I am no one special—just another person trying to get through day by day. A simple, almost invisible existence, marked by perpetual loneliness, that poisoned gift left behind by divorced parents and the silent house of a mother absent from work or exhaustion. I grew up surrounded by walls that did not speak, rooms far too large for a single person, and long nights where time itself seemed to stagnate.
I spent my days glued to a television screen; if it wasn't to watch whatever anime was airing, it was to dive into the infinitely more gratifying world of video games. There, no one asked who you were or where you came from—only what you could do with a controller in your hands mattered.
A hero dressed in green tights and wielding a blue sword traveled the kingdom to repel the evil consuming everything. A blue bomber jumped and slid through ruined cities to stop deranged machines. A demigod, betrayed by his own brothers, was forced to kill his family and now walked a path of raw vengeance, blood still fresh on his hands. A boy who only wanted to know what lay beyond his home traveled to other worlds, connecting hearts, only to try to return to the one he loved… and discover they could never be together.
A mythical blade—the final gift of a father to his son, a young man who dreamed of becoming a great soldier—after failing to protect those he loved most, ended up passing that sword on as a legacy to his apprentice and friend, who would finally fulfill the mission, saving the world in his name.
I had never stopped to think about the true value of a worthy weapon. Dozens of them had passed through the hands of heroes I embodied. Some were inherited from fathers to conceal or seal their powers; others were created as symbols to confront evil. Some promised to be unique, legendary, irreplaceable… only to end up as just another among many. And yet, every single one of them forged a story.
They weren't just weapons. They were decisions, sacrifices, memories. They were the weight of what had been lost and the hope of what could still be saved.
In some stories, I acted as a general, issuing orders from the rear. In others, I directly embodied the character's actions. And even when it was frustrating to lose again and again, to restart from a save point or repeat an impossible battle, I always came out on top in the end. There was always a way. There was always one last chance.
Of course, the real world was far more difficult—exhausting and stressful. There were no save points or resets. No tutorials or clear indicators of which decision was correct. But video games were my refuge, my safe haven. The only place where I could forget loneliness, rejection, that feeling of not belonging. That's why I always dreamed of making video games… too bad I couldn't live that dream.
The story I told was that of a hero who forged his destiny through dozens of weapons, battles, losses, and above all, bonds. I spoke of falls, betrayals, broken promises, and oaths fulfilled too late. I spoke of friends left behind and enemies who earned respect. I don't know how long it truly took; time lost all meaning as I spoke. But neither Gobann nor Rachel looked away.
I told that medley—a glorified fanfic of at least ten of my favorite stories—woven together in a way I never believed I could improvise. And yet, somehow, it all made sense. There was coherence. There was a guiding thread. And above all, there was a legacy of my own—one built on homage and borrowed memories, but still mine.
When I finally finished, I lowered my gaze, exhausted yet strangely relieved. When I looked up again, my audience was speechless.
Gobann stood stunned. His hands trembled with emotion, metaphorically grasping my tale, squeezing and compressing it like a mime pretending to crumple an invisible sheet of paper. But this time it wasn't imagination: out of nowhere, an intense glow began to emanate between his hands. Countless words stitched themselves together; out of the corner of my eye I caught fragments of thoughts that had lived in my mind but never left my mouth: "Master," "Key," "Twins," "Father," "Buster"… among many others.
All those words compressed into a beautiful metallic egg, which Gobann held with near-reverent delicacy.
It was so beautiful I could only describe it as adamantine bathed in gold, diamond, and stardust. The Forger of Stories had taken my tale and turned it into forge-metal. He carried it to a massive golden furnace at the back of his workshop that, like a black hole, swallowed it and released an explosion heard all the way to the Nexo's first floor.
Instinctively, Rachel and I covered our ears, but Gobann enjoyed every second, laughing like a child with a new toy.
At last, before the great golden furnace, only a huge digital clock appeared—its meaning lost on me.
—Simply beautiful —the great man exclaimed, turning to us, enraptured—. But that is not your story. You are not worthy of such a mythical weapon. Only beings like Heracles, Arthur, or Karna himself could wield something like that without losing their minds. For you… a knife. And only because the story was truly good.
Those were his final words before he tossed me a fine silver knife wrapped in a leather sheath.
—What? —slipped pathetically from my confused mouth as Rachel dragged me out of the floor with her.
—Time's up —Rachel said, stretching before the great silver wall—. You won't be able to come up again for a while unless you're accompanied, or until you reach Bronze rank.
I felt disappointed—practically cheated. But at least I had a weapon now… I suppose.
Rachel simply patted my shoulder.
—Don't hang your head, Tris. The old man did the same thing to me the first time. Like you, I told the legend of my king, and he made Caliburn for me—because I wasn't worthy of Excalibur. Can you believe that?
—So that's why your sword is different…
—Exactly. It's not a replica; it's just the prototype of what I want to become. I like to think of it as a metaphor. Look at your knife: small, thin, but bright and resilient. I assure you, few materials can resist its edge… though, well, I don't see you as assassin material.
—Not at all…
Rachel kept talking. Maybe it was the exhaustion or the disappointment, but when I looked at her again, the princess reminded me so much of Ale that, without any logical reason, my eyes began to fill with tears. Rachel quickly noticed the wet glimmer in my gaze.
—Are you okay, Tris?
—Yeah… yeah… it's just that I remembered… Isolde.
She gave me an innocent look as she gently nudged me with her shoulder. We exchanged a smile before heading to the dining halls.
—You know, this place really smells bad —I said, playing with the new knife between my fingers.
—Tell me about it.
Who would have thought that, that very day, from a distance, Paul was watching us with a look of genuine hatred.
—Damn traitor…