In the sweltering heat of the forge, Kelen stepped forward and touched the cold, blue-black steel.
Without hesitation, he slid the heavy metal cuff onto his wrist.
As the locking mechanism engaged—Snap!—a sharp click resonated.
And the chain became an extension of his own anatomy.
Kelen rotated his wrist, the rhythmic clinking of the interlocking links—Chink-Chink-Chink—confirming that the bond was unbreakable.
He retreated three or four paces from the smith, moving into the shadows where the fire's glow grew dim.
Suddenly, a surge of motion ignited in Kelen's shoulder.
With a violent, practiced snap of his arm, he unleashed the clawed blade.
Swoosh!
The sword sliced through the air with such velocity that it became nothing more than a dark blur to the naked eye.
It didn't even have the chance to succumb to gravity or taste the floor's dust.
The moment the weapon reached its full extension, Kelen jerked his wrist back.
Like a predator reclaiming its prize.
The chain coiled through the air like a striking serpent.
And the heavy blade—with its needle-triangular tip and jagged serrations—came flying back toward his palm.
Before the chain could settle, Kelen whipped it into a circular blur.
The force of the motion creating a localized vacuum in the stifling room.
The sword was no longer a mere object; it was a lethal fan of steel that obeyed its master's every whim.
The smith watched, breathless.
He had forged many blades, but he had never seen a man dance with death in such a way.
Kelen retracted the chain, locking the hilt firmly back into his grip.
Silence returned to the room, but the air still vibrated with the ghost of that singular, violent strike.
The resonance of that violent strike still vibrated in the air.
A faint, nearly invisible glint of satisfaction flickered in Kelen's cold eyes.
He relaxed his wrist and met the smith's gaze.
"Exquisite work," he said, a rare softness in his tone.
"Now, give me the rounds and the powder. The night will not wait."
The smith nodded, wiping his brow.
"Just a few moments, Commander. I'll bring them right away."
He moved swiftly toward the dark inner chamber.
Kelen stood in the silence, his fingertips tracing the hilt of his new blade.
Soon, the smith returned, carrying the weight of brass rounds and waterproof pouches of black powder.
He handed them over, but his expression had shifted into one of deep concern.
"Carry these with care, Kelen," the smith said in a low voice.
"The shadows of the night have grown darker and hungrier."
Kelen systematically slotted the rounds into his belt pouches.
"I am ready," he replied curtly.
As he turned to leave, the smith stopped him.
"Kelen... thank you. Thank you so much for protecting this city, for protecting us all."
Kelen's stride faltered.
He didn't turn back, but his shoulders squared.
"I am not the only one protecting this city," his voice was calm but firm.
"Every soul here who bolts their door after sunset, who refuses to kneel before fear—they are protecting Vespera. There is no need to thank me."
Without another word, Kelen heaved open the heavy door and stepped out into the biting night air.
The smith watched him go, a small smile spreading across his face.
He thought to himself—Kelen will never admit that he is the lone pillar holding this city together.
He always deflects the credit, yet we all know that without him, Vespera would already be nothing but ash.
Kelen heaved the massive iron door shut behind him, its groan vibrating through the nocturnal silence.
The biting night air lashed against his skin, sweeping away the layers of soot and ash from his face.
From the threshold, he cast one final look at the smith, a simple inclination of his head.
A silent gratitude deeper than any spoken word.
He turned, but instead of heading toward the fortified center of the city.
He began walking toward the district where the darkness loomed like a starving beast.
"Commander!" the smith's voice echoed from behind, laced with clear agitation.
"That path... it leads toward the desolate ruins. Why are you heading that way?"
Kelen's stride did not falter.
His chain gave a rhythmic, metallic clink with every movement of his arm.
"Too much time has slipped away," his voice drifted back through the chilling wind.
"My little sister is waiting. I must go to her today."
The smith started to speak, but Kelen had already vanished around the corner of the secondary alleyway.
This path was scarred by ruin—roofs had long since collapsed.
And wild vines strangled the crumbling stone walls.
There were no 'decorations' or 'children's laughter' here like in the main market.
There was only a suffocating, heavy stillness.
Kelen rested his hand on the hilt of his new handgun and pulled his coat tighter.
He was moving toward his sister, yet his predatory eyes measured every shadow that flickered behind the skeletal remains of the houses.
As Kelen moved forward, the city's dwellings receded, replaced by a vast, desolate expanse.
The air here was cold and stagnant, carrying the scent of damp grass and old memories.
Rows of weathered stones stood in the distance, etched with the scars of time—a silent graveyard.
Kelen came to a halt before a specific grave.
Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, he withdrew a neatly folded, clean cloth.
He lowered himself onto one knee.
A thick shroud of dust had settled over the stone, nearly obscuring the name carved into it.
With agonizingly gentle hands, he began to wipe the surface.
With every stroke of the cloth, the stone's original luster began to return.
The perimeter of the cemetery was lined with beds of wild flowers, glistening in the morning dew.
Kelen stood and walked toward the edge of the grounds.
He plucked a single, fresh bloom and returned to place it carefully upon the cleaned stone.
It was 8:00 AM.
The first pale rays of the sun filtered through the morning mist.
Casting long, golden streaks across the graveyard.
Kelen lifted his wrist—where the chain of his new sword shimmered like blue-black lightning in the morning light.
He brushed his fingers against the headstone and whispered:
"My dear little sister... how do you like this? I had it specially crafted only yesterday."
The icy 'mask' was gone from his voice.
He shifted his wrist, and the soft, rhythmic clinking of the chain—Chink... Chink...
Echoed like a gentle melody through the cemetery's stillness.
He stood there, sharing the first warmth of the morning sun with the shadow of his sister.