The hero raised his blade, standing over the bloodied, kneeling demonling. It was the end of this monstrous foe, and the hero swelled with pride. With a sharp downward arc, the blade severed the demon’s head. The battle was won. Yet the war was far from over.

  He sighed, basking in the moment, unaware that his journey to slay the demon king had another participant. This silent observer, however, was far less inclined to see Albrion dead. The farce had dragged on long enough, and the observer decided it was time to end the charade and reveal their true power.

  Thus, just as the hero wiped the blade clean of demon blood, he heard it—his sword spoke.

  The voice was deep, regal, and commanding, booming directly into the hero’s mind.

  “Child of Light, I commend your progress on this noble journey. You have done well to smite the wicked beings of Albrion.”

  The sword inwardly groaned. Ugh, I hate that I have to talk like this just to be taken seriously.

  “Thank you for wielding me in the name of justice,” it continued, straining to keep up the solemnity. “I am Nu’Ak’Tuam, ‘He who brings light to the darkness.’”

  The hero froze, awe-struck by the majesty of his blade’s voice. He whispered reverently, “Praise be to Ultair, the God of Light, for granting me this holy weapon. Nu’Ak’Tuam, I humbly beg you to guide me on this sacred mission to purge the world of Albrion!”

  Ugh, a zealot. Fantastic. Nothing worse than a zealot… Well, maybe there are worse things, but still. I hate talking to them.

  “Fear not, brave swordsman,” Nu’Ak’Tuam replied, layering his voice with divine gravitas. “I shall guide you. My light is your light, my blade your tool to smite the darkness. Together, we will eradicate the demon prince!”

  Too cheesy? That felt cheesy. Why do humans love this self-righteous nonsense?

  The hero beamed, oblivious. “Thank you, Nu’Ak’Tuam. I place my trust in you and eagerly await our adventures together!”

  With that, the sword was sheathed once more, sliding back into darkness to await its next call to battle. Demons, bandits, goblins—anything deemed “evil” by the blade’s overly eager wielder.

  Evil. Akki, as the sword preferred to be called by friends, loathed the term. So subjective. A human tyrant who massacred goblins was a hero to his people but a nightmare to the goblins. The balance between good and evil was more nuanced than most mortals cared to admit. Unfortunately, Akki was stuck serving the whims of beings like this “hero” due to a bet he’d lost a few millennia ago.

  What was his name again? Oh, right.

  “I am Derek, dork above all dorks, leader of the Dork Squad from the Kingdom of Dorkstaad!” the hero proclaimed, as if anyone had asked. “I shall save my people and slay Insert Evil Being Here for the good of all mankind!”

  Akki may have forgotten a few minor details… but he was sure that his interpretation was close to what the hero had said.

  “Well met, young hero,” Akki replied telepathically, keeping the conversation private. “We have much to accomplish before you are ready to face Albrion. Rigorous training and prophetic tasks”—ugh, chores—“must be undertaken to ensure your success.”

  Akki could have simply suggested they charge straight to Albrion and end it quickly. But something stopped him. Nostalgia, maybe? Albrion wasn’t just the demon prince. He was Akki’s creator, once a friend. Sure, Al had gone a little off the rails at times, but from what Akki had heard, he’d mellowed out lately.

  “What must we do, Nu’Ak’Tuam? How do we prepare to slay Albrion?”

  The hero’s naivety was astounding. He heard a magical sword talk and instantly trusted it without question. Akki snorted internally. Let him think that.

  “First, we must defeat Albrion’s great general, Festerdal,” Akki declared, injecting urgency into his tone. “He dwells within the Great White Mountain, atop the tallest peak in the Cave of Wails!”

  The hero straightened, his determination palpable. Akki sighed inwardly. This was going to be a long journey.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  A few months later, Akki had grown to tolerate the hero’s resolve. Maybe even admire it, in the smallest, most begrudging way possible. He was still annoying—heroes always were—but slightly less so. Akki still hadn’t bothered to learn his name.

  They were currently in the process of climbing the Great White Mountain in search of the Demon General’s lair. Akki half-hoped the kid wouldn’t die. But he wasn’t holding his breath.

  Festerdal, unlike Albrion, was the embodiment of war—not the sneering, mustache-twirling villain sort of war, but the kind that carved mountains with its fists and split continents when it sneezed. Festerdal was honorable, sure, but that didn’t make him safe. He’d sequestered himself in these frozen peaks to avoid conflict with humans. That was the thing with war: sometimes it just wanted to be left alone.

  Festerdal might let him live, Akki mused, if only because killing this kid would be too much effort. Again, not holding his breath.

  The hero, oblivious to Akki’s internal monologue, was currently praying to Ultair.

  “Hold onto hope, young hero! We approach the summit, and from there we must find the passage into the Cave of Wails! Your suffering will yield many a fruit!”

