Liam felt the Focusing Crystal as a cold, hard weight in his pocket, a tangible reminder of the covenant of faith that now bound him.
He walked the corridors feeling less empowered than he did owned. The echo of the acolytes' tears and the High Priestess's blind gaze seemed to follow him.
He found Lilith waiting for him outside his chambers.
She took one look at his face—the lingering shadow of a spiritual hangover—and her lips quirked into a knowing, almost sympathetic smile.
"You look like you're returning straight from a funeral," she remarked, falling into step beside him without asking where he was going.
"Something like that," Liam muttered, the phantom weight of the crystal feeling heavier.
"Good. It means you're taking it seriously. But now," she said, steering him down a branching corridor he'd never used, "we address a more tangible, and frankly, more fun, problem."
"And what's that?"
"Your complete and utter lack of a decent prop."
He shot her a look. "A prop?"
"A Demon God does not go to war empty-handed," she stated, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. "You can't just strut around the battlefield and throw fire at people until they disintegrate."
Liam raised a brow "I can't? Cause I planned to."
"It's undignified." Lilith shook her head "You need a symbol. An icon. Something that looks devastating in a painting."
She led him to a pair of colossal doors that seemed to be carved from a single, petrified leviathan's skull. With a touch of her hand and a whisper of ancient magic, they swung inward, groaning with the weight of epochs.
The Royal Armory, a cathedral of violence.
It hit them first.
Cold still air that reeked of polished metal, and the scent of spilled divinity and cursed pacts. Weapons and artifacts rested on pedestals and in crystal cases, each carrying a unique, malevolent energy.
"Behold," Lilith said, sweeping a hand grandly. "The family heirlooms."
Liam's eyes widened.
A massive, double-headed axe, its haft carved from a beast spine, seemed to whisper of genocides against celestial armies.
A slender, wickedly curved dagger floated in a vacuum-sealed sphere, a captured nebula swirling in its blade.
"This is…"
"Proof of our poor impulse control and excellent taste in enemies," Lilith finished. "Now, pick one."
He walked slowly through the aisles, the Cognitor passively feeding him data.
[Artifact: World-Sunderer.
Axe of the Tyrant King Malakor.
+500% Cleaving Power.
Side Effect: Slowly consumes the wielder's memories of joy.]
"Too on the nose," Liam said, shaking his head at the monstrous axe.
"Nonsense, it's a classic!"
"It literally eats your happiness, Lilith."
"A small price for cleaving a fortress in two!"
He moved on. A beautiful, pale longsword rested on a velvet cushion, its blade looking like solidified moonlight.
[Artifact: Lament of the Fallen Archon. Channels sorrow into cutting force.
Emits a psychic aura of despair.]
"It's a bit… emo," Liam commented.
Lilith rolled her eyes. "It felled a seraphim. But fine, your majesty, if you're too sensitive."
They bickered their way through the collection. A flail made of linked, screaming skulls was "tacky."
A whip that could split the ground was "high maintenance." A spear that never missed its target was "hard to retrieve and lacking in theatrical flair."
It was comfortable, this back-and-forth.
Then he saw it.
Tucked away in a corner, almost as an afterthought, was a simple black longsword.
It had no glow, no hum, no ornate carvings.
Its crossguard was a plain bar of darkened iron, its pommel an unadorned sphere. The blade was a flat, non-reflective black that seemed to swallow the light of the armory.
It was the antithesis of every other weapon here.
Liam reached for it.
[Artifact: Igar's Shard.
Property: Utterly Unbreakable.
Property: Perfect Magical Conduit.
History: Forged by the silent smith Igar, who believed a weapon should be an extension of will, not a crutch for it.]
His fingers closed around the leather-bound hilt. It was perfectly balanced, feeling less like a tool and more like a natural extension of his own arm.
It was cool to the touch, but not cold. It was… waiting.
"This one," Liam said, his voice firm.
Lilith came over, peering at the unassuming blade. "Igar's Shard? It's… plain. It doesn't do anything."
"That's the point," he said, giving it an experimental swing. It cut through the air without a whisper. "It's a blank slate. The others… they have someone else's story etched into them. This one has none. It's just a vessel." He met her gaze. "My power is the performance. This will just be the stage."
A slow smile of understanding spread across Lilith's face.
"You don't want a weapon with a legend. You want to make your own...I like it."
As his grip tightened on the hilt, something shifted. The Cognitor, triggered by his intent and the sword's perfect conductive nature, didn't show him a future, but a simulation.
A vision flashed behind his eyes, crisp and clear.
He stands on a rain-slicked battlefield, Igar's Shard in hand. A Paladin in glowing plate charges, magic blazing.
Liam blinks —a gut-lurching step to the side—and the world flickers. As he reappears, his sword is already moving and coated in a thin, concentrated film of Hell's Flame.
The black blade shears through the enchanted plate, the dark fire sizzling against the holy magic.
The vision vanished.
Liam stood still in the armory, his heart pounding with a thrilling, cold clarity. He looked down at the unadorned black blade in his hand.
He gripped it tighter and he heard nothing – only a quiet that waited for his own sound.
It wasn't just a prop.
He looked at Lilith, a new, dangerous confidence in his grey eyes.
"Yes," he said, his voice quiet and steady. "This is the one."
* Two Days Till Departure *