Letting a thread of mana hold his glowstick aloft beside him, Deacon set his left short sword down and reached for the Echoform Reliquary. One hand gripped the hilt, the other rested over the cold, brittle fingers still clutching it tightly. "Sorry," he muttered, voice low. "And thank you."
With a pull, he wrenched the blade free from both the skeleton's throat and hands. The brittle bones gave a faint clatter but held their shape, as if even in death the prisoner still refused to let go easily.
The wooden broadsword was heavier than it looked. Deacon stepped back and held it up in the glowstick's green light, letting the shadows catch on the rough but elegant angles of the blade.
"What is my luck to find this beauty here of all places?" he whispered, almost reverently. "I was willing to spend literally everything I own just to buy this at the Auction House on Floor 15."
He turned the hilt in his hands, squinting and scouring at it for a familiar-looking sigil he'd seen on every Artifact and most wares at the blacksmiths. It took him a bit, but he found it – burned into the lower part of the pommel: a small circle with a jagged split running down its center. A Soulbound sigil.
Bingo.
Without hesitating, he pulled off his right Mycelial Grasp gauntlet with the help of his teeth and tucked it into his belt, beside his axe. Then he brought his hand to his mouth once again and bit down on the tip of his thumb, hard enough to break skin. A bright bead of blood welled up atop his cut seconds before he pressed it directly to the sigil.
The mark flared, reacting to both his blood and the mana within it.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a slow, pulsing warmth bloomed across his chest... It wasn't painful; rather, if anything, it felt faintly familiar.
He let out a slow breath as the bond settled into place.
Soulbond Established.
He looked down at the now-dull sigil, then at his still-cut thumb, and flexed his hand around the grip. It didn't fight him. If anything, the handle shifted itself to mold itself perfectly around his hand.
Until the day I die, this is mine and only mine, he grinned.
It was for this reason that he had yet to Soulbind Mycelial Grasp to himself; he had no intention of keeping it permanently linked to himself, as there was someone he knew who would benefit from this Artifact far more than himself.
Bonehead would get a hell of a lot more out of that pairing than he ever could. That lustful, undead idiot had a knack for poisons, and with him being an alchemist, he'd probably unravel whatever weird tricks the Mycelial Grasp had and how it would form his fighting style.
Deacon held the Echoform Reliquary out in front of him a moment longer, feeling the residual warmth of the bond hum faintly along his fingers.
"Let's get you upgraded," he murmured.
With barely a thought, the mana string that held his glowstick shot to the ceiling and attached itself to it, letting the glowstick hang above his head. He then reached down and retrieved the short sword he'd left on the ground, then unsheathed the second from the scabbard on his back.
The twin blades weren't something he'd taken from the academy nor was it something he'd purchased from a blacksmith months prior. These were the only weapons his father had left behind in the cabin before he disappeared, and he'd been using these very same blades for almost a decade now.
He turned the Echoform in his left hand so the wooden broadsword faced palm-up, then carefully laid both short swords across its flat, the hilts facing opposite ends, their weight evenly placed.
"Merge," he whispered, pushing his will into the blade.
The wood of the Echoform shivered beneath the short swords, and not a moment later, in a quiet flash, both short swords vanished, absorbed into the grain like ink into parchment. The wood drank them down, and with it, changed. Its dull brown hue shifted, darkened, then gleamed – transmuting into metal.
From hilt to tip, the surface morphed from coarse wood to Tier 1 Steel. Etchings he hadn't seen before glowed briefly before fading into the tiny seams that went along the fuller, like runes melted down and forged into the blade's new shape.
Deacon's eyes lit up.
He shifted his grip. It felt different now; heavier, denser – exactly how metal should feel. Its balance in his hand remained perfect, just as it felt when he Soulbonded with it.
"Identify," he said aloud, and the familiar interface pulsed to life.
Item Name: Echoform Reliquary
Type: Weapon
Rarity: Artifact
Description:
Forged from Livingwood, Echoform Reliquary can shift between multiple forms stored within, seamlessly in response to the wielder's intent. Currently, it is made out of Tier 1 Steel, the Echoform Reliquary is designed to accept upgrades, allowing stronger materials to improve its durability and additional forms to improve its combat effectiveness.
Current Forms (2/2):
▸ Form I: [Broadsword]
▸ Form II: [Dual Short Swords]
Effects: Soulbound, Self-Repair & Swap Form.
Requirements: Humanoid.
Current Material: Tier 1 Steel
Material Upgrade Requirements: Tier 1 Tungsten
Deacon grinned as the interface faded away.
"Now we're talkin'," he muttered, flipping the sword once in his hand. Eyeing it for a moment longer, he willed it to change into its dual short sword form, and in less than a second, it did.
The steel shimmered faintly as the transformation took hold.
The broadsword split at the center like a cell dividing; the grip separated, folding and shifting inward, the blade cleaved itself clean down the middle, then snapped down into two perfectly mirrored short swords, each one molded to fit his hands exactly as they had before.
Deacon rolled his shoulders and gave each weapon a quick flourish. The weight was just right. The blades sang faintly as they cut the air just as easily as they had before.
He turned, scanning the room one last time. Aside from the skeleton, the cell held nothing more, just rusted chains, the stench of shit that was in the bucket two meters away from him, and a leaf bed.
Just as he turned toward the door, a sound stopped him cold.
Scrrrkt... thunk.
A low, wet scrape echoed from the hallway beyond the cell door, which was followed by a second one not a beat later.
Deacon stilled, short swords angled low, his breath quieting.
Something was out there.
He crept forward, pressing an eye to the small, square cutout in the bottom half of the cell door, the kind meant for passing food trays, only now chipped around the edges and missing any sort of covering – something he'd missed earlier with how close in color the door looked with the inner floor of the cell.