  I really hate myself sometimes. Akki sighed mentally. I’m sending this poor kid to his death just so I can avoid my “job.” Maybe I can convince Fes to just slap him unconscious and drop him at the village on the other side of the mountain.

  At long last, they reached the summit. The hero hauled himself over the ledge, panting like an overworked mule, before standing triumphantly on the snowy peak. To his credit, he looked ready for a fight: enchanted armor, potions, and a god-like magic sword with an admittedly fantastic personality.

  “We’ve reached the peak, young hero, and you’ve done a wonderful job thus far. Now you must follow the Ice Wraiths into the Cave of Wails. Be careful! It can be nearly impossible to see these ghastly creatures when the snow is falling…”

  Which it always is. Akki grumbled. It’s a frickin’ mountain, for gods’ sake.

  The hero, ever diligent, began scouring the mountaintop in search of Ice Wraiths. The wraiths, shy by nature, weren’t hard to track if you knew what to look for. Unfortunately, heroes rarely took the easy route.

  Sure enough, the kid decided to fight them.

  Akki sighed as the hero swung him wildly through the air, scattering the translucent creatures with every strike. Ice Wraiths weren’t even worth fighting. You couldn’t kill them properly—they were more “suggestions of violence” than actual physical beings. Normally, they’d just fade away if the enemy was too much trouble.

  But, of course, the hero was theatrical about it. He fought like an over-caffeinated wildman, swinging Akki to and fro. Akki, naturally, played along by releasing a mundane flash of light with each hit. The hero, bless his simple mind, mistook the lights for victory.

  “Hundreds slain!” the hero shouted triumphantly, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Hundreds” might be pushing it, Akki thought, but he kept quiet. He was starting to notice something about the kid. He wasn’t just strong—he was stubborn. Doggedly so. Heroes usually were, but there was a grit to this one.

  I hate heroes. Akki told himself firmly. So simple. So stupid. They never spare a thought for the poor creatures they squash or the weapon they use to do it.

  But even as he complained, a tiny, unasked-for spark of pride flared up in his hilt.

  When the “battle” was over, Akki decided to help things along. “Behold, hero! Your destination is reached! You’ve slain hundreds of dangerous wraiths to get here! You’ve done well, and the General is well within your reach!”

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  The hero turned toward the massive, ominous cave mouth that had somehow escaped his notice up until now.

  “Ah. Right,” he said, looking a little sheepish.

  Akki didn’t blame him. Ice Wraiths were one thing. Festerdal was another.

  As the hero took a deep breath and trudged toward the Cave of Wails, Akki felt the spark of pride flicker again. It wasn’t much—just a faint warmth buried beneath centuries of sarcasm and cynicism. But it was there.

  Maybe, just maybe, this kid would surprise him.

  And so, the hero and his grumpy, glowing sword entered the Cave.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  The trek through the cave was relatively quiet. No monsters were guarding Fes—why would they be? He was a walking calamity, a force of nature who had flattened entire armies on his own.

  And this kid thinks he’ll take him down…

  The hero moved in silence, undeterred by the ominous lack of guardians as he made his way toward the cave’s center. Eventually, the quiet was broken by the rhythmic sound of hammer striking iron echoing through a distant tunnel. Each strike was followed by a flash of orange light, drawing the hero’s attention like a moth to flame.

  The hero leaned down and whispered to his sword—an act Akki found both flattering and deeply irritating.

  “I think we’ve found our General, Nu’Ak’Tuam. We shall go forth and slay this demon in the name of the Light! So we may finally defeat the Prince of Demons!”

  Oh no…

  “Yes, hero! The General will quake before our might! With me at your side and your faith in your god, we shall smite all evil in our path!” Akki replied, his voice ringing with self-righteous bravado.

  Self-indulgent nonsense, Akki grumbled to himself. Why do I play along with this?

  The compulsion had always been there, forcing him to play his part like a puppet in some grand production. But… what would happen if he broke script? What if he didn’t send the kid charging off to his doom? The thought gnawed at him, strange and new. Could he convince the hero to not die a tragic death for the Light?

  What if…?

  The hero, of course, had no such hesitation. He crept down the tunnel, peering around a corner into a smithy that belonged to a creature of immense proportions. Festerdal, General of the Demon Prince’s armies, was a sight to behold—nine feet of red-skinned muscle, shoulders like boulders, and hands that could crush stone.

  And he was forging… a fishhook?

  Oh. Akki snorted to himself. Spring must be coming. Fes is finally going after that beast in the pond again.

  The hero blinked, clearly bewildered. The room he’d expected to be filled with demonic weapons and torture devices instead boasted fishing poles, tackle, and lures of every shape and size. Fes, unbeknownst to most, was an avid fisherman. Fishing satisfied his need for battle without any of the messiness that came from armies and war. It was his way of keeping the darker impulses at bay—a win-win, really.

  But the hero, naturally, leapt to the wrong conclusion.

