Supreme Swordfiend

Across the Myriad Worlds, conflict is the prevailing way of life. From the lowest form of conflict, man against man, all the way up to the highest, those grand wars between factions strong enough to dominate entire galaxies, one rule is immutable- none can escape from conflict once they are drawn in. It is like a vicious whirlpool, that grinds the weak to dust and polishes the strong into shining diamonds.

Still, what would a rule be without an exception? The planetary body designated by the System as Cyrushia housed one such exception. It was largely unremarkable, a pitifully weak world capping out at the late [H] Grade, playing host to a standard assortment of warring native nations, each one vying for resources and territory. No greater powers wasted their time on such a weak world, invasion and colonisation efforts would be better spent elsewhere.

Largely unremarkable is not entirely unremarkable however. On a secluded island, far from the main continents of Cyrushia, there stood a peaceful village. There were no dungeons on the island, no monsters. The islanders would live their lives never gaining a Class, living in idyllic harmony with the natural world.

There were some among these villagers, the younger ones, those who were not yet adults but not quite teenagers who dreamed of more. Of glory and purpose. They would make the pilgrimage to the centre of the island, ready to test themselves against the ancestral trial.

The mountain. That was always how the elders referred to it, in hushed tones when they thought the children had all gone to bed. An earthen spire rising from the ground, scraping the sky and piercing through the clouds. There was a staircase cut into the hard rock. Were this its only feature it would have been a curiosity, a marvel but no more than that.

The true trial lay not in the climbing of this peak but in passing through the swords that littered the mountain's base. To even approach the first step of the mountain's staircase required one to walk across a carpet of blades, thick enough to rise above one's knees.

Injuries were common, deaths rarer but still possible when those who were clumsy or easily panicked entered and slipped up. The trial takers accepted these risks, the reward promised too great to pass up on.

Layla had not wanted to take the trial. She had come with her friends, to watch the brave and foolish boys compete, to watch them take a few steps into the blade fields then come running back, legs nicked and sliced by the numerous weapons. She thought she would leave the mountain as Layla, another village girl, live out her life, get married and raise a family. A simple life, but a fulfilling one.

Instead everything changed for Layla when she decided to use [Inspect] on one of the many rusted and broken blades surrounding her.

"Failure 1,345,987,256- A failed creation. This blade was deemed incapable of serving its purpose and was discarded by the smith who forged it, joining its brethren below.

Requirements- Unable to display, strength exceeds bounds of [Inspect]"

That sparked her curiosity, her inspections leading to her discovering an interesting fact. Every blade littering the mountain's base bore that name. Failure.

Her curiosity was now a raging fire and it compelled her to try and reach the staircase. Were the blades further up the mountain also considered failures?

They had called out to stop her, the other girls she'd been with. She hadn't heard them. Wading into the river of swords not a single blade nicked against her skin, no blood was spilled and soon she was upon the staircase, beginning the ascent.

Failure, after failure. Their names never changed, though no two blades were alike in shape or size. Higher and higher Layla climbed, her legs burning, her breathing ragged and short as the air thinned out the higher she ascended, each breath more strenuous than the last.

It might have been an hour or merely ten minutes, Layla couldn't tell, so focused was she on mentally recording every blade she passed, the only way she could mark her progress was by the steadily decreasing number following the blade's name.

Failure 1,000,901.

Failure 600,050.

Failure 10,200.

Failure 1,337.

Failure 142.

Failure 10.

That snapped her out of her daze, as she took in her surroundings. The staircase was gone. She had reached the peak of the mountain, a level plateau with the first ten Failure blades buried into the ground before her in a circle. Past them, a short distance away, lay a small cottage, quaint and rustic, slightly decrepit in an old and well worn way. Like a favoured garment, one fraying and thin with age but held together by its wearer's love and care.

The true investment of the owner appeared to have been in the larger building to the side, billowing smoke into the air.

Unlike the cottage this building's doors were wide open, a young man at work hammering a blade, sweat glistening on his bare chest. Sparks flew from the blade as he hammered, his bronzed skin seemingly immune to the sparks his hammer swings produced.

The bronze man turned, quenching his sword in the prepared water barrel, meeting Layla's eyes just as the girl collapsed, the trek to the top having robbed her of her stamina and brought her to the point of exhaustion.

She stirred hours later, snippets of a conversation entering her ears.

"...she arrived unaided and unwounded master, I can swear to this."

"Forgive my scepticism apprentice, it is merely unusual. A woman making the climb is a rare occurrence. Rarer still, one does it alone. For her to have the gift as well? Unseen in all my years here."

The younger man's voice hardened at that.

"Your intent is to reject her then master?"

"Calm yourself apprentice. As it was with you, so shall it be for her. Should she accept this will be your final year here. Forge me a truly strong blade apprentice, one to remember you by and this old man will finally let you out to roam the Myriad Worlds."

"Thank you master- I will begin at once."

Exhaustion sunk its hooked talons back into Layla's drained body, dragging her back to sleep, what little energy she'd had spent on listening to the two men speak.

When next she woke she had the energy to open her eyes, taking in the cosy room she was inside, wrapped in thick blankets within a warm bed. The old man sat on a rocking chair, just across from her, a bowl in his hands, filled with water.

He noticed that she'd woken and before she could begin her questions he arrived at her side and brought the bowl to her lips, a simple command was all the conversation she received.

"Drink."

She took in his appearance while she did so, the cool water soothing and quenching a thirst she hadn't even felt.

He was old, hair greying, though its colour still showed, a fair brown verging towards ginger, each strand shining with a coppery tinge when they caught the light. His face was kind. A strange descriptor but that was all Layla could ascribe to the man, he had the countenance of an old grandpa, the type of man who'd lived long enough to cast off petty concerns, left with only one- his family.