Their thick, sinewy limbs scraped against the stone floor with practiced silence. Scales covered their backs in irregular plates, overlapping like fishbone armor, while sharp, matted tufts of hair sprouted from between gaps in their armored joints.
Their jaws were long, but didn't open along a single hinge, Deacon had seen these things before; those jaws split when they attacked, four mandibles lined with serrated teeth fanning out.
[Wyrgnash Lv 8]
Shit, he thought to himself. Hopefully, it's only the three of them.
They hadn't seen him yet, but they could track him by scent. They were sniffing, creeping along the hallway. One of them crawled low over the pieces of the broken crates just outside the cell. Another growled low, its tongue flicking between its serrated teeth.
Deacon's jaw set. This wasn't a situation he could sneak through, not with three of them outside, and it being the only way out.
He exhaled once through his nose, his frown turning into a smirk. The fun way.
"Form I," he whispered.
In a heartbeat, the twin short swords merged back into the broadsword, the grip re-extending, the edges fusing with a quiet click of steel locking into place, and the blade lengthening by twice the height of his dual short swords.
The moment it finished forming, Deacon exploded forward and kicked the door open.
BOOM!
The iron door slammed against the wall with a deafening bang, and the Wyrgnash turned in perfect unison.
He didn't give them time to react.
Deacon surged forward, broadsword low, and brought the flat of the blade upward into the nearest beast's jaw. It stumbled back with a snarling screech, but he was already past it, pivoting into a half-spin to catch the second with a crushing overhead strike that split down its shoulder and deep into its ribs.
Echoform Reliquary sang in his hands.
The blade bit clean, far deeper than any Tier 1 weapon had any right to, its edge drinking in the momentum like it wanted more.
The third creature launched at him, fangs wide, and Deacon swapped forms mid-motion.
"Form II."
The broadsword split in his hands just as the beast lunged. In a flash, the blades reformed into short swords, and Deacon dropped low, twisting into a cross-cut that severed the beast's forward limb and then jammed one blade straight up into its underside.
Blood sprayed hot and fast as the creature howled, crashing to the floor.
Deacon didn't stop.
He moved with the ease of someone who'd been in hundreds of fights before, but even he was surprised at how fluidly Echoform Reliquary moved in his hands. Every attack felt right. Like it knew how he liked to fight.
A few seconds later, the hallway was silent again, the last Wyrgnash twitching faintly in a pool of its own blood.
Deacon took a breath, short swords angled down, gaze scanning over the remains.
Blood pooled thick across the stone. Wyrgnash bodies lay twitching, before suddenly lurching upwards.
Its broken flesh began to ripple. Muscles slid wetly across bone, sinew threading itself together like weaving strands of meat. The head, which had been nearly split in two, snapped back together with a sickening snap.
The other two followed. Blood dragged itself back into their corpses like ink in reverse. Organs and shredded ligaments fusing, claws twitching, eyes flickering open, this time glowing faint red.
"Ugh," Deacon stepped back, flipping his blades in his hands. "These were always a pain to kill… bullshit reviving cockroaches… Hopefully, they die faster than the simulations."
He planted one foot back and channeled a deep surge of mana into the blades, Flame Armament. Both his right and left short swords shimmered for a moment before igniting.
A deep orange blaze erupted across Echoform Reliquary's edges.
The heat rolled off in waves, dancing along the fuller of the blades, the sigils briefly glowing molten gold beneath the flames.
The first Wyrgnash lunged, faster than before, snarling, and Deacon didn't wait up.
He met it mid-charge.
His flame-wreathed blade sliced through the air, cleaving it in two from neck to sternum in one fluid movement. This time, as the Wyrgnash corpse hit the ground, its flesh and blood caught fire. It shrieked and thrashed, but the flames wouldn't allow it to reform; it would have to keep expending its stamina to push back the flames.
"That's more like it."
The other two came from opposite sides – one leapt, the other low, aiming to rip him apart from two angles.
He ducked the high one, jammed one flaming blade into the other's eye socket, twisted, and ignited it with a pulse of Ignis. The creature spasmed violently, melting from the inside out.
The last one landed behind him, Deacon spun, one sword catching its forearm, the other searing across its chest. But it did not stop its charge.
It dodged his follow-up swipe, slid beneath a counter-thrust, and lunged for his throat. Smart.
Deacon released one short sword and threw it mid-spin, impaling the creature's thigh and halting its charge.
"Form I."
The remaining blade instantly shifted, stretching and forming the broadsword again in a single motion; however, this time it was wreathed in flame. He gripped it in both hands, drove it down, and the Wyrgnash caught it in its jaws.
"Cute trick," Deacon snarled, eyes flashing.
He twisted, breaking free, then kicked the beast square in the gut, sending it staggering.
Deacon roared, stepped into it, and brought the flaming broadsword down in one massive diagonal cleave, causing the beast's head to fly clean from its shoulders, free-falling to the floor where a second later it hit the ground.
Silence returned to the corridor once more. This time, the bodies didn't twitch.
The flames still clung to the edges of the wounds, burning away the last traces of whatever cursed regeneration tried to take hold.
Deacon took a breath, then two before glancing down at Echoform Reliquary's still-flame-wreathed state. "Fuck yeah."
He dismissed the flames with a flick and wiped the blade clean on the nearest patch of cloth not already in ashes.
Time to move on.
Whatever lay deeper in this ruin was guarded for a reason, and it sure as hell wasn't just Wyrgnash.
*[Wyrgnash Lv 8] has been slain – XP has been given.*
***
*[Wyrgnash Lv 8] has been slain – XP has been given.*
*Your Race has reached Lv 8 – Points allocated, +1 Free Point*