4 The Nest and The Beginning

Blood is worth far more than its weight in gold. It is the basis for 'Arcaena' the art of creating 'Arcane devices'. A Blessing runs through ones' blood. By utilizing a blessed's blood with a forging process, it would allow the tool forged to replicate the blessed's power, as long another blessed poured mana in it. If for example a blacksmith who had the blessing of fire poured his blood into molten steel, and then forged a weapon with it, if he then poured mana into it, it would replicate his abilities. Some people with an exceptionally powerful blessing could maintain an extravagant lifestyle just by selling blood. Well there are a lot of particulars, and relatively excessive details to the devices creation, but that's the gist of it.

The bag I always held had a number of these tools, and as the bandit's leader approached I pulled out a sheathed short sword from it. A black sheath with the words 'Immortality' and 'Reaper' on the either side, using a golden thread to make the characters. I drew the blade. A double edged ivory blade, white as bone and as long as an arm, with an ebony hilt and grip, each giving the sword an elegant simplicity. But for all its beautiful, it had a appalling ability. In its resting state it had the edge and integrity of a finely made steel blade, but the more I killed with it, the more blood the blade drank; the stronger and sharper the blade got. A cursed blade for a cursed-kind-of-guy.

"YOU! Are you responsible for this ruckus?!"

"Indeed. Are you angry at me? Do you wish to kill me and then fail like your friends over there?"

The bandit leader shrieked. It was a girl, barely even fourteen I'd say. If I didn't see the respectful and fearful eyes of the slaves and bandits alike, I would've thought they were joking with me. My urge to kill earlier somehow dissipated seeing how the leader was just a brat. Unfortunately, if someone this young was a bandit leader I probably had a tough fight ahead of me, if I fought that is. I mean there was always the option to run away, but I'd better not.

"I will admit you are cowardly to make my followers turn on me, but I will not admit your strength! You will die here and now! ATTACK!"

Is this brat an idiot? I get there are countless bandit troops in this region, but is there only common trait their hot-headedness. I was hoping my aura would be effective, but it seems these people are the type to attack what they fear. My words probably aren't helping either...From now I will start writing down what I want to say instead of speaking.

The miners ran back into the wall holes as they scrambled about the ramparts, while armored men and women with very pointy sticks charged. At me. With very pointy sticks. How did it end up like this again…?

…..

Red. It was everywhere. From the walls, to the floor, to the dozens of still cooling bodies littered about randomly; everything seemed to be red. Scorch marks, puddles, ice, stakes of uplifted earth, all were signs of the intensity of the battle that had just been fought. Amongst this image, reminiscent of the battlefields of hell itself, were two figures. A young man clad in a dark cloak, his hood was down exposing black wavy hair and crimson eyes; he held a ivory sword. Small cuts could be seen all over his body, the cloak damaged in many ways, however there were no serious wounds. Circling the man like a wolf was a young girl who held a large steel longsword. She was covered from head to toe in blood, hers and her comrades'. Despite the bloody hell around her she smiled gleefully.

"Finally! Someone who can match my strength in battle! I don't know what you did to my subordinates, but you are quite strong. I acknowledge your strength!"

"You don't seem to upset about their deaths…"

"Why of course I don't! I just took over this bandit troop a few weeks ago on a whim. HAHAHA! The weaklings sure didn't last long."

"At least the slaves got out. I could care less about you lot."

"You're right, I was thinking of releasing them soon, but this way is better…."

Hearing this response the man lowered his sword and breathed out a heavy sigh. As though the fires of his determination that pushed him through this bloodbath were abruptly extinguished, his stance relaxed.

"I don't have any desire to kill a brat like you so surrender immediately! Or I will use my 'Curse' on you."

"No way! To face such a powerful swordsmen to only give up, Even if I die I will have no regrets. So Curse me all you want! I will not surrender!"

"I thought I could persuade you. It's like you're unaffected….Kill Yourself" This time the young man put far more force behind his words. So much so, that even those with the strongest of wills could only bow and comply. The result was obvious, the girls sword, no matter how much she resisted inched ever closer to her throat. A mere inch away, the young man said a single phrase: 'I'm so sorry'. Perhaps it was this phrase spoken in a mere whisper, or the gloomy look on the man's face, maybe it was something as trivial as a abstract thought, but whatever it was that caused it, the blade stopped.

"No….No! I'm not going like this, not even if it kills me! I'm no brat either….I'm seventeen damn it…." WIth those words the seemingly young girl collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Her chest's rhythmic rise and falls were the only sign she still lived.

"That's a contradictory statement, but you can resist even that. Huh. What are you?"

The young man let loose a soft chuckle as he sheathed his sword and put it back in the sack on his back. Looking at the unconscious girl, his face flashed with many conflicting emotions as he eventually decided to scoop her up into a fireman's carry and tend to her injuries. Why he did this, even he did no really know. Perhaps it was her slightly endearing attitude that bought her sympathy, or maybe he was acting on some strange sense of justice. But it was much more likely that he was just lonely; a sad man with no friends, no family, no place to call home, perhaps when the girl defied his orders, the first one to ever do so, he felt that, just maybe, he could have someone to at least talk to.

…..

I don't know why I did what I did, but I don't regret it. After the battle with the bandits, I dragged the unconscious girl to a clearing a little ways from the entrance to the cave. At that point I started a campfire, and began dressing the girl's wounds. Her clothes were in tatters and she had a massive gash on her left abdomen. However, it seemed the girl was 'blessed' with more than just a strange resistance to my voice, her wounds were closing at an astounding rate. As soon as I was pulling out bandage wraps, the bleeding had stopped and the wound was nearly sealed. Ten minutes later and it was as if she had never gotten in a fight at all.

"Tch. Lucky little brat, the healing 'blessing' sure is convenient. When she wakes I'll 'ask' her to heal my injuries as payment for sparing her life".

No matter how much I denied it myself, I was definitely looking forwards to the first unrestrained conversation I had had with anyone since I was little. Two days later the girl woke up.