Marc lay comfortably in the dim light of the cabin, his comfort magic active to wrap the room in an ideal coolness. He held a large mug of cold beer while chewing on strips of salted jerky from a deer he had hunted himself that morning. His magic allowed him to accelerate the drying process to just a few hours—one of the few tangible and pleasant benefits of his power. It was, finally, his precious day off.
A week had passed since the return from the journey to the west, and old Silas had not shown a shred of mercy. He had demanded Marc make up every lost hour, using the excuse that the trip did not count as formal training. This translated into working twice as hard as usual. Marc felt death looming on several occasions, but Silas, with a heart of stone, only demanded a new and brutal level of effort. Furthermore, the old man had issued a somber warning: the requirements would triple during the final six months of his instruction.
The training was already hellish. Now it's almost impossible to endure, Marc thought between gulps of beer. I think all that magical power has rotted that old man's brain; he no longer knows compassion.
After the morning hunt, Marc made an executive decision: he would spend the rest of the day prostrate, without moving a single muscle.
I won't read today. Enough is enough for this week, he promised himself. It is vital to rest when the body and mind demand it. In my world, Silas would have definitely been classified as a labor exploiter of the worst kind.
Marc's rest was interrupted by slight, dull thuds coming from his small garden. The peace of the cabin was shattered. He peered out the window to investigate, but the forest seemed plunged into absolute silence; he couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary. However, from one moment to the next, Silas appeared by the window frame as if he had materialized out of thin air itself. He held an apple in his hand, causing Marc to jump and drop his precious jerky to the floor.
"These apples are very juicy," Silas commented, after taking an audible bite of the fruit.
Son of a bitch... he almost gave me a heart attack, Marc thought, his heart still racing. What the hell does he want now?
Silas rounded the cabin and entered through the front door with unusual leisure.
"I have an apple tree by my hut, but for some reason, it doesn't bear fruit as good as the ones here," he added, examining the apple with interest.
"What are you doing here, old man? It's my day off, don't mess with me," Marc hissed grumpily, leaning down to pick up his strips of meat from the floor.
"Calm down, I'm not here to give you work. Though you should be reading, I'll let it slide for today because I know you've pushed yourself to the limit lately," Silas said, settling onto Marc's bench.
The old man is actually taking pity on me, Marc thought, surprised. He even gave me a compliment. He seems more relaxed than usual; it looks like on his days off he has a very different attitude from the grumpy, heartless monster he usually is.
"If you just wanted an apple, you could have taken it and left," Marc huffed, throwing the dirty meat strips into the trash with annoyance. "You've ruined my rest and my snack."
"Don't worry, I'll leave shortly. I only came to deliver this to you," Silas said, revealing a peculiarly shaped object from the folds of his robe: it was the hilt of a sword, but it lacked a blade entirely.
"And what is that supposed to be? Why are you bringing me a broken sword?" Marc asked, his face flushed with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. The old man's jokes are getting weirder, he thought. Did he really just come to bother me with this?
"It's not broken. It's a hilt that must be imbued with magic to materialize its blade. Depending on the element you channel, that will be the shape the edge takes," Silas replied, placing the strangely light handle in Marc's hands.
"A magic sword?" Marc blurted out, genuinely surprised as he weighed the object.
"Not exactly, but I suppose you can call it that," Silas conceded. "Why don't we step outside so you can try it?"
Marc felt a stinging curiosity. The idea of a blade emerging from nowhere fascinated him, but his suspicions about the old man's motives persisted.
"I appreciate the gesture, really. But why not wait until tomorrow? What's the urgency?" Marc questioned, narrowing his eyes.
"It just seemed like a good time, that's all," Silas said, standing up and walking leisurely toward the cabin exit.
Marc didn't want to play along. He knew this "surprise" would end up becoming undercover training, and this was his sacred day off. However, intrigue weighed more than laziness. The need to see how that enigmatic weapon worked was stronger than his will to stay in bed. Sighing, he walked out of the cabin following Silas's lead.
"Fine, you win. I'll try it, but only because I'm curious," Marc conceded, raising the bare hilt into the air. "How am I supposed to make it work?"
"You must imbue it with your essence. Concentrate as you do in your meditations: create a mental image, define the element you wish to invoke, and feel the flow travel through your body from your core to your palms. The artifact will do the rest."
