Otwin turned the tube over carefully.

  It was heavier than it looked, the weight uneven in a way that told him there was more inside than empty space. Dust slid off its smooth surface in slow sheets as he rolled it across his thigh and set it down on the stone floor of the Tower Drome. The metal was cold even through his gloves, holding onto the chill of the earth around it.

  He took his time. Rushing was how things broke or got injured. Either result would be undesirable.

  The underside of the tube was not smooth.

  A recessed panel ran along one side, its edges clean and intentional. Runes were etched into it in tight, orderly rows, their shapes precise and sharp, untouched by corrosion despite everything else in this place having rotted or rusted. Beside the runes sat a small rectangular display, dark and inert, no wider than his thumb, its surface polished smooth.

  Otwin leaned closer.

  “Well,” he muttered. “That figures.”

  He brushed dirt away with his sleeve, slow and careful. The runes caught the low-light overlay immediately, glowing faintly in his vision, each line standing out in crisp relief. The display flickered as his shadow passed over it, then settled back into darkness, waiting.

  A lock.

  Not a latch. Not a seal meant to keep dust out. A deliberate locking mechanism, built by someone who expected this tube to be found one day, and wanted to control what happened when it was.

  Otwin straightened slightly and rolled his shoulders, feeling the lingering ache from the fall. He circled the tube, looking for anything he might have missed. Pressure plates. Hidden catches. A release disguised as decoration. There was nothing. Just the runic keypad and the dead little screen.

  “I don’t suppose you know the code,” he said.

  The words echoed softly in the vast chamber.

  There was a pause. Not silence exactly. Processing.

  Then text appeared in his HUD.

  Bypassing security protocols.

  Otwin froze.

  “You’re what?”

  Brute forcing passkey.

  His eyes flicked back to the runes. “That sounds like a good way to ruin whatever’s inside.”

  Please wait.

  The display on the tube lit up.

  Numbers began to scroll across it in steady succession, too fast for Otwin to follow. They cycled in ordered patterns, sequences flowing into one another with mechanical precision. With each change, the runes pulsed faintly, a subtle vibration traveling through the metal beneath his hands.

  Otwin withdrew his fingers instinctively, heart beating a little faster.

  “You’re sure this won’t...” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. Talking wouldn’t change anything now.

  The hum deepened.

  It wasn’t loud, but it was constant, a pressure felt more than heard. The air around the tube seemed to thicken, carrying the faint scent of ozone and old magic stirred from dormancy. Otwin shifted his stance, boots scraping softly against stone as he gave the tube a little more space.

  The scrolling slowed.

  Stopped.

  For a long second, nothing happened.

  Otwin held his breath without realizing it.

  Then there was a soft click.

  Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the quiet, precise sound of something unlocking exactly the way it had been designed to.

  Otwin exhaled shakily.

  A thin seam appeared along the length of the tube, a line that had not existed moments before. With a gentle hiss, pressure released, cold air spilling out in a low sigh. The upper half of the casing shifted under its own weight, separating just enough to show that it could be opened.

  Otwin did not move right away.

  He stared at the seam, every instinct telling him this was the point where sensible people backed away. Whatever had been sealed in here had been sealed for a reason. But sensible people did not crawl through collapsed Tower Dromes chasing salvage maps either.

  Slowly, he reached out and set his hands on the lid.

  The metal vibrated faintly beneath his palms, alive in a way dead objects were not. He swallowed, adjusted his grip, and lifted.

  The lid came free smoothly, far more easily than he expected.

  Light spilled out.

  Not a harsh glare. Not a blinding flash. A steady, contained glow that illuminated Otwin’s face and reflected in his eyes. The low-light overlay struggled for a fraction of a second, recalibrating as the brightness overwhelmed it.

  Otwin’s breath caught.

  His eyes widened.

  Otwin stared down into the open stasis tube.

  For a long moment, he did not move.

  The light spilling out of the tube was steady and pale, enough to outline what rested within without revealing everything at once. He let his eyes adjust naturally this time, ignoring the instinct to lean closer too fast. Old habits died hard. So did people who rushed unfamiliar tech.

  Then he saw it.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The sword lay cradled in the tube’s interior supports as if it had been set there with care. It was straight and double-edged, about the length of an arming sword, its lines clean and purposeful. The blade itself was black, not reflective, not dull either, the surface absorbing light instead of throwing it back. Age clung to it, but not decay. This was not rust or neglect. This was time held at bay.

  Runes covered the blade.

  They ran along both edges in fine, deliberate script, flowing down toward the guard and continuing onto the hilt. They were not decorative. Otwin could tell that immediately. Each mark was placed with intent, spaced precisely, etched deep enough to endure centuries if needed.

  The crossguard was thick and robust, shaped to protect the hand rather than look elegant. It flared slightly at the ends, reinforced, meant to catch and turn blows instead of bending under them. The grip was wrapped in dark material that still looked intact, textured for control even with gloves.

  At the pommel, set cleanly into the metal, was a powerstone.

  It glowed faintly.

  Not bright. Not active. Just enough to tell him the sword was not dead.

  Otwin let out a slow breath.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  The HUD text appeared immediately.

  Ancient Hegemony Vibro Sword. Rare. Current rating: Silver.

  Otwin’s eyes narrowed slightly as the identification continued.

  A vibro sword utilizes micro-vibrational harmonics to create a cutting edge capable of slicing through steel with minimal resistance.

  “I know what a vibro sword is,” Otwin said, still staring at the blade. “And it looks like it’s got power.”

  Affirmative. The stasis field inside the stasis tube preserved its power with no leakage.

