Imperfect Information

He straightened up, ignoring the aches that complained loudly from his overworked muscles. With an air of resolve that was almost palpable, he stepped out onto the empty streets, ready to seize the day and wring out of it something worthwhile. The world might be a ruthless shithole, but Argon could not sit down and die of starvation; his spirit wouldn't let him.

In the relentless twilight of the city stirred awake, its inhabitants emerging from their tattered dwellings to face another day of grim survival. Among them, Argon moved silently through the labyrinthine alleys, a shadow weaving through the faded remnants of a forgotten world.

As he navigated through the crowded market square, a commotion erupted nearby. Curiosity piqued, he hurried toward the gathering crowd, carefully keeping his distance. Pushing through the throng, he saw at the centre, a soldier, a veritable behemoth garbed in ominous black armour, towered over a cowering, gaunt boy. His sobbing cries punctured the stale air, drowned under the dispassionate murmur of the spectators.

A ruckus broke out among the cluster of vagabonds gathered around, their hoarse whispers growing louder.

"Who's that?" one asked, craning his neck to see, one of them asked, squinting toward the boy.

"Folton," another answered, a smirk etching his face.

"Caught, eh?"

The soldier's figure loomed over a terrified boy, a silhouette of dread etched against the midnight sky. The soldier, a monstrous apparition clad in pitch-black armour, stood tall and foreboding. The cold steel of his armour gleamed menacingly under the scarce moonlight, the cruel edges of his helm casting ominous shadows on his face. The detailed, horrifying skull embossed on his chest plate looked like it was laughing at the boy's pathetic fate.

The boy, a pitiful creature no more than twelve winters old, shook like a leaf in a storm. His clothes were torn, and his skin was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, a stark testimony of the ordeal he had been through. Tears streamed down his dirt-streaked face, carving a path through the grime and fear that masked his youthful features.

Then, with a swift, calculated movement, the soldier gripped the boy's hair, tilting his head back to expose his neck's soft, vulnerable flesh. The boy's terrified eyes darted around, finding no hope in the dark, merciless world surrounding him.

Without hesitation, the soldier drew his sword - a terrifyingly beautiful weapon, its razor-sharp edge glinting with an insidious silver gleam, the steel casting long shadows across the onlookers' faces. And then, with a swift, merciless stroke, the blade tore through the boy's neck. Blood sprayed in a grotesque arc, painting the grim scene with the scarlet hue of death. The clean cut severed the boy's head from his body with chilling efficiency; his life was extinguished in a gruesome tableau of horror. The body slumped, head rolling away, as the soldier released his hold, leaving a horrifying silence echoing the boy's final, unvoiced scream.

Even though the light of life had been brutally extinguished, the boy's body twitched, jerked and spasmed, each movement a visceral testament to the recent violence. It was as if the body was protesting, vehemently resisting the grip of death, each involuntary tremor a futile struggle.

Beneath it, the ground transformed into a macabre canvas, painted with the crimson hue of life's essence. The blood seeped into the ground, staining the dirt with a sickeningly vivid scarlet. It flowed in sluggish rivulets, pooling around the lifeless form, forming a grotesque halo around the body. The sharp metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air.

Argon recognised the boy, a pickpocket known for his nimble fingers and swift feet, had been caught, his pilfering days brutally cut short.

The onlookers disbursed, leaving behind the lifeless, headless body of the boy, a gruesome testament to the brutal law of the city, where even the slightest transgressions were met with the most severe punishments.

Argon knew slums were a place of lawlessness and despair. There were no walls to shield the residents from the nightly horrors and no guards to maintain order. A few city patrols wandered through the twisting alleys, more to keep an eye on potential threats to the wealthy than to protect the poor. Those unfortunate enough to live there were left at the mercy of the beasts that roamed the night, their lives a constant struggle for survival.

Argon moved forward; his mind focused on his goals amidst the ruthless landscape of Nekros.

