The rain in Draventa didn't cleanse anything. It only smeared soot into streaks of ash down rusted rooftops and corroded statues. The sky was a pale gray bruise over a city that had forgotten what blue looked like.
Kael Virek walked alone through the lower quarters, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder and a sword wrapped in cloth hidden within. Steam hissed from pipes lining the walls, mixing with the heavy scent of alchemic residue and grease. This was Sector Six—home to the unwanted.
"Oi, Kael! You're late!" a voice called out from an alleyway.
A tall girl leaned against a wall, arms crossed, expression sharp. She wore a sleeveless duster over a modified student uniform and had a short spear strapped diagonally across her back.
"Good morning to you too, Ryza," Kael muttered as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "You could try not yelling every time we meet."
"I could," Ryza grinned, "but then I wouldn't be your best friend."
Kael rolled his eyes but allowed a small smile. Ryza Melthane had grown up with him in the same slum block. Where Kael was quiet and calculating, Ryza was bold and brash—a troublemaker with a knack for spearmanship and a terrifying appetite.
They turned onto the path that led toward Crater Forge, a hidden training ground they had discovered years ago—a collapsed smelting pit now buried under layers of scaffolding and silence. The city above never came here. Too broken. Too unstable. Too forgotten.
Kael preferred it that way.
He dropped his bag onto a bench as Ryza pulled out a chunk of dried meat.
"Did you bring it?" she asked between chews.
Kael nodded and slowly unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a slim longsword, its surface riddled with faint runic lines. It wasn't made of steel, but a silvery mineral called mirite, light yet stronger than iron.
"Got this from a scavenger trader near the outer wall," Kael explained. "It's whispering constantly."
Ryza raised an eyebrow. "You mean humming?"
"No," he replied quietly, gripping the hilt. "Whispering."
He closed his eyes, letting the vibrations travel up his arm, into his bones. The sword spoke not in words but in emotions—fear, pride, anger, despair. It had once belonged to someone who fought to protect. Someone who failed.
"Her name was Lirea," Kael whispered. "She fell defending a temple from Wyrmspawn. This blade remembers her last stand."
Ryza blinked. "You even know their names? Gods… you're a weapon psychic."
"Echo-Blood," Kael said, not quite proudly. "That's what one of the High Scholars called it."
Ryza nodded slowly. "It fits. Doesn't matter if it's bow, axe, staff, or book—you just understand them. That's not normal, Kael. Even mage-knights need years to sync with one weapon, and they don't hear anything."
Kael didn't answer. He knew it wasn't normal. But deep down, it felt right. As if the weapons themselves had chosen him, not the other way around.
He raised the longsword and took a stance. The air thickened slightly, reacting to the mirite's aura. A faint pulse of light ran through the runes as Kael moved—precise, fluid, almost dance-like. Each strike had a rhythm. Each block a story.
Clang. Slice. Whisper. Twist. Step.
Ryza watched in silence. Not with envy—but awe.
Then, the silence broke.
"That's far enough, slum rats."
Three figures stepped out from the shadows. They wore silver-banded uniforms—Academy initiates, from the upper city. Their tunics bore the insignia of House Vellorin, one of the noble families known for training elite Alka-Warriors.
The leader, a smug blond boy with manicured fingers, sneered.
"Didn't know rats could dance with blades. Or talk to them."
Kael lowered the sword slowly, eyes steady. "What do you want, Lucen?"
Lucen Vellorin twirled a short grimoire on his palm, its core glowing with amber light. The alchemic sigils on its spine pulsed.
"This pit is Academy property now. Reserved for real students, not street filth pretending to play hero."
"We've trained here for years," Ryza growled, hand reaching for her spear.
Lucen laughed. "Training? With that rusted toothpick? Come now. Run along before someone gets hurt."
Kael's eyes narrowed. Lirea's sword pulsed in his grip—angry, not at Lucen, but at the disrespect.
He stepped forward.
"You don't belong here," Kael said calmly. "This sword disagrees with you."
Lucen's expression darkened. "Then maybe I'll silence it."
In one motion, he snapped open the grimoire. A burst of alchemic flame roared outward, shaped like a serpent. It lashed toward Kael—fast, refined, deadly.
But Kael didn't flinch.
He stepped into the flame.
The sword shimmered—and split the alchemic serpent in half.
A wind burst exploded outward, snuffing the fire entirely.
Lucen stumbled back, shocked.
"W-What? That spell—was Class B!"
Kael's stance remained firm. Lirea's whisper rang in his ears again—"Protect what must be protected."
"Your spells are loud," Kael said. "But your will is weak. A weapon hears both."
Lucen gritted his teeth and turned. "Come on. This place reeks anyway."
As the trio left, Ryza whistled low.
"That was awesome."
Kael didn't smile. He looked down at the sword, now dim again.
He had barely tapped into its true potential—but even that was enough to overpower a noble with formal training.
What would happen… when he could wield all weapons like this?
Far above the city, in the floating citadel of Cael'Rai, a masked figure stared into a pool of black mercury.
"It has begun," the voice rasped. "The boy who hears echoes… will awaken the old armory."
The mercury swirled, revealing Kael's face.
"Let him master them all," the figure whispered, eyes narrowing. "So we may take them when the time is right."