  That made his brow lift.

  “Good containment,” he muttered. “Whoever sealed this knew what they were doing.”

  He reached in carefully and closed his hand around the grip.

  The sword felt right immediately.

  Balanced. Alive in a way good weapons always were, even without being activated. He lifted it free of the tube and stepped back, the blade clearing the casing without a sound. There was no hum, no vibration yet. Just weight and promise.

  Otwin did not turn it on.

  Instead, he walked toward a clearer patch of the chamber where the mud thinned, and the stone floor showed through. He planted his feet, adjusted his grip, and raised the sword slowly.

  Then he moved.

  Not flashy. Not dramatic.

  A measured cut through empty air, followed by another. A short series of controlled motions, testing balance, reach, and recovery. The blade moved smoothly, tracking exactly where he intended it to go. He adjusted his stance without thinking, shoulders turning, hips shifting to drive the motion.

  He stepped forward, pivoted, and brought the blade around in a clean diagonal that would have split a man from shoulder to hip if it had met resistance.

  Otwin stopped and exhaled.

  “…Yeah,” he said quietly.

  The HUD flickered.

  Skill noted.

  Otwin snorted. “It’s a hard world. Need to know a thing or two.” He lowered the sword and rolled his wrist, feeling how the weight responded. “Haven’t touched one of these since my days in the Army. And that one wasn’t nearly this well made or balanced.”

  Army history noted.

  Otwin shot a glare into the empty air.

  “Shut up.”

  Otwin chose one of the sloped breaches in the dome rather than the straight vertical drop he had come down through. It was narrower, but the stone there was fractured into steps and ledges, the sort of climb that punished the arms instead of killing you outright if you slipped.

  He looked up once, judging distance, then set to work.

  First, he lifted the vibro sword.

  He did it carefully, holding it flat in both hands, mindful of its weight and balance even now. The blade slid smoothly up onto the ledge above, resting there without a sound. The faint glow from the pommel reflected dully off stone and mud, then steadied.

  Next came the stasis tube.

  That took more effort. He braced one boot against the wall and heaved, muscles in his shoulders and back protesting as he raised the long cylinder overhead and rolled it onto the same ledge. It landed solidly, rocking once before settling.

  Only then did Otwin climb.

  He dug his fingers into cracks and hauled himself upward, boots scraping for purchase. The ache from earlier flared again, sharper this time, but he pushed through it. His hands found stone. His knee caught on a jutting edge. With a final grunt, he rolled onto the ledge and lay there for a moment, chest heaving.

  He stared at the ceiling of the Tower Drome below him, then at the dim light filtering in from above.

  “Still alive,” he muttered.

  He sat up and reached for the cable clipped to his belt. It was thick, braided linen, scuffed from use but reliable. He tossed the free end back down into the chamber, waited for it to go slack, then hooked it through the strap of his pack.

  Once it was secure, he began pulling.

  The pack came up slowly, heavy with tools and salvage, scraping against stone as it rose. His arms burned by the time it reached the ledge. He hauled it over and let it drop beside him, then sat there for a few seconds longer, breathing hard, letting the effort drain out of his limbs.

  When he stood again, he moved with purpose.

  He shrugged into the pack and tightened the straps, settling the familiar weight against his back. Then he picked up the vibro sword and tested how it hung at his side. The belt loop took the scabbard-less blade easily, the crossguard resting against his hip. It felt strange, carrying something so finely made without proper housing, but it would do for now.

  The stasis tube came last.

  He lifted it and slung it under one arm, the metal cool and solid against his side. Awkward, but manageable.

  Once he had everything, Otwin climbed the rest of the way out.

  The open air above the Tower Drome hit him like a release. Wind brushed his face. The sky stretched wide and indifferent overhead. He hauled himself onto level ground and stood there for a moment, letting the world feel normal again.

  Only then did he look around.

  The plains were quiet. The mud and rocks lay undisturbed, the white circle from the minimap gone now, replaced by a simple marker behind him. If anyone passed through here, they would see nothing but another scar in the land.

  Query, DAC said. What is the optimal course of action moving forward?

  Otwin snorted softly and shifted the weight of the tube under his arm.

  “I’m keeping the sword,” he said without hesitation. “It’s… too nice to give away.”

  He rested a hand briefly on the hilt, feeling the balance again. “I’ll need to find a scabbard for it, though. Can’t keep walking around with it bare like this.”

  He adjusted his grip on the tube.

  “The stasis tube will sell for a small fortune to the right buyer,” he continued. “I know someone who’d take it. No questions asked.”

  There was a pause.

  “They’re in an Imperial City,” Otwin added. “About a week’s hard march.”

  *Analysis complete. *There is sufficient food in your pack for that duration. Rationing will be required.

  Otwin rolled his eyes. “Tell me something I do not know.”

  There was a brief delay.

  Octopi possess three hearts. Their blood is blue.

  Otwin stopped walking.

  He blinked once. “What?”

  You requested information you did not know.

  Otwin stared out across the plains for a long second, then shook his head.

  “Oh. Well. Now I know.” He started walking again. “And do you know what knowing is?”

  Knowing is the state in which information has been acquired, retained, and can be applied to influence outcomes.

  “No, silly,” Otwin said. “It’s half the battle.”

  There was a pause.

  Noted.

  Otwin smiled despite himself, a small, tired thing. He adjusted the pack on his shoulders and set his sights toward the distant horizon, already measuring the land ahead in days and meals and miles.

  A week’s march.

  He had done worse.

  Behind his eyes, something ancient and precise stored the information away and began calculating what else might be learned along the road.