Sounds simple enough, Marc thought. And, to his surprise, it was; his ability to manipulate magical flow had grown exponentially over the past months. He quickly channeled his Fire Magic, and the artifact reacted with an instantaneous vibration.
From the hilt, a blade began to materialize: it was made of sharp, black volcanic rock, streaked with glowing orange veins that pulsed like molten lava. A searing heat emanated from the edge, distorting the air around it. Marc gripped the Magma Sword, feeling the resonance of his own power vibrating in the weapon's weight.
"This sword reacts to the imagination and desire of its wielder," Silas explained, his voice carrying a weight that went beyond mere metal. "When you channeled the fire, your mind unconsciously conceived what a weapon of that element would look like, and the artifact gave it shape. Listen well, Marc: its blade could become even stronger than Adamantine if the power of your will dictates it so."
This shit is incredible, Marc admitted to himself, a genuine smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. I always thought using a sword was a waste of time given my power... but this weapon is something else. It works with me. I like it.
Marc swung the Magma Sword with both hands, fascinated by its weight and the pulse of the flowing lava. As he slashed through the air, an eruption of roaring flames broke from the blade, licking the surroundings with a hellish heat that nearly scorched the cabin's wooden facade. Marc took a step back, stunned; he hadn't expected such raw power from the artifact.
"Why didn't you give this to me before, when we went to the goblin camp?" Marc asked. In his mind, he savored the scene: with this weapon, perhaps he wouldn't have even needed to resort to the earth stakes.
"The purpose of the test was for you to learn to use the resources at your disposal," Silas replied with his characteristic didactic coldness. "To learn to be cautious and to know when to strike, even with a simple sword, without depending on magic. Had you possessed this artifact, you would have likely charged head-on, destroying everything in your path. It would have been easier, yes, but not instructive. And you still lack true skill with steel."
"Then why give it to me now?" Marc asked incredulously.
"Because I want you to use it practically against a complicated opponent; only then will you understand its true power and learn to control it."
"Opponent? Do you want me to face another creature like the goblins?" Marc braced himself, surprise coloring his voice.
"Not exactly. But why don't you try the artifact with another element?" Silas said, dodging the question. "Time is running out."
What does he mean, time is running out? Marc wondered, feeling his usual irritation. Does he have somewhere to be? Always with the half-information. He can never just be clear.
Marc decided to ignore the old man's cryptic remark; by now, he was immune to his mysteries. Instead of arguing, he channeled his Ice Magic. The change was instantaneous: the volcanic rock dissolved, transmuting into a translucent, razor-sharp edge, white as the heart of a glacier. A frigid vapor emanated from the blade, numbing the air in its wake.
Without wasting a second, Marc took a practice swing. A dense cloud of frost erupted from the steel, instantly freezing everything it touched. The grass crunched under a layer of whitish rime, and the wind turned biting as the cold spread across the clearing.
Wow, this is way too powerful, Marc admitted. Maybe the old man is right; with this in my hands, I would have razed the goblin village head-on without a second thought.
However, as the frost cloud dissipated, Marc's complacency vanished. Standing motionless as a statue against the treeline was a dark figure. It was an individual dressed entirely in black, face covered, whose aesthetic reminded him powerfully of the ninjas from his world. They wore a belt loaded with throwing knives and tools fit for a stealthy assassin. Marc blinked, thinking the speed of the encounter was playing tricks on him, but the silhouette was real.
"What the hell...?!" he exclaimed, adjusting his defensive stance and tightening his grip on the ice hilt. "Who are you?! What are you after?!"
Marc prepared himself mentally: at the slightest hostile movement, he would unleash his area-of-effect magic without hesitation.
"Do not be uneasy, demon," the stranger replied with a blood-chilling serenity. "If you can see me now, it is only because I have allowed it. Had I willed otherwise, you would never have sensed my presence."
He's too confident, Marc thought, feeling a shiver that didn't come from his sword. It was true he hadn't detected him, but the distance was considerable. If he had gotten closer, I would have noticed... right? Just then, he remembered how Silas had startled him minutes ago. This guy was dangerous; his intuition, now sharper, was screaming it at him.
