain his excitement as he marveled at the sight.
Aiden chuckled softly, pride flickering across his face. "Impressive, isn't it? But this is only the first floor. There are three more floors below, and the weapons grow progressively better with each level. Now, come on—walk around and select what feels right to you."
Ryker nodded eagerly, acknowledging his father's instructions before stepping into the vault. He moved with intent, his hands brushing past different shelves as he explored the room, trying to get a feel for the weapons. Each step he took resonated with the weight of the moment—a decision that would shape his path, a bond between warrior and weapon waiting to be forged.
Ryker first approached the racks of spears, each varying in length, weight, and design. He picked up a few, testing their balance and maneuverability. The intense training he had undergone over the past five years, combined with potent transcendent foundation-establishing elixirs gifted by his father, had built his physique and constitution into perfection. He knew he could wield a spear competently—but no connection formed. It felt foreign in his grasp, detached from his spirit.
Disheartened but determined, Ryker moved on. He tested maces, axes, glaives, daggers, and other weapon types. The same result greeted him with each attempt. He felt no innate connection, no spark that tied him to any of the weapons. They were just tools in his hands.
Finally, he turned his attention to the last category of weapons: swords. He briskly approached the racks, his hand stretching toward a thin blade resembling a rapier. The weapon was elegant, light, and sharp. Yet, as he swung it experimentally, Ryker frowned. It didn't suit him. The feel was off—too light, too swift for his style.
Determined, Ryker continued testing various swords, analyzing their weight and balance with growing desperation. None seemed to evoke the connection he sought, and a twinge of worry crept into his mind. A nagging thought surfaced—what if he couldn't find a weapon that truly resonated with him? His confidence wavered slightly as he pressed on, unwilling to give up.
And then, his gaze landed on an unassuming sword tucked away in a shadowed corner. The sword was quite long its blade width judging from the sheath was just slightly wider than that of a Katana. The sheath in question, was a faded crimson, marred with faint rust marks. Its weathered, dilapidated appearance set it apart from the gleaming, polished weapons surrounding it. It lacked the refinement of the other blades, yet there was something about it that drew him in, compelling him to move closer. A spark of curiosity ignited in his chest as he reached out toward the sword, unable to resist the quiet pull it seemed to exert.
Curiosity piqued, Ryker moved toward the sword and gripped its weathered sheath. His fingers wrapped around the hilt as he prepared to draw it. He pulled—and nothing happened. The blade didn't budge.
Ryker raised an eyebrow, surprise evident. Adding more strength to his grip, he pulled again, but the sword remained firmly in place.
"I had a feeling you'd end up with this sword," Aiden said as he approached, his tone calm yet tinged with intrigue.
"Hmm?" Ryker hummed, glancing at his father.
Aiden gestured to the blade. "Ryker, what drew you to that sword? Didn't you feel a sense of rejection, as if it wasn't worth your time? What made you pick it up despite how unassuming it looks?"
Ryker shook his head. "I don't know… I just did."
Aiden's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Every scion of this clan who's been granted the honor of choosing a weapon from this vault has ignored that sword. Even those, like me, with a deep fascination for swords feel an undeniable disconnect the moment we look at it, as though it's rejecting us. That's one of the reasons it's kept on the first floor."
"And the other reasons?" Ryker asked curiously.
"The other reason is simple—it's impossible to unsheathe, even for me."
Ryker's gaze sharpened. "Then the sword isn't ordinary."
"Indeed, it's not. But tell me—what did you feel when you saw it?"
"Nothing, honestly," Ryker admitted. "Just intrigue and curiosity."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing… except a brief sense of anticipation, as if my blood reacted to it for an instant."
Aiden's eyes widened. "Your blood reacted?"
Ryker nodded. "Just a slight throb, but it came and went quickly."
Aiden's tone grew serious. "Very well. Try pulling it again, but this time—use your full strength."
Yes Father
Ryker adjusted his stance, holding the sword firmly before him. He placed his right hand on the hilt, closing his eyes to focus. With every ounce of strength in his arms, he pulled—but still, the sword did not move.
Aiden watched intently as Ryker tried again and again. Just as the young man was about to give up, the blade's rough hilt made a small cut on his palm. The wound healed almost instantly, but not before a single drop of blood fell onto the sword's sheath.
The moment the blood touched the blade, it began to vibrate—softly at first, then with increasing intensity. The vibrations grew so strong that the sword broke free from Ryker's iron grip, hovering in midair.
Ryker could only watch as golden and crimson runes intertwined across the sheath, creating a radiant brilliance that bathed the room in light. After several moments, the light receded, and the sword fell gently into Ryker's arms.
As he held it, a connection formed—deep, undeniable, and powerful. Within his mental realm, a seed forged from crimson and gold light took shape, solidifying the union between warrior and weapon.