This early morning found him amidst the ramshackle stalls and scavenged heaps, his eyes scanning for hidden treasures among the discarded relics of a bygone era. The city's desperate traders bartered their meagre discoveries for scraps of sustenance. Argon had been coming here religiously every morning, hoping to see something that could help him. He wagered one of these miserable fucks must have something unbeknownst to them amongst the shit they were selling.

Argon was drawn to the unofficial market. It wasn't a market in the traditional sense but more of an impromptu gathering of people desperately trying to scrape together a living. It was a sea of ragtag stalls, their owners peddling everything they could salvage.

Amid this chaotic conglomeration, a particular stall caught Argon's attention. Like Argon, the stall belonged to a peddler who had seen better days. He was an elderly man, his back bent from years of hardship, his hands rough and calloused. His eyes, however, shone with an unbroken spirit, revealing a tenacity that had carried him through the worst of times. His wares were an assortment of what many would consider junk – metal scraps, chipped crockery, and broken tools.

"Hey lad, the name's Grim; got any coin on ya?" he grumbled with a gravelly rasp that echoed years of inhaling dust and grime from his odds and ends.

Undeterred by the man's exterior, Argon merely shrugged, "Perhaps." His reply hung in the air, a subtle challenge disguised in nonchalance.

His collection was a motley array of items salvaged from the city's refuse, but among the dusty and rusted trinkets, one object caught Argon's eye: a sword. It was old, its blade discoloured with patches of rust and its grip worn from years of use, but something about it piqued Argon's interest.

Argon's gaze lands on a rusted sword that lay discarded amidst the odds and ends on the stall. This was no ornate weapon designed for show but a simple tool meant for battle. Its once gleaming blade was now discoloured and eaten away by rust, a visual testament to its age and neglect.

"That there's an old soldier's blade," he said, his voice raspy with age. "Foind it in the ruins, been through many battles, it has. Like you and me, it's seen better days. But it still has fight in it."

Argon examined the blade closely. The rust and wear were clear indicators of its age, but the craftsmanship was undeniable. The sword was solid, its edge dulled but still capable of cutting. It was a blade that refused to give up despite its age and neglect. It was, in many ways, a mirror of Argon's struggles.

Without a word, Grim reaches for the rusted sword and passes it over to Argon.

The moment his fingertips brushed the cold, rough metal, a peculiar sensation seized him. It was as if the sword was communicating with him, a whisper winding its way into his consciousness.

This whisper was not a sound but a feeling, a sensation that originated in the very marrow of his bones and radiated outwards. It was as if the worn hilt was humming with a secret life, a life it had led before it was discarded and forgotten. As though each chip and dent on the blade was a word in an ancient language, telling tales of glory and defeat, honour and betrayal, love and loss.

The whisper became a murmur, an echo from an era long past that rumbled within him. His heart pounded in sync with this rhythm, and for a fleeting moment, he was not Argon the labourer but a knight, a warrior, someone who held power, not just a sword. This strange and intense connection he felt with the object was unsettling yet captivating, filling him with a strange sense of anticipation.

It seemed insignificant to the untrained eye, but he sensed something more—a glimmer of hidden potential concealed within its hilt.

Argon holds the blade, feeling a strange connection to the old weapon. "How much?" he asks Grim, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice.

"Thirty bronze," Grim says, eyeing Argon shrewdly.

"Thirty?" Argon exclaims, "Are you shitting me? For this piece of rusted crap?" He holds the sword aloft, gesturing to its worn, weathered appearance.

"This 'rusted crap' is older than both of us combined," Grim retorts, "I won't go a bronze lower."

"Fine, I'll give you twelve," Argon says, determined to claim the sword.

"Twelve?" Grim splutters, "That's a bloody insult! But... given your enthusiasm for this piece, I suppose it's going to a good home."

Offering a few of his hard-earned bronze coins, the transaction is completed. Grim, the oblivious vendor, accepts the trade, utterly unaware of the actual value of the relic he had relinquished. Little did he know what this 'piece of rusted crap' was.