The hall was silent, save for the distant drip of water echoing from some hidden corner. The heroes crowded around the black sword, speaking in whispers, calculating, pretending to plan. I stayed back, unseen, unnoticed, breathing slowly, counting each heartbeat like a metronome.
The sword waited.
It was impossible to describe it as merely steel. Black, polished, almost alive, and pulsing faintly under the dim torchlight. Every line, every curve, seemed deliberate, as if the weapon had grown from shadow and patience itself. The air around it felt thicker, heavier.
"…kill."
The whisper brushed my mind again. Soft. Patient. It didn't demand. It merely observed. I didn't respond. Not yet. Observation is cheaper than action.
The heroes argued. One stepped closer, hand hovering above the hilt. Confidence dripping from every movement. Pride. Ignorance. Mistakes stacked like kindling.
The sword pulsed, almost imperceptibly, as if it could sense their weakness. The whisper sharpened. "…kill."
I stepped forward, unnoticed, my cheap sword still at my side. The warmth of the whisper increased faintly, reacting to my intent—or lack thereof. I didn't reach for the black blade yet. I wanted to see. Always observe before acting.
The first hero grasped the hilt. A pulse ran through the room, a vibration so subtle that only I noticed. The air shifted. Shadows stretched unnaturally. The sword hummed faintly, a heartbeat beneath the surface. "…kill."
I crouched slightly, eyes on the blade, waiting. Patience. The whisper has always waited.
Hours could have passed. The heroes' plans grew more elaborate, their discussions louder, their movements more predictable. I counted their mistakes: footing, balance, hesitation, overconfidence. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
Then the opportunity arrived.
One of the heroes misstepped. He leaned too far, his weight unbalanced, hand still gripping the sword hilt. The sword pulsed, reacting not to him, but to me. The whisper was sharp now, insistent. "…kill."
I approached, slow, measured, hand brushing the cold stone of the dais. The sword pulsed warmer. I could feel it respond, not demanding, not commanding, simply acknowledging me. I inhaled, letting the room's tension settle in my chest like smoke.
Observation had prepared me. The whisper had waited.
I grasped the hilt.
The world changed.
Not loud. Not violent. Just different. The sword's pulse surged through my hand, up my arm, embedding itself in my senses. The whisper became a vibration in my bones. It spoke to intent, to survival, to necessity. "…kill."
The heroes reacted too late. One lunged to stop me. Predictable. Ordinary. Mistake. I moved with calm precision, stepping aside, guiding the attack harmlessly past. Observation pays dividends.
The sword felt alive in my hands. Every line, every edge, every shadow within it seemed to respond to my thoughts. It didn't need power from me. It provided its own, patient, deliberate, awaiting my intent. The whisper sharpened, insistent: "…kill."
I didn't panic. I didn't hesitate. Patience has trained me for this.
The first technique came almost by accident. One of the heroes drew too close, his sword swinging recklessly. I felt a cold surge of calculation mixed with faint, restrained rage. The sword reacted. Black steel vibrated in my grip. My vision narrowed.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
I said it aloud, softly, deliberately. The words weren't a spell. They were intent made audible.
The sword pulsed violently, responding to the emotion behind them. Shadows stretched across the hall. The hero's blade clashed with mine, and a wave of force surged outward. I didn't fully control it. Didn't need to. The sword turned his attack against him, deflecting with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed, more from luck than skill.
The heroes froze. Confusion. Shock. Pride shattered into fear.
I stepped forward, blade humming with faint warmth. "…kill."
Each swing of the sword was deliberate. Controlled. Observed. Every movement whispered in tandem with the sword, teaching me, guiding me. This was no ordinary weapon. It was patient. It waited for intent, for necessity, for the moment where survival demanded action.
And that moment had arrived.
By the time the first hero lay unconscious, the others had frozen in place, too terrified to act. The sword pulsed in my hands, waiting. The whisper continued: "…kill."
I didn't panic. I didn't hesitate. Patience. Observation. Calculation.
The blade felt heavier now, not with weight, but with purpose. I could sense potential, not just in enemies, but in strategy, in timing, in chaos. The whisper sharpened, close, intimate: "…kill."
I stepped toward the second hero. Ordinary mistakes, predictable hesitation. The sword guided me, subtly, without interference. My voice was calm, detached, soft. "…kill—Crimson Tide."
The effect repeated. Shadows moved, force guided itself, bodies fell. Not all skill, not all strength. The sword reacted, patient, deliberate, alive.
When the last hero collapsed, silence returned to the hall. The only sound was my breathing, slow, measured, and the faint pulse of the sword in my hands. The whisper was quiet now, satisfied, patient once more: "…wait."
I looked at the black blade. It had chosen me. Not for heroism. Not for justice. Only for necessity, survival, and the potential for controlled chaos.
I had claimed it.
Voraciel.
The city outside continued in ignorance. The banners, the celebrations, the heroes—all still performing for a world that didn't notice the shift that had already occurred in the shadowed palace.
I wiped the blade clean, my cheap sword at my side forgotten. Ordinary routines returned. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures.
And somewhere, in the heartbeat of black steel, I felt the promise of power waiting.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience.
I breathed.
And the world waited.