Blacksmith of the Apocalypse

A stream of fire shot through the gap between buildings, covering the whole street, not leaving any room for escape. Yet, when the flames subsided, there was a streak of road, untouched by the terrible flame.

At its tip stood a tall, lean man, wielding a sword. It was covered in a blue sword aura. He had split the attack, leaving him completely unharmed. Marcel had tried to end things quickly, because of the knocking on the barrier, but it seemed like his opponent didn't agree.

“A swordsman wielding the powers of fire… And you were with a woman using ice earlier, you must be Marcel, of the Boulder Guild, right?” he asked calmly, returning to a different sword stance.

“I didn’t think I would be so unlucky to come across one of our priority targets,” he said with a smug smile and charged at Marcel. He was not running, but each step was unnaturally long. Was this why they called some techniques “ground shrink”?

He didn’t have the time for idle thoughts. He blew out his breath and parried the sword that was coming for his heart. The metal cried when the two weapons, one clad in a calm blue, the other in a fiery orange aura collided.

The force that assailed his arm was tremendous, it was like blocking the paw of a giant monster, just that the monster was his size and grinned him in the face, as it kept driving the weapon forward. Marcel and the cultivators locked eyes in this short moment before a bloom of fire forced the opponent to jump back.

His shoulder was charred and his robes were singed. He stared at Marcel vigilantly, as his sword had suddenly turned into a pillar of fire. The surprise attack was unable to take him out, but it the wound would obstruct him from fully using his skills.

~Well done, Whitehilt!~ he thought. ~Thanks, partner~ Whitehilt answered happily.

Originally, Marcel had been depressed. Despite being chosen by a god, it was not a very strong one. Faia, the god of Flames lacked the power to give Marcel a legendary material. He also told the swordsman, that there was yet to appear a fitting material on Urth.

At the question of why he couldn’t buy one from the auction house, the god stayed rather quiet about the why but insisted that it wouldn’t count and couldn’t be done. Marcel comforted himself with the fact that even stronger gods like Tyr or Maahes send their champions on quests to get local materials. He was jealous of Lydia, who had even gotten two materials from her god.

But that was in the past. A few months ago, Seth had suddenly called him saying he might have a weapon for him. When he came to the embassy, the Blacksmith had wordlessly handed this sword to him, indicating for him to grab the hilt.

It was a weird gesture at first, but when Marcel took hold of Whitehilt, he immediately understood. The sword was an ego weapon, that could not just choose its owner passively. Had it not liked him, it could have set him on flames then and there.

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Luckily, he lived to grow a great partnership with his new weapon. Since he was able to let go of his regrets concerning his divine patron, he was able to make leaps and bounds in his training, raising his level alone in the Abyss.

Swinging the almost four-meter-long pillar of fire, Marcel pursued the cultivator. White hilt was a relic with a chance of becoming a legend, as long as it was nurtured by the deeds of its owner. So all Marcel had to do now was make a name for himself and the sword, to attain a legendary weapon.

Its Flame Sword effect, coupled with Marcel's blessing from a god of fire and turned the sword clad in flames, into a massive pillar, like a supersized lightsaber. it was great to leave a lasting image, on top of being incredibly powerful.

The fire swept by the cultivator, who barely managed to block it with an aura of spiritual energy. And this was the perfect place to gain recognition. Marcel and Elza had rushed here when they heard what was about to happen in Little Gamma.

Primarily to help, but if helping came with Pathworks-wide recognition, there was no reason to complain. Again and again, the pillar of flames sought to incinerate the opponent, who persistently managed to escape with his life, time and time again.

However, the cultivator tired quickly. Thanks to the initial burn, he couldn’t perform his swordsmanship correctly and accrued wounds with every encounter.

~Let’s end this!~ White hilt cheered, as the cultivator had finally fallen to his knees. He was a strong opponent. Without Whithilt's ability to independently use its skills, Marcel would have had a hard time fighting him.

Following the sword’s suggestion, Marcel aimed for the final strike, when he felt a sharp pain at his waist, right below the rib cage. He struck to his side, but his attacker had already backed away. It was a female cultivator wearing a dark outfit.

Looking down on himself, he found that a small knife had snaked its way through the gaps in his armor. The woman had stabbed him through a gap at his waist, aiming for his kidneys. Looking back at her, she already had another two similar knives in her hands.

“Are you okay?” she asked the man on the ground without taking her eyes off Marcel.

“So you weren’t alone,” Marcel spoke out the obvious, as he pulled out the dagger. The wound was not big, it had barely cost him any health. It would heal without even using a potion. The worst point was the Foreign Qi.

It was shown as a status ailment, that had various effects on him, mostly lowering his attributes by a few points. This was the first time Marcel experienced these effects, but apart from a slight nausea, he felt no immediate effects.

“There are actually three of us;” another bloke revealed himself, stepping out from the shadows. He had a huge, crude cudgel with studs resting on his shoulder.

“Where were you when I was beating him? Why are you only coming out of the woodwork when I’m about to kill him?” Marcel asked jokingly, his thoughts racing to calculate his odds of victory. Three vs one was a bit much, but one of them was already out of commission. 2 vs 1, maybe. It would be hard if they had the same level as him, but maybe he could manage.

“We would be blamed if he died on us,” the bloke answered, shrugging his shoulders.

“…What touching comradery,” Marcel commented sarcastically. He deliberated calling for backup.

“Just attack him. I will take care of Su’Ol.” The woman berated the bloke and the latter rushed at Marcel. Round two began. This guy was a little slower than the lean swordsman, but the first time he parried the club, Marcel quickly learned that parrying the massive club was no good. The velocity behind the club almost broke his wrist, when he tried to redirect the attack.

~Wow, that hurt a little. An ordinary sword might have broken. We should change strategy.~ the sword advised, unwilling to take any more such strikes. The chosen of Feia nodded, they couldn't compete in brute force with this guy, so some brains were needed.

Holding the sword at his side, the tip aimed at the bloke, Marcel used a divine skill. Starting from his feet, he was clad in a foreboding flame. The club wielder hesitated to get closer, observing the swordsman vigilantly.

“ Quicker than the Wind ” the swordsman exclaimed and vanished. The bloke saw a flash of light and hurriedly evaded. An ignorant smile surfaced when he thought that he had successfully evaded the attack he couldn't clearly see. Only a straight streak of the burning road indicated Marcel's path.

The smile quickly vanished when his eyes followed the trail and saw the sword aimed at him stuck in the chest of the cultivator Su’Ol, who was being treated by their companion. His female companion could also watch in shock, as Su’Ol was incinerated.

“One down, two to go.”

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