"Then why show yourself to me?" Marc demanded, not yielding an inch in his stance.
"Because I want to ask you a question first," the stranger replied. "A few days ago, at the far western edge of this forest, an entire goblin village was slaughtered by someone capable of using devastating magic. I have never witnessed a scene like it; the type of energy employed is unknown even to me."
The assassin paused deliberately, letting the silence hang, before continuing:
"Two weeks ago, I was hired. Those goblins killed an apothecary's family; they had ventured south into the forest searching for medicinal plants that, they say, only grow in this region. Stupidity, if you ask me; this forest is a den of dangerous creatures. The apothecary's sister paid me to investigate. Now I must return and tell her that her brother and his family were murdered by those beasts..."
"And what does that have to do with me?" Marc interrupted, his voice rising with a sharp authority. He had no intention of confessing his role in the massacre to a stranger.
"I am getting to that point. Do not despair," the man in black responded with a chilling calm. "As I was saying, I followed the family's trail to the site of the skirmish. They tried to defend themselves, but they failed miserably. The trail of blood and the dragging of the bodies led me straight to the village. I was ready to eliminate them all, but to my surprise, someone had beaten me to it. So, I decided to follow the executioner's trail... and it led me here."
"He could follow our trail after so many days?" Marc whispered to Silas, without lowering his Ice Sword even a millimeter.
"Assassins possess a different perception; they are trained for it," Silas replied with the monotony of a professor delivering a lecture. "They could follow a lead through snow or rain; the most veteran can track scents weeks old. Besides, it's not as if we went out of our way to hide our tracks."
"I first stumbled upon the temple on my way here," the assassin continued. "The priest standing beside you assured me that in this direction, I would find the one responsible for the goblins' deaths. Though I admit my surprise at seeing he arrived before me, when I would have sworn I left him behind at the temple."
At that moment, Marc's gaze, heavy with liquid rage and a sense of betrayal, locked onto Silas. The old man, unmoved, continued to quietly enjoy his apple under the afternoon sun.
"What the hell are you talking about?!" Marc exploded, his voice trembling with pure rage as the icy vapor from his sword intensified. "You told him I was the one who killed the goblins and then sent him right here?!"
"I can be faster than I look at my age," Silas replied, addressing the assassin and completely ignoring Marc's outburst. "But it's not that I wanted to meddle in your business. I didn't mention anything to the demon about you or what we discussed."
"What is your relationship with this demon, priest?" the assassin asked, his suspicion almost tangible.
"You see, this demon is a devoted and fervent follower of the God Amir, as hard as that may be to believe," Silas uttered with unflappable seriousness. "He has come to the temple several times, consumed by regret over his stupidity, his laziness, and his foul temper. I only come by from time to time to steal a few apples from the orchard; they are truly juicy. But we have no relationship or anything in common, other than our faith."
Marc felt his blood boil. He knew that behind that mask of piety, Silas was howling with laughter at his own jokes. He was savoring the lie.
"What the hell are you saying?!" Marc roared. "This guy is dangerous—stop playing games, old man!"
The frigid energy of his Ice Sword crackled, threatening to overflow, while the glow in his eyes intensified until they looked like two brilliant lanterns in the gloom.
"I understand, priest," the assassin conceded. "It is suspicious that you are here after our talk, but I will let it slide out of respect. You should not interfere in this matter."
"I had no intention of doing so. I admit I was curious to see what would happen, but I don't plan to get involved, obviously. A weak old man like me couldn't do anything anyway," Silas said, walking away with a calm stride.
Just before stepping out of the way, Silas threw out one last sentence, a weighted whisper intended only for his disciple:
"Don't forget your training. And use the sword."
That damn old man is a complete moron. I swear that one day I will have my sweet revenge, Marc thought, pivoting all his accumulated rage toward the opponent in front of him.
"Normally, I would have thanked the person who saved me the trouble," the assassin said. "But it turns out you are a demon, and one with magic so devastating it could almost rival the Demon King's generals... if not surpass them. I cannot ignore that. You worry me more than any other creature in this forest. You are dangerous, and you are in human territory, far from where you belong. Furthermore, you carry a weapon capable of turning any city to ash if you so chose. So tell me, what are your intentions, demon?"
