Even the sobbing and wailing faded into silence. They sat there, afraid to break the heavy silence—afraid that speaking the truth aloud would make it real. Final. A loss that, once acknowledged, could never be taken back.

  Garix’s expression remained frozen in shock, his single eye still wide with indignation, his mouth hanging open.

  Vaan disregarded the subtle pressure, the constant pull within his chest… the sword's relentless tug. His ribs throbbed where Erik’s casual backhand had landed, which he also ignored.

  “The sword’s still bound. Maybe it takes time”

  Erik’s words echoed in his mind, venomous and sure. He’d return. Not for vengeance. Men like him didn’t need vengeance. He’d come back the way a farmer checks a trapped fox, to see if the pelt was worth peeling. The man will be back to check if the sword was still soulbound.

  Hatred, fiercer than the hottest flames in the forge, surged within him. The urge to pick up the sword and strike Erik down when he returned was almost overwhelming. But despair, cold and heavy, fought to smother it. Erik hadn’t even flinched when he’d dismissed Vaan’s attack.

  Garix wasn’t weak either! His attributes, most of them, were definitely higher than Vaan’s. Garix had been an adventurer swordsman once before he was crippled. While he lost all his skills during the switch to a non-combat class, and with it a drop in core attributes, he was still formidable compared to other non-combatants.

  But the wretched noble was too powerful. The gap in their power was too vast.

  His family—Brenda and Marianne—were now without Garix. They were in danger.

  Anger gave way to despair. Despair gave way to fear.

  When would Erik return? What would he do to his mother and sister?

  Brenda still lay there unmoving like a doll. Her back was against the wall, her eyes empty as if the tears had long since dried. Vaan didn’t know how much time had passed.

  “Why?” Marianne’s voice shattered the quiet.

  “Why?” Her fingers twisted in her own curls, yanking hard enough to tear strands free. “Why did he-?” The words crumpled.

  “It’s for the sword,” Vaan croaked, unable to meet her gaze.

  “What’s so important about the sword?!” Marianne’s voice cracked. “Why kill for it?”

  “The sword…” Vaan swallowed, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. “It bound itself to me… soulbound.”

  Brenda moved for the first time since Garix fell. Her head lifted slowly, her face a mask of cracked porcelain. Her voice came out hoarse with pain. “You! What did you do?”

  The guilt was a living thing in Vaan’s throat, squirming, choking him

  “I don’t know,” Vaan whispered. And yet he did!

  He had somehow bound the sword to him when he experimented with his skill.

  And now, Garix had died for that. He died to protect him. Knowing what Vaan did.

  Now he was gone!

  But he couldn’t stay like this. Not when they were still in danger.

  Vaan forced himself to his feet. His gaze flicked toward the table, where the soulbound sword waited. It pulsed faintly… waiting for him.

  Three strides took him to the workbench. His fingers closed around the hilt.

  He picked it up.

  It pulsed stronger as his fingers curled around the hilt.

  And something shifted in him.

  Soulbound Sword Unnamed

  Wielder: Vaan Redbones

  Material: Duskiron, Void-tempered steel / Embercore alloy

  A weapon linked to its wielder’s flair and mana. It recognizes no other master. Any other attempting to wield it will suffer mana burns as the blade leeches their mana rapidly regardless of their flair and turns heavy proportional to the mana absorbed.

  Class Synergy (Orderly Blade): Sharpen the blade's edge and enhance its durability, channeling the wielder's mana to fuel its power.

  Soulbound Virtue: The blade grows with its wielder, unlocking abilities with each Milestone. Weapon-based skills have double efficacy when wielded by its chosen bearer.

  Skill Unlocked: Orderly Judgement:

  The first three successful strikes, blocks, or parries forge a soulflame, building with each action. Once all three have been completed, the soulflame ignites in a bluish blaze, searing both body and soul with cumulative force.

  Vaan wasn’t in a state to analyze the notifications. But he knew that it held promise of power.

