Luciel was a dreamer.
The world of dreams was his refuge, a place where the constraints of reality dissolved, allowing him to explore desires and ambitions unfulfilled in his waking life. His word was law, and his action was deliberate.
Some might call it cowardice, yet for Luciel, this sanctuary was a necessary retreat from a world that often felt overwhelmingly meaningless.
Not once did he feel empty or alone. Even if reality disappeared, as long as his ego and self resided within him, nothing else mattered. After all, necessity didn't necessarily equate to meaning. He only focused on his own existence.
And if nothing else had meaning, that could only mean he was the sole meaningful existence.
But Luciel instinctively knew that this wasn't a regular dream because he wasn't in control.
First of all, he found himself floating in the wind and being dragged by its strong current. And secondly, while he often let his imagination run wild, this expanse was too vivid to be called his own. Even his senses were heightened to a degree where he could feel the slightest of touch and hear the furthest of distance.
He first saw the desolate plains, barren and lifeless, where not a single blade of grass survived. From afar, he could see a cradle of swords laying silent and solemn. The two zones were separated by a dense line of trees.
The wind carried him over the foliage and down the beaten path uncontrollably, giving him a better view of the chaos. The blades stood upright in the earth like grave markers. Some were embedded so deeply that only the hilts could be seen. Ownerless and broken, the blades trembled as if mourning the hands that had driven them into rest.
The path of the blades led Luciel into a sparse forest, and that was where the real horrors lay. Between the thin trees lay the fallen soldiers — their faces half-sunk into the mud, their mouths open in the shape of helpless pleas.
What could have possibly caused them to make that kind of face?
What was at the end of the road?
Suddenly, the wind became a violent gust, carrying him deeper into the war-torn lands. The trees thinned, their trunks like stripped poles, bark flayed by an indescribable, inhuman force. The closer he drew to the end, the more bodies he saw, piled nearly as high as the trees themselves.
Luciel's breath hitched.
He noticed a jarring similarity between the corpses: their eyes, gaped or not, pointed toward one direction. Even in death, swallowed by mud and filth, their necks were craned toward the same point down the path.
He followed their gaze while the wind continued to push him.
At the end of the road, the swords no longer stood defiantly against nature. Instead, they lay scattered and defeated. These chipped blades had no witness to their death, their accolades, their sacrifice. The instruments of war that the humans wielded — Luciel felt more empathy towards them.
'We all have a choice, don't we.'
He scrutinized every blade for its scratches, chips, rust. Some were crude with no artistry, forged to be swung and discarded; others carried engravings along the fuller that had worn thin by time. Maybe they were heirlooms, entrusted to them by their families whose hope was for their sons and daughters to return with smiles and glory.
The rust on the swords told another story. Not all of them had rusted the same way. Some were eaten so deeply by corrosion that only the faint shape remained. This meant the place had been collecting the dead for a long, long time.
Luciel continued examining each blade, absorbing the stories told, until one particular sword captured his attention.
It stood alone in the sea of swords, driven upright into cracked earth. There was nothing special about it in terms of design: a straight, double-edged blade that blinked as the light reflected, a simple crossguard, and a leather-wrapped grip darkened by years of use.
Yet, despite its simplicity, Luciel could tell the blade was flawless. He had no knowledge of the sword, nor had he ever held one.
The weight sat exactly at the center above the crossguard. It had the kind of balance that made the sword feel like an extension of the body. The vegetable-tanned pigskin leather grip was wrapped in a tight, overlapping spiral, firm enough to hold in wet hands, and soft enough to swing for hours on end.
A thought unwittingly popped up in his mind.
'I want it.'
"A remarkable sword, indeed."
Luciel's body stiffened. The voice wasn't his.
"A fine sword is often inconspicuous. But for the refined eyes, it sticks out like a sore thumb."
A hand then slowly rested on the pommel of the sword. Gauntleted, scarred at the knuckles, and steady as stone, Luciel's gaze stood frozen before slowly travelling up the arm, then toward a shoulder plated in dull silver, and then to a face buried beneath a thick grey beard.
The man studied him with pale, quiet eyes.
"You're late."
Shivers ran berserk down Luciel's spine. How could the man have seen him? Still, he managed to squeeze out a question.
"Who are you?"
The man studied Luciel's face for a moment before lowering his head, his eyes dimmed while watching the surface of steel shone against the ground.
"Funny that you asked that."
He paused momentarily before drawing the sword from the earth. He turned the steel in his hand, studying his own rugged reflection.
"I once had the chance to interact with a brave man who sacrificed everything to save his world. Though it was destroyed in the end, he managed to leave his legacy for future generations. They managed to become Wanderers. You know what he said before he died?"
Luciel wore a confused expression, not understanding where this rambling even came from. He decided to just go with the flow.
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'I die out of the selfishness of wanting to live another day.'"
The man let the words settle before continuing.
"'I cannot die. I will not die, for my death will be colored in glory and legend, and every piece of me belongs to those who come after.'"
Luciel let the silence simmer. The quote echoed in his mind. A man with a conviction was an image to admire.
"That man," Luciel started cautiously. "What's his name?"
The old man stopped studying the blade and smiled for the first time. He flipped the sword in his hand and extended it toward Luciel.
"You already know."
Luciel's eyes widened slightly.
'What does he mean, I know?'
He stared at the offered blade, then looked at the old man again. He knew those who spoke cryptically never gave out any answers, so he refrained from asking again.
"Seems like this isn't a simple dream."
The old man kept silent; his arm steady, the blade still extending.
Luciel swallowed. He understood what to do next.
With a heavy sigh, he reached out to the sword. His fingers closed around the leather grip, and the sword settled into his hand as if it had been waiting for him. It was what he had imagined — the perfect balance, the delicate weight, and the shining steel.
Then, in one fell swoop, the blade ignited in flames, swallowing his hand, his arm, then his chest. It climbed his body in a single breath, consuming even his insides.
'Shit! It fucking hurts.'
The pain was unbearable and overflowing. Luciel tried to scream, but the fire filled his lungs before sound could escape. All he could do was curl into himself and winced against the agony.
The withered forest burned until nothing was left. The battlefield vanished. The old man also vanished. As the world collapsed on its weight, a funny thought popped up in his mind.
'You son of a gun. So much for becoming a Resonator after the job.'