Rowan watched as the blacksmith turned to rummage through a rack of weapons, his heart sinking slightly. Sixteen hundred Hinar Coins wasn't much, and it probably wouldn't get him anything close to what he really needed.
Still, he stood patiently, his hands resting on the counter as the blacksmith muttered to himself, pushing aside blades and tools.
"Ah, here it is," the blacksmith finally said, pulling out a blade.
He turned back to Rowan, holding up a sword that immediately caught his attention, not because it gleamed or shone like something out of a storybook, but because it was the exact opposite.
The blade looked old, worn, and almost dull, its surface tarnished with patches of rust. The hilt was wrapped in faded leather, frayed at the edges.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You're joking, right?"
The blacksmith smirked, clearly amused by Rowan's reaction. "No joke, kid. I found this thing buried under some old junk a few weeks ago. Thought about throwing it away, but… something about it didn't sit right. I cleaned it up enough to tell it's sharp enough for your needs. Might not look like much, but it'll get the job done."
Rowan stared at the blade, conflicted. It didn't look impressive, but something about it drew his attention. "Why keep it if you thought it was junk?"
The blacksmith shrugged, setting the blade down on the counter. "Call it a hunch. Sometimes you come across things that have more to them than meets the eye. I thought maybe it had some history to it. Then again, I might just be a sentimental fool."
"Sentimental fool or not," Rowan said, running a finger along the blade's edge, "how much are we talking?"
The blacksmith studied Rowan for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in the younger man's weary expression and worn-down clothes. "Tell you what," he said finally. "I'll let you have it for fifteen hundred Hinar Coins. Take it or leave it."
Rowan blinked. He'd expected something much higher, and part of him wondered if the blacksmith was just trying to offload the blade.
But with only seventeen hundred Hinar Coins in his pouch, the offer wasn't bad.
"Fifteen hundred?" Rowan repeated, glancing at the blade again. "That's not exactly cheap for something you're calling junk."
The blacksmith chuckled. "Fair enough. But trust me, kid. If nothing else, this blade will save you from buying another for a while. It's sturdier than it looks. And hey, if you don't like it, you can come back and yell at me."
Rowan thought for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Deal."
The blacksmith grinned, handing over the blade as Rowan counted out the coins. "Take care of it, kid. Might surprise you."
Rowan strapped the blade to his waist, its weight oddly comforting despite its weathered appearance. "Thanks," he said, offering a slight nod before turning to leave the stall.
***
By the time Rowan returned to the inn, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. He locked the door to his room and leaned the blade against the wall, its unassuming presence oddly captivating.
He sank into the bed, the events of the day replaying in his mind. The blacksmith's words lingered: Might surprise you.
With a sigh, Rowan reached for the blade and unsheathed it, holding it up to the faint glow of the sun's dimlight. The tarnished surface didn't reflect much, but the weight of the blade felt oddly balanced in his hands.
As his fingers ran along the hilt, a familiar sound echoed in his mind.
Rowan's eyes widened. "Phantasmal Edge?" he muttered. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The System continued.
Rowan stared at the blade, his heart pounding. A phantasmal pulse? Disrupting focus?
He gripped the hilt tighter, the weight of the blacksmith's words settling over him. This was no ordinary weapon.
He moved to the center of the room, testing the blade with a few slow swings. Its weight felt natural in his hands, almost as if it had been made for him.
"System," he called out with a steady voice despite his racing thoughts, "how do I restore the blade?"
Rowan frowned. "Feed it with mana? I don't even know how to control mana yet." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Of course, it's never simple."
Still, the potential of the blade was undeniable. And if it truly came with its own skills, it could be the edge he needed.
Rowan sat in the middle of the dimly lit room, the blade resting across his knees. His fingers traced the tarnished edge, his mind racing.
The words from the System echoed in his head: Feed the blade with mana or the energy of its wielder.
"But how?" he muttered under his breath.
He had no formal training, no understanding of how mana even worked, let alone how to harness it. The concept of "feeding" a blade felt as foreign to him as the idea of wielding magic itself.
Rowan gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Fine," he said, gripping the blade tighter. "If I can't use mana, then I'll just figure out another way."
With a steadying breath, he rose to his feet and gave the blade a test swing. It cut through the air with a faint whistle, its weight feeling more balanced than he'd expected.
He took a defensive stance, trying to mimic the moves he'd seen guards and fighters use in the past. Slowly, he began to move, his swings clumsy at first but growing more deliberate as he found a rhythm.
The faint scrape of steel against air filled the room as Rowan practiced, his movements awkward but determined.
He imagined the beast from the forest standing before him, its glowing eyes fixed on him, its growl reverberating in his ears.
With each imagined strike, he swung harder, pouring his frustration and fear into every motion.
As the minutes passed, Rowan began to notice something strange. The blade seemed... lighter, almost as if it were responding to him.
When he swung, it felt as though the air itself bent to guide his strikes. A cold, subtle pressure crept along the hilt, not unpleasant but eerie in its quiet presence.
Then it happened.
A flicker of pale, almost translucent light rippled along the edge of the blade. It was faint, barely visible in the dim light of the room, but Rowan froze in place, his breath catching.
"What was that?" he whispered, holding the blade up to his face. The faint glow had disappeared, but the blade felt different in some strange, inexplicable way.
Suddenly, a familiar chime rang out in his head.