  The sword pulsed with heat, not just in his palm, but in his gut.

  Vaan took a shaky breath. He couldn’t win. Not today. But maybe…

  No. Not maybe. He wouldn’t let Erik return to finish what he started.

  He wasn’t his father. Not yet. But he would be. He would become someone who could stand between his family and the storm.

  A polite but firm knock came through from the front door. Then came a familiar voice, steady and low.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Garix? Brenda? We’re coming in.”

  Vaan heard the front door creak open. The layout of Garix’s home was simple and worn—stone hearth, sparse furniture, and tucked deeper at the back, through a low archway, the forge. It was part of the house itself, as was common in villages—built into the stone rear half of the home, where the chimney rose, and the heat could be contained. The smell of soot and oil lingered in the air, even now.

  Two unlikely visitors stepped inside. Petros, Captain of the Village Watch, and Remy, from the adventurer's guild.

  Petros entered first, quiet but firm, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor. He took in the scene with a sharp, assessing gaze. His eyes locked on Garix’s lifeless body and stayed there for a long moment. Petros and Garix had a history. They always respected each other… not friends, but more than acquaintances.

  Remy followed behind; his usual light demeanor replaced with a weary, almost resigned expression. His eyes drifted across the room. Garix, Brenda, Marianne, Vaan and finally fixed on the soulbound sword in Vaan’s grip.

  It was only when Petros spoke that Remy dropped his gaze.

  “How did you know of this to fetch me?” Petros asked, voice low and sharp.

  Remy raised both hands, a gesture of peace. “Easy there. I didn’t know… not really.”

  He hesitated. “Priscilla Veldrane… she’s on my list. I dropped by their estate for guild registration and… her father Erik Veldrane was there.”

  Vaan stiffened at the name. His grip on the sword tightened.

  “He didn’t even hide it. Just complained… like it was nothing… that he’d had trouble ‘retrieving’ a sword from a smithy”

  Remy glanced apologetically at Vaan. “I thought it was just noble pettiness… but I started to suspect something. When I mentioned Vaan’s name, Erik scoffed—vehemently. And Priscilla gave me a look. Saints, I know the man’s temper, but this…” He trailed off.

  Petros knelt beside Garix’s body, his gaze sweeping across the scene like he was etching it into memory.

  He stood after a moment and looked at Brenda, still slumped against the wall, her expression empty.

  “I’ll be back,” he said quietly. His lips twitched like he wanted to say more—but he didn’t.

  He left without another word leaving an awkward looking Remy mumbled an apology before slipping out.

  A few moments later, the front door creaked again. Vaan turned to see Mayor Orlan step in, his robes thrown hastily over a nightshirt. He stopped cold at the sight of Garix, his face draining of color.

  And then came something else. Noise. Muffled, distant at first. Voices. Footsteps. The low buzz of a crowd.

  Vaan blinked. It wasn’t safe inside. Erik may come anytime to fetch his sword. They had stayed put for hours now and it was already sunset. If things turned worse, they could retreat through the back and vanish into the woods. He’d get them out. Somehow.

  Vaan glanced toward the window, and through the warped pane of glass, he saw shapes gathering outside. Figures moving in the golden light.

  It was the villagers. They were gathering. The news of Garix’s death must have reached everyone.

  He turned to Brenda and Marianne. “We should… go outside. The mayor is here. Petros will want to speak. They need to hear what happened.”

  Brenda gave a slow, numb nod. Vaan helped Marianne to her feet.

  For now, the crowd will be their protection. Together, they stepped through the doorway, out into the golden-red haze of sunset.

  There was a mob outside. Quiet. Wide-eyed. Faces turned toward the home. Tal. Risa. Ronald and many others. Even Elijah, standing near the back, his usual smirk replaced by a look of absolute shock.

  And then, casually, like a high priest to his altar, Erik Veldrane strolled into view. Followed by Petros and John, from the watch. But it didn’t look like Erik was bothered in the slightest.

