The subtle heartbeat of rain resounds while it pools between the bricks. The water turns black and red—charcoal and blood—as towers of smoke meander through the clouds, blocking the sun and dimming the rubble-torn city.

  Amid the soft tapping of rain, a man in the town square drags in a shallow breath—relief tangled with disappointment. He lifts his right hand and rummages through the pocket of his military coat until his fingers find a cigar. It goes between his teeth. With one smooth motion he yanks his sword from the ground, slices the cigar’s tip clean, and stabs the blade back down between the bricks.

  A small flame sparks at his index finger. Out of habit he tries to raise his left arm to shield it from the wind and rain, then stops—remembering the limb now ends in a bloody stump. Blood patters into the dark water at his feet. He gets the cigar lit, draws once, and vanishes along with his sword.

  Leaving behind a pool of his blood and the silence born from destruction, the once-bustling capital of the Union now lies flattened, reduced to nothing but rubble. A few feet from where Krieg stood lies the foreign mage—decapitated, armless, and already forgotten.

  ***

  “Hmm?” I mutter to myself, drifting in my soul sea. In my hands sits a sphere—my soul condensed into something I can touch.

  ‘How do I change it?’

  Thinking gets me nowhere, so I move to action. I’ve already formed a soul weapon once before—a thin needle. If it’s sharp, it’s good enough.

  I press the sphere between my palms and focus. The principle should be the same as shaping mana. That’s how I made the needle, after all. I shut my eyes and picture something sharp—deadly—a blade, my zweihander. I flood the sphere with my will. It pulls at the edges, it pushes back, the surface rippling as it squashes into an uneven oval. Thin cracks crawl across it, spiderwebbing along my hands.

  Then the whole thing shatters.

  A shock snaps through my skull, jerking my head and forcing my grip to break. Something warm slides from my nose. I stare at the sphere as it reforms, flickering. My head burns hot. The concentration needed is far beyond what I expected.

  “How the hell am I bleeding in my soul?”

  Maybe I’m getting too ambitious. A short sword isn’t my style, but it’s better than nothing.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I wipe the blood from my nose and set my hands on the sphere again.

  “Focus.” I whisper it to myself as I shut my eyes.

  My will floods in, filling the sphere. It pushes back immediately. I force it to slim, to sharpen. The surface buckles into an uneven oval—the warped shape almost forming a hilt. Good enough. I drag the tip outward, shaping a point. My head burns hot. My focus trembles but holds.

  I draw the edge down, stretching the blade inch by inch until it meets the makeshift hilt—

  Then the edge softens and droops like wet cloth.

  I shove my will back into it, trying to fix it. The whole thing shatters instead, and the backlash snaps into me so hard I fold forward and cough blood.

  “Imagination hurts. Great.”

  I sigh and wipe the blood from my mouth. I learn new things every day—usually weird, cruel things. Like the fact I can bleed in my soul. I always thought that phrase meant heartbreak, but apparently it’s a lot more literal.

  Humbling myself is probably in order. A dagger then. Definitely too tiny for my manliness, but we all have to make sacrifices.

  I suck in air, which sets off another cough, then blow it out to calm my sore body and steady my mind. Keep it small and sweet. Technique is what matters in the end, right?

  My palms close around the sphere, planting on either side. My eyes shut as my will floods into it. I pull it into a thin oval. It resists, as usual. I refine the tip first, dragging the edge down both sides toward the hilt. The oval sharpens into a blade’s edges until it reaches where the hilt should be—

  There, the whole thing twitches and bulges. Two protrusions burst out either side, writhing like tendrils. I push my will into it, trying to corral the shape. Weblike cracks crawl across the surface as I rush to stop the deformity. This time, I hold it together before it shatters.

  The hilt locks into place. A heartbeat later, the pommel forms.

  I open my eyes to a dagger—long, thin, elegant. Almost a stiletto. A shallow breath escapes me in relief.

  I grasp the blade in my right hand. One look tells me the edge is seamless, sharper than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s made out of nothing but my soul, so the color matches—my own hue shifting inside the blade the same way it moves through my sea. Both are containers, I guess. Different functions. Same source.

  There’s no leather on the handle, but it feels glued to my palm, warm and weightless. Yet, when I test it, I can let go without effort. The connection is will, not grip.

  I’m still marveling at it when the world around me—the whole soul sea—stirs. Not violently, but enough to make my stomach lurch. The horizon folds inward. The sky collapses. Everything turns inside out until there’s nothing.

  For a heartbeat.

  Then I’m back in the cage.

  The Leech stares at me from across the cramped space. Swart’s hand rests on my shoulder. And in my hand, the dagger sits solid and steady.

  ‘It worked.’

  Physical touch seems to wake, forcing one out of their sea.

  “Wow, nice kitchen knife.” The Leech sneers, arms crossed.

  I ignore its mockery. I’m too pleased with my success to care, and I turn my head toward Swart.

  “Yeah, what do you want, Satan?” I say with a slight smile. I can’t quite hide the satisfaction.

  “Brat…” Swart shakes his head, catching himself. His eyes narrow on the stiletto in my hand. “I see you figured it out. Probably took you a while. Hah—for me it was instant.” He laughs.

  My smile sours. The reminder hits hard. I remember how long I’ve been trapped here, the pain, the endless strain. In fact, I barely remember anything beyond that. The past feels hazy at best—like a dream. A fleeting one.

  The one solid thing left in me is the promise I made—to myself and to them. The promise I keep repeating. Even my own name feels unsteady now, slipping when I try to hold it. But the promise stays. That’s the only thing that doesn’t blur.

  I shrug his hand off my shoulder. “Okay, ‘Satan,’ let’s get this over with.” A confident smile creeps back onto my face.

  Swart pats my back. “Sure,” he says, wearing that same mocking grin he always does, and vanishes—leaving me with the Leech.

  I drop into a fighting stance, blade drawn. Confidence finally crawling its way back into my chest. This time I’ll succeed. This time I have a weapon that can make him bleed. It’s small, sure—but I’m certain it’ll do the trick.