His visage was unfortunately marred by a bevy of scars. These were not battle scars or the lingering reminders of mistakes made whilst shaving that some of the younger men in the village bore. These were hideous jagged lines that flowed up from his neck, over his jaw and up through his eyes, vanishing into his hairline. Layla believed they would continue, down his head and onto his back. They were unnatural. Scarification on a body wide scale.

"Noticed my marks have you? A powerful blessing, yet all power has a price young one."

The bowl ran dry and Layla moved to speak, halted this time by the man's raised hand. The scars were there too she noticed, each finger covered in flowing white lines, marking old wounds.

"Before you ask your questions, we must settle a matter. You have ascended to my humble abode, unmarked by failure and with the requisite talents I require. I make you an offer. Become my apprentice, learn the art of forging from me. While you dwell here the ravages of time will not touch you, you will not age a single day while under my care. In exchange you abandon your old life. By the time you meet my standards and are fit to call yourself a smith, everyone you knew will have been dead for millennia. Take your time, this old man can afford to wait."

Layla didn't need to consider. Everyone in the village knew the legends. To ascend to the peak was to be given the opportunity to become a true power, one that could shake the world. To learn from an immortal being, an ageless master who had called the island home well before Layla's village had even existed.

"No need to consider, Layla greets you honoured master."

The old man looked upon the bowed over girl, still bound in blankets and propped up against the bed's headboard and laughed.

"What tales are they spreading in that village, to have you agreeing like that! Rest today then my apprentice, tomorrow your training begins."

So it was, that Layla became Number 7, her master decreeing that 'an apprentice bears no name'. She was taught only the basics- smelting, forging and quenching. Then her master had proclaimed that 'each apprentice develops their own techniques', leaving her to her own devices.

She forged for that first year alongside Number 6, the man instructing her when he had free time. At the end of the year he succeeded in producing a true masterwork of a straight sword alongside a monstrous greatsword he dubbed Bladeless. Her master decried the second blade as an utter failure, selling it to the System before laughing and pulling the man into a hug, pleased his apprentice had flourished into a true smith. Layla privately agreed that it had been a truly foolish blade, but one that suited her fellow apprentice's ostentatious style.

The years bled together as Layla refined her craft, forging and forging over and over, seeking to create a blade that was worthy of the System's notice. There were no interruptions, no outside stimuli to distract her from her goal. Most yielded no information when inspected, her master declaring that this was normal and it would take her at least a decade to forge her first true work.

He still refused to instruct her in the art of the forge, but in the art of the blade? Her master demanded she improve, Layla's skill growing to keep up with his stringent demands.

Soon her labours bore fruit- a rapier, one worthy of the System's approval. In less than a decade she had succeeded! Her arrogance bloomed, surely she was the greatest apprentice the master had ever taken on! When she'd shown him the blade, he'd remarked it was passable then sold it, reminding her that this was only the first step on her journey. To remember that before she reached the same skill as Number 6, she would be best served by remaining humble.

Every year she would be permitted to watch her master forge a single blade, the latest attempt at his masterpiece. He would enter with high hopes each year only to produce another Failure. She would watch in silence as her master dropped each one off the mountain side, his anger leading him to spend weeks away from the mountain peak before he would return, his temper cooled.

It was as a new integration round began and she was permitted a day to herself to watch the highlight reels she spotted something.

A blade, clearly of her master's design. Like a prototype of a prototype of the swords he dubbed Failures, wielded by a man with a passing resemblance to her master. A bastard child perhaps?

Layla was shocked to see him exhibit no emotion when she brought it to his attention, her master merely telling her to forget it and that he would deal with this himself.

Layla was more surprised on the following day, to see the man wielding her senior apprentice's personal failure- Bladeless- with some passing skill. Fate worked in mysterious ways- just what relation did that man have to her master to receive two blades related to him?

The master left that day, returning with a devil in tow, the black skinned humanoid stinking of sulphur and clad in a three piece suit.

"Pleasure to be doin business with ya Mister Sha, lemme tell ya, my dad says this kid is red hot- he's electric. Zerasos'd be here to close this out normally but y'know Tutorial restrictions are a pain in the ass to get around. You won't regret offering to tutor him, kid's dead set on learning to forge."

"Ah, I'm afraid it won't be this old man who enters- my identity may draw unwelcome attention to the boy- my apprentice will be going in my stead."

"She any good?"

"[F] Grade, more than good enough to teach a little [H] Grade don't you agree?"

"Alright, fair enough."

Turning to extend his hand to Layla, the devil vigorously shook it, pressing a thin stone tablet into her hands while doing so.

"Pleasure ta meet ya toots, Xeraxians the name, wheeling and dealings the game. Our guy won't qualify for your help for a bit yet, but my dad always says to get your ducks in a row early. Now, I got meeting on Cromidia-9 to get to- hashing out merchandising agreements. Fucking Cromidians, you give 'em an inch they'll take ten miles! Mr Sha, you have our number, anytime any place, any issues you just give us a call, okay?"

A puff of smoke and the devil was gone.

"Master, I don't mean to be rude but what the fuck is going on?"

Her master let out a long suffering sigh before he spoke.

"Sit down young apprentice. This concerns that boy you brought to my attention. He is of particular interest to me. I will need you to enter the Tutorial, tutor him in my stead. I will not force you to go apprentice, you would be doing this old man a greater favour than you can possibly know."

"I'll go- on one condition."

"Name it."

"My name- you have to call me Layla when I get back, not apprentice or Number 7."

He laughed, that same laugh he'd used all those years ago when she'd first accepted him as her master.

"You really love surprising me don't you- deal!"

Leon Knox was none the wiser to these deals being struck as he eyed down a hungry carnotaurus, unaware of just how much turmoil the day had in store for him.