  Sunset caught the gold trim of his coat, casting fire across his silhouette. His boots were spotless. His hands were folded neatly behind his back. He moved as if this was his stage, and the village his audience.

  Vaan felt his pulse quicken. His grip on the sword didn’t loosen.

  Vaan’s inspect did not give any insight on his class or level. Too much of a gap between them!

  Erik’s eyes scanned the crowd, unconcerned until it met Vaan’s own defiant glare.

  “Just as I thought,” Erik spat. “This Garix, actually managed to bind his own son to the sword. How quaint.”

  The name of his father from this dastardly man’s mouth stirred Vaan up.

  “You killed my father,” Vaan snapped. “You’ll be judged. You’ll pay.”

  He stepped forward, sword lifting, every nerve in his body screaming to strike.

  But he stopped himself. Just barely.

  Not yet, he thought. Not now. But soon.

  Petros stepped in anyway, as if unsure he’d truly stop—and Vaan let him.

  “Stand down, both of you,” Petros said, voice like gravel. “This will be handled by the Watch.”

  Erik raised an amused brow. “Ah, the whole village is here,” he said mockingly, pretending to be surprised. “The good mayor as well. Splendid! Then you’ll all witness justice.”

  He turned to Orlan theatrically. “The fraudulent swordsmith conned me. That blade cost more than your village. The reparation I seek is fair.”

  “What reparation?” Petros asked coldly.

  “His son’s life,” Erik said, flat as a toll.

  A gasp broke from the crowd followed by angry murmurs, disbelief thick in the air.

  “You’ve already… murdered Garix!” Mayor Orlan choked. “You would murder his son, too?”

  He recoiled as Erik’s glare sliced him. Then, fueled by the outrage of the crowd and perhaps emboldened by a skill, the mayor straightened his spine.

  “If any trial is due, it is on you,” he said with a tremble.

  “Hear, hear!” someone shouted, and others followed.

  Erik’s glare turned colder. Slowly, he drew a dagger. “You’ll regret that tone.”

  Petros drew steel. “Try it, and I swear—you won’t walk away.”

  For a moment, the two men stared, the tension thick in the air.

  Erik broke the silence first with a scoff. “You? My family could buy ten of you.” He gestured vaguely around. “All of this? Mine, if I choose it.”

  Then to Orlan, coldly: “Your cowardice will be remembered.”

  And to Petros: “Your insolence, marked.”

  With a sweep of his coat, Erik turned… and he walked away!

  “Wait!” Vaan shouted. “He killed my father! And we’re just letting him go?!”

  “He’s getting away!” Tal’s indignant voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd.

  Orlan stared at the ground, helpless.

  But Petros didn’t flinch. His sword lowered, and his voice dropped—not loud enough for the crowd now, but just for Vaan.

  “Vaan, son of Garix,” he said, eyes like cold steel, “You raised your sword in grief. I stopped you—for order. Because that was the law.”

  A pause. Then, slower, softer— older and bitter:

  “But law and justice aren’t always the same.”

  Petros stepped aside.

  Vaan didn’t pursue Erik. Not now.

  Instead, he turned toward the crowd—and then, quietly, he stepped back. Toward the doorway. Toward the forge.

  Inside, Garix still lay where he had fallen. The air was still warm from the dying coals. Vaan approached slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last.

  He knelt beside his father.

  Then, with the tip of the duskiron blade, he etched a rune in the soot-stained floor near the blood that had long since dried. Small. Deliberate.

  He had no flair for it. He was neither a runesmith nor a scribe. He only remembered it vaguely, from another life—one with laughter, books, Elijah... and Vincent? He did not know. The rune came out haphazard, broken, and ugly. It definitely didn’t hum with power, glow with mana, or grant any boons.

  No, this was a personal promise.

  The rune of a filial vow.

  **~?~**