"I have no intention of harming humans. I'm just living quietly in this cabin, bothering no one and with no hidden agendas," Marc replied with a sharp confidence.
"That is hard to believe when you wield such an artifact and only a week ago you wiped an entire village off the map. To be honest, I cannot trust a single word you say, much less being the monster that you are. I only held back from attacking because you were with the priest... but your death was always inevitable," the assassin declared with absolute coldness.
Fine, I won't spare this idiot's life, Marc decided. He comes to my home trying to kill me just because he considers me a monster... I suppose that's exactly what I did to the goblins, but this is no time for moral judgments. I'll put an end to him right here.
Marc tensed in an attack stance, determined to end the duel. He leaned his torso forward, channeling Wind Magic into his legs to propel himself like a projectile and cleave the assassin in a single stroke. However, sensing the energy fluctuation, the stranger shifted with a celerity that even Marc's eyes struggled to follow. He used the cabin's structure as cover, vanishing from his line of sight in a blink.
The assassin leaped from the roof, dropping like a hawk to surprise him from above. Marc, whose instincts had sharpened in the forest, read the move: he stepped back and traced an upward arc with the Ice Sword, attempting to trap the attacker in a blast of frost. With supernatural precision, the man dodged the chill mid-air, appearing to dematerialize for a fleeting second.
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain gripped his right ribs. Marc looked down, dumbfounded: a knife was embedded there. He hadn't seen the exact moment of the throw. Almost simultaneously, an identical sting tore into his back. The man's speed and stealth were suffocating him.
Reacting out of pure survival instinct, Marc activated his Magic Barrier. A third knife, destined for his left ribs, struck the translucent dome with a metallic clink and bounced off harmlessly. That second of breathing room allowed him to locate the assassin, who was already circling behind him, just at the edge of his peripheral vision.
"That's cheating," the assassin uttered. His voice held no surprise, only a cold, professional reproach.
Marc roared in frustration and swung another arc of frost toward the stranger's position, but once again, he struck only empty air. The pain from the daggers in his body began to radiate a stinging fire that blurred his vision; his fingers lost their strength, and the sword nearly flew from his hands.
With a groan of pain, Marc gripped the knife embedded in his ribs and ripped it out in one sharp motion. Without wasting a second, he raised his hand over his head and conjured a controlled burst of Wind Magic to drive out the dagger wedged in his back. The pain was searing, but adrenaline kept his mind afloat; losing sight of his opponent, even for a blink, meant the end.
The assassin threw two smoke bombs that shattered against Marc's barrier, releasing a dense gray cloud that neutralized his vision. Marc summoned the wind again to disperse the artificial curtain, but the brief instant of blindness was enough: the enemy had vanished. Marc scanned the clearing with a desperate gaze, searching for any hint of movement.
Suddenly, a hum and a shift in the air pressure warned him from above. Once again, the assassin attacked from the heights, but this time he didn't throw steel; he threw himself. Marc barely managed to interpose his Ice Sword to block the main impact, but the young warrior was faster. With terrifying skill, the stranger released one hand to slash directly at Marc's neck. The steel bit into the flesh; Marc didn't manage to dodge completely, receiving a cut that missed his jugular by mere millimeters.
Marc's response was instinctive: his left hand ignited with Fire Magic, and a point-blank blast of flame caught the attacker's face.
The assassin let out a hissing cry and recoiled swiftly, covering his face. The impact of the fire forced him to shed his mask, revealing a surprisingly young appearance; he looked no more than twenty years old. Marc froze for a second. That boy possessed a lethal precision that can only be achieved after countless kills. He must have started in that trade almost from childhood. Marc then realized the grim reality: had it not been for Silas's hellish training, his head would already be rolling on the grass.
"My knives contain a potent poison. You should already be dead or, at the very least, severely weakened. You are a monster," the assassin spat, pain contorting his burnt face.
Good luck with that. Amir made me immune to poison, and now I'm more grateful for it than ever, Marc thought with a bitter sense of relief.
"But it doesn't matter. You are a difficult prey, but that won't change the fact that I will end you," the youth continued, his expression shifting into pure rage while his eyes regained a glacial determination.
