...With trembling hands, Riven reached for the sword's hilt.
The moment his skin touched the metal, he felt it.
A stream of energy—subtle yet undeniable—flowed from the hilt into his fingers. It wasn't painful, nor did it burn. It felt… warm, like the pulse of a living being caught in slumber.
This wasn't a hallucination.
This sword—something deep inside him whispered—was Enchanted Grade.
Riven stood frozen, as if his mind was being pulled into a locked vault of memories: of tales told by adventurers, of hushed soldier gossip, of old books he'd stolen and read in silence.
This world knew six tiers of weapons, ranked by quality and the power they held.
At the bottom were weapons forged by common blacksmiths, without element, spirit, or hope—mere tools of iron and wood. Then came a more refined class, crafted with rare metals or imbued with basic enchantments. Refined weapons—the product of craftsmen who dabbled in magic, but not enough to weave miracles.
But this one—this sword—was nothing like those.
It was far beyond them.
The blade bore glowing runes, faint but unmistakable. A pale blue crystal was embedded deep within the silver steel—not as decoration, but as its heart. The metal was clean, dense, as though it had fused with some ancient power from the earth itself. A soft glow rippled across its edge, sometimes forming drifting particles that vanished like dream-smoke.
Enchanted Grade—blades forged not only with skill, but with ritual. With whispered incantations and a name carved into its soul. Few ever saw one with their own eyes. Fewer still had ever held one.
And now… he, Riven—a nameless scavenger from a ruined battlefield—was holding it in his hands.
Even just gripping it, he could feel the sword's aura pulsing gently. As if it breathed.
It wasn't just powerful.
It was alive.
Riven wanted to laugh. To cry. To scream.
But instead, he darted a glance around—panic surging through him like a thief caught mid-heist. No one else in sight. Only corpses. Only silence.
He looked back down, staring at the weapon as though staring at his new fate.
A smile crept across his face.
"I'm rich."
The words never left his lips, but they echoed loud in his mind.
For the first time in a long while, his eyes held something other than despair… they gleamed with light. With hope. With ambition.
And perhaps, just a sliver of madness.
Riven bit down on his lower lip and bent forward quickly, tearing strips of cloth from the dead soldiers around him. Some were charred, others soaked with blood gone black. But he didn't care.
With swift, careful hands, he wrapped the sword tightly in rags. He bound it with worn leather straps, concealing its glow and distinct shape. Once satisfied, he tied it to his hip, hidden beneath his tattered cloak.
The sky above had turned pitch black. A pale moon hung like a weary eye behind scattered clouds. Night wind rustled the grass, and from far off, a howl pierced the silence—wolf or worse.
But Riven felt no fear tonight.
When his arms could no longer carry anything more—when both were laden with burlap sacks filled with broken blades, dented daggers, shattered spears, and discarded gear—he finally decided to head home. His steps were heavy, not from doubt, but from sheer physical weight. Yet his thin frame didn't complain.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he was burning with resolve.
His footsteps on the dirt trail back home felt lighter than usual. Even with screaming shoulders and numb fingers from hauling the dead man's iron, a quiet smile tugged at his lips.
"I guess… behind every bad thing, there's something good," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Earlier that day, he had nearly died—dragged down by a reckless choice, stubborn enough to kill him. But tonight… he wasn't returning empty-handed.
He carried an Enchanted weapon.
A miracle of fortune. One that most soldiers and treasure hunters only dreamed of. A weapon usually kept behind castle walls or in noble hands.
And now it was his.
If he sold it—even for a modest price—it would buy a small house on the city's outskirts. A permanent roof over Mira's head. A home for the both of them. No more moving. No more sleeping with one eye open, ears straining for footsteps in the night.
With the contents of both sacks, their savings, and what he planned to scavenge later tonight… Riven knew they were close. So close to crossing that line he and Mira whispered about every night.
A normal life.
Three meals a day. No stealing. No hiding. No trading blood for moldy bread.
Tonight, his struggles finally felt worth it.
He looked ahead—toward the house that had sheltered him and Mira. His heart swelled with warmth, as if wrapped in an invisible cloak.
The night stretched on. But for the first time in a long while, the future didn't look completely dark.
After he dropped off these weapons, he would return to the battlefield. There were still scraps worth gathering.
Or so he thought.
.
.
.
Riven's steps halted as moonlight reflected off something wet on the ground.
He squinted.
Blood.
Fresh—dark red and glistening—still clinging to the dirt like it had spilled only minutes ago. His body tensed. His gaze followed the trail, veering slightly to the right, leading directly to the path toward his and Mira's home.
His heart began to race. The hope and euphoria that had filled him moments ago drained away, replaced by a cold dread tightening around his chest.
"Mira…"
He moved quickly, though quietly—careful not to drop the sacks. The heavy fabric dragged behind him, but he didn't stop, eyes locked on the trail.
Then he saw it.
A woman, collapsed before the door.
The door to his home was still chained shut—locked tight, the way he had left it. That meant Mira was still inside. Hopefully safe.
But the woman—
Riven stopped a few paces away. His eyes scanned the surroundings. No movement. No sound. Only leaves rustling and the wind.
He narrowed his eyes.
She looked to be in her early twenties. Her long hair, crimson like her blood, was tangled and half-covered her pale face. She slumped against the door, as if she had fallen mid-knock or attempt to enter. Her clothes were torn, stained red—not enough to suggest a fatal wound, but the scratches across her thigh and arm raised alarm.
And her breathing… it was faint. Too faint to be sure of anything.
Riven's hand gripped the dagger at his hip.
Danger could wear many faces. He wouldn't be fooled by weakness.
Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, he set the sacks down. Then, one cautious step at a time, he moved forward—dagger in hand, ready to draw another blade if needed.
There was no gasp. No flicker of a trap. No glint of hidden magic.
Just a girl, unconscious, crumpled at his door.
Riven controlled his breathing as he approached, closer and closer, step by wary step.
And with every heartbeat, caution and anxiety clashed like blades within his mind.