And then, suddenly, with a loud cry, the sword warped violently. Its silver-gray blade took on a dark red color toward the hilt and a dark blue color toward the tip, clouding over and wilting. The sword’s surface turned speckled with green and violet, a startling gradation of decay and rust covering the entire weapon. The hilt bubbled, stretched, and bent, sprouting countless rust-colored talons.
It was like the sword was growing and wilting all at once.
Adonis screamed. Countless feelings flowed directly into his heart as he resonated with the sword. A warped will that begrudged, lamented, and bemoaned something that had wilted in the distant past made even Adonis’s heart turn rust red.
“This is…!”
“Your sword, Adonis Question,” the woman said, finishing his sentence. “Even I, who forged this sword, could not discern its true form, but it is drawn to you to determine its shape.”
Adonis turned to the woman, who looked upon him with a smile. He shuddered. It was a terrifying smile, swirling with madness, full of glee and sorrow. A chill ran down his spine. Yet he also felt an affection toward the woman, almost as if he’d met her long ago, that felt like some sort of premonition. In his confusion, one clear thought came to Adonis’s mind:
This sword was made for me…
It was a conviction he had that was vague yet firm.
“You forged it…? Who are you…?”
Shuddering from his resonance with the weapon, Adonis found he couldn’t let go of it. He felt like he already knew the answer to his question, but part of him denied that possibility. He had heard rumors in the castle of one who could fashion steel harvested from the trees into such strange, indecipherable swords. Someone who was so enthusiastic about the craft of making swords that no one could understand how they had lost all pleasure in the world and left Park City.
That person’s name was…
“I am Dranvi.”
Adonis’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Dranvi, the Worthy, forger of Runding…,” she continued.
“I knew it…”
As they spoke, the sword continued crying out in agony, morphing into a terrible, unsightly form. The split, gigantic blade had turned into a spiral; at that point it could no longer be called a sword. Adonis tried to suppress what he was feeling inside his own body, but it reacted as if to pry him open by force. The feeling he harbored for the weapon crystallized, violently warping its form.
“What is this…? What is this supposed to be?! I’ve never seen or heard of steel like this…!”
“Your sword was forged from the strings of instruments that rusted and died.” It was such a shocking statement, but Dranvi said it so calmly. “Guided by the purpose of becoming a sword with you as its performer, many pieces of decayed steel returned to their original, decrepit forms and, in so doing, gained a new power… This is a weapon that withers eternally, without end. The power of death.”
“The power of death…”
Adonis unconsciously tightened his grip on the weapon.
He got the feeling he’d glimpsed something. The sword’s clear will, its desire. Countless instruments abandoned and rusted over. Each full of grudges and lingering pain, gripped by warped memories of the joy they once brought with their timbre, singing out in maddened agony. Many of them only played tunes of enmity, helping certain crops mature while making all other forms of life wither.
These instruments that played such melodies had wilted from their own songs, taking on the grudges of the lives they had denied, only to be cast away as cursed, unwanted items. The steel’s own withering had become entangled with innumerable other deaths, which imbued it with a will that violently, mercilessly rejected all other life.
It was in this form that it had been fashioned into a sword and become the Dearth March’s motif:
Hunger…
A dark will that bordered on resentment had given it form, and Adonis now felt it flowing into him directly through the sword.
An animalistic groan filled Adonis’s throat. His lips twisted into a gleeful smile. But what was he happy about? He felt that joy like the burning pleasure that comes from standing on the edge of dark despair, more certainly than he’d ever felt about anything before.
“This…is my sword,” he said, his expression a mixture of a joy and grief. “This monstrous sword is for me. For the first time in my life, I have a sword that’s mine, and mine alone…”
The desire to raise it himself—a feeling he’d sought for so long, only to have it betrayed over and over—now filled his heart for the first time. A precious memory of contact that all Solists experienced at the start of their path…
As he felt this and the realization sank in, the sword slowly returned to its original form. The woman watched Adonis as his expression froze. Hesitantly, as if he was afraid that the sword would be taken away from him if he showed a hint of carelessness, he placed the sword on the table. His hand was still gripping the hilt, and his claws returned to their usual, translucent color.
“Just who are you, really? Why did you make this sword…? No, why do you even know about me…? Wait…”
He had a mountain of questions and didn’t know where to start, but the more he asked, the more they seemed strangely self-evident. He felt silly for even inquiring. Confused by this strange sensation, Adonis kept interrogating Dranvi.
But the mysterious swordsmith answered none of them. She remained silent, then turned her eyes to something behind Adonis.
He heard a creaking and turned around immediately. Just as he did, a door that had appeared from out of nowhere closed shut. A man stood before it. He was a mature Cateyes, or for all Adonis knew, maybe he was even an elder. His skin was dark and discolored, his fur was dry, and his features were covered in wrinkles. But the air about him felt youthful, and because he came across as so strong and healthy, it made him look younger, too.
“Hmph. Give me a reason to raise him,” the man said bluntly.
He faced Adonis with a pipe between his lips, openly staring in a way that seemed to appraise the young man.
“Because you’re the only one who can,” Dranvi said with a hint of amusement on her face. “I ask that you do this job with your dignity as an Enola on the line.”
The man shrugged indifferently. He took his pipe from his mouth, then moved to stand beside Adonis and blew out a small puff of smoke. Adonis pulled away from him with a cold expression, but the smoke vanished before his eyes. It was only then that he noticed the spell on the man’s pipe. It was illusory smoke, produced by magic.
The moment that thought went through his mind, a powerful impact struck him in the cheek.
A Solist of Adonis’s level had been taken entirely by surprise. It took him a few seconds to process that the man had just punched him without warning.
The second he hit the ground, Adonis rolled backward. He crawled along the ground, growling, “What are you doing…?!”
His sword was still in his hand. He pointed the sword—his sword, the first sword that had ever been truly his—at the man as he got to his feet. He wasn’t used to its nature yet, but more importantly, the swift punch had made it clear this man was exceptionally skilled.
“When I saw your face, my hand just slipped,” the man answered, sounding completely unfazed.
He swung the hand he’d punched Adonis with and turned to the woman, the look on her face giving the appearance of a child trying to hide a prank. Dranvi still wore that beautiful smile as she gave the man an accusatory look. But the man just ignored it and glanced at Adonis.
“He’s got the face of a snot-nosed brat. He’s a hundred years too young to lay a hand on my daughter.”
“What…? Who the hell are you…?” Adonis asked, baffled.
The man answered, looking amused at the boy’s confusion. “The name’s Sian Lablac.”
“What?!” Adonis’s eyes widened.
“If you already know my name, then that’ll make this quick. From now on, you obey me.” Sian gave him a vicious smirk and blew out a puff of illusory smoke. “I’ll teach you how to use that sword.”