Marc, maintaining a calm forged through pain, invoked his Healing Magic. Before the stranger's eyes, his wounds closed and healed completely in a heartbeat. It was a deliberate demonstration of power; a way to show him the futilidad of his attacks. An expression of total incredulidad and shock spread across the assassin's scorched face.
"You must understand that the only reason I've been at a disadvantage is because I forced myself to use the sword as part of my training," Marc declared coldly. "But I will not lose to you if I decide to use my full potential. Surrender and leave now; you don't have to die."
The assassin hesitated. For a brief second, terror flickered in his gaze, but it was quickly replaced by that same cold, suicidal defiance.
"I won't surrender. I never have," the youth replied. "We are not allowed to. It is our honor as assassins: you either finish the job or you end up dead. There is no retreat."
"Fine, it's your choice," Marc said. His face turned fearsome, and his eyes glowed with a blinding intensity. "I had no intention of killing you; I have never sought human blood. You started this fight... but I will end it."
Marc shifted the flow of the artifact, invoking the Magma Sword once again. Instantly, a vibrant, scorching aura enveloped his body: he had activated Enhancement Magic just as Silas had taught him. He launched his attack, intent on settling the duel immediately. He swung the blade with terrifying speed and precision; he now seemed like an entirely different combatant, as if he possessed decades of experience in the art of steel.
The assassin struggled desperately to dodge, but Marc's new celerity was suffocating him. The flames caught him on multiple occasions, charring his flesh in several spots. The youth could take no more; the excruciating pain of the burns and Marc's relentless siege had broken him. Tears of helplessness welled up in his eyes. He knew this was his end. He resigned himself and bowed his head, awaiting the blow.
Marc drove the magma blade through the assassin's chest. Searing flames, born from the sword's core, expanded through the youth's body, enveloping him completely and incinerating him almost instantly. His body was reduced to a handful of smoldering ashes.
Marc stopped the magical flow of the artifact; the blade contracted and vanished with a residual hiss, leaving once again a simple metal handle in his hand. He stood in silence, contemplating the charred remains that the wind was beginning to scatter.
I did it again, Marc thought. My magical power is truly fearsome, worthy of the demon I now am. Strangely, on this occasion, I am calmer than when I massacred the goblins. I am beginning to get used to killing.
"Well done. You struggled at first, but you managed it skillfully in the end. You made balanced use of both magic and steel," Silas stated from behind him.
Marc was in no mood for pedagogical lessons.
"Why didn't you just stop him when he reached the temple?" Marc questioned, his voice hollow. "It wouldn't have cost you anything to neutralize him."
"Because it was the ideal opportunity for you to put what you've learned into practice. This assassin was far more skilled and lethal than any goblin horde," Silas replied with his habitual didactic coldness.
"Does everything have to be a test with you?" Marc's voice reflected a mix of exhaustion and a deep melancholy.
Silas caught the nuance.
"A single assassin will be the least of your worries once you begin your journey. You will encounter people like him constantly. Your demon appearance will bring you trouble in any territory; many will want your head simply for the sight of your horns, without granting you the benefit of the doubt. It is a bitter reality, but it is yours. Sooner or later, you would have to kill a human. It is better that it happened here, where you can process it calmly."
"It's late and I'm exhausted," Marc cut in, avoiding the weight of those words. "It's time for you to leave. I need to rest for tomorrow's training."
"You can take the day off tomorrow," Silas offered, in an unusual gesture of consideration. "As compensation for making you fight today."
"No. We resume training at dawn. I'll be ready early," Marc replied, walking toward the cabin without looking back.
"I see. I suppose that is my cue to leave," Silas concluded, invoking a teleportation magic that instantly returned him to his hut.
Marc entered the cabin, feeling the weight of fatigue in every bone. I almost died today, he thought, touching the fresh scar on his neck. I was millimeters from the end. I can't be overconfident. His destiny was tied to an event a hundred years away, but death respected no timelines if one was careless. From tomorrow on, no more complaining. I will train with everything I have.
Instead of collapsing into bed, Marc lit a lamp, picked up a heavy tome, and sat at the table. He began to read, underlining and taking meticulous notes on every relevant piece of information that could serve as a shield in the future. His mind, though exhausted, refused to shut down; it sought in knowledge a new form of defense. His determination to live the best life possible and survive his own legend now shone with a renewed intensity. He was determined.