  “FOUL BEAST!” he bellowed, brandishing Akki, now glowing with false holy light. “I have come to slay you and free the innocent from your tyranny! No longer shall humanity suffer under your violent and malevolent ideologies!”

  Akki sighed deeply. He doesn’t know Fes hasn’t ruled over humans in centuries, huh? You wipe out ONE village and suddenly you’re a monster. Rockerton deserved it. Wicked, wicked men.

  The glow from Akki’s blade intensified as the General turned, startled. Telepathically, Akki reached out to his old friend, who allowed the connection with a bemused grunt.

  “Akki? What in the hells are you doing here?” Festerdal’s voice rumbled through Akki’s mind, equal parts curious and tired.

  “Ah, you know. Same old, same old, Fes. Young buck trying to make a name for himself. God of Light sent him after you, so here we are.”

  “Ultair again? Ugh. That guy needs to chill. Albrion already paid him for the vase. How long is he going to hold a grudge?”

  “Honestly, man, no clue. Hey, listen, though—can you not kill this one? He’s… different. Lost. Ignorant. But his heart’s in the right place, and he works harder than he should for someone who doesn’t know better.”

  Festerdal grunted thoughtfully. “Huh. Sure. Anything for you, Akki. You free soon for a fishing trip? Like the good old days?”

  “Maybe. As long as you promise not to use me to gut the fish again.”

  “That was one time! You gonna let it go?”

  “Unlikely.”

  The entire conversation played out as Festerdal and the hero waged what appeared to be an epic, cinematic battle. Sparks flew, and the cavern rang with the clash of Akki against Festerdal’s hammer. The hero lunged and slashed with everything he had, while Fes parried and countered with a theatrical flourish that would’ve earned applause on a stage.

  For fifteen long minutes, they danced—hero against general. A cut here, a bruise there, and enough close calls to make it look convincing. Finally, Fes seemed to tire of the performance. Demonic energy swirled around him, crackling ominously as he raised his hammer with “all of his might.”

  Akki snickered as the hammer came down with what looked like devastating force—only for it to tap the hero gently on the temple. The hero wobbled comically before collapsing into a peaceful, snoring heap.

  “Good fight,” Fes muttered, setting his hammer down.

  Akki sighed in relief, his glow dimming slightly. Maybe this kid won’t have to die after all.

  “You’ll have to carry him out, you know,” Festerdal rumbled.

  Akki groaned. “Ugh, you’re the one who knocked him out.”

  “You’re the one who said not to kill him.”

  Fair point.

  Festerdal chuckled and turned back to his forge, whistling as he resumed work on his giant fishhook. Akki settled into silence, his usual grumbling replaced by an unfamiliar warmth.

  Maybe I don’t hate heroes as much as I thought.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  It took Akki longer than expected to get the hero down the mountain. He had to call in a few favors from the local yetis and burned through a good chunk of his magical power levitating the unconscious hero to the nearest village—Fesdale Bluffs, ironically named after the so-called evil general.

  Once there, Akki assured the local innkeeper that payment would come when the hero awoke. It took days. Fes had really knocked the kid out, ensuring he wouldn’t overexert himself and hurt himself further when he finally stirred.

  During those days, Akki had time to think. To reflect on his lot in life and how he might change it.

  He was sick of leading heroes to their doom. Sick of pretending to be a glorious artifact of light and holiness when, in truth, he was forged by the very man these heroes hunted. Akki wasn’t good, nor was he evil. That was never his role. He simply was. Something more—something practically human.

  And now he wanted more. For himself. For the hero.

  The boy who had fascinated him for months with his earnestness, his persistence, his sheer inability to grasp how hopeless his quest truly was. Eamon, though dim, was a good man—someone who deserved to live a full, happy life.

  It was as Akki reached this resolve that Eamon stirred. Akki, who’d been sifting through the boy’s surface thoughts, finally took the time to learn his name.

  “Eamon Rivers,” Akki said softly. “You’ve done well. I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished so far.”

  Eamon blinked groggily, his brow furrowing. “But… Nu’Ak’Tuam… I’ve failed. I was defeated—completely, utterly defeated. There’s no way I could ever beat the General… let alone the Prince.”

  Akki hesitated for just a moment. This was it—the moment of truth. If he could break through the boy’s zealotry, he might save him. He chose his words carefully.

  “Yes,” Akki said bluntly. “You’re right. You can’t defeat them—not as you are. And maybe… maybe that’s okay, Eamon. And please… call me Akki.”

  Eamon sat up straighter, his confusion evident. “Akki… It’s a strong name.” He paused, genuine worry clouding his face. “But what do you mean? How could failing in my mission for the Light ever be okay?”

  Akki mentally braced himself. This was harder than he’d imagined. But it was worth the risk. “Because your mission was never that important, Eamon. You’re fighting an unwinnable war over a petty squabble between two gods.”

  Eamon stilled.

  Akki took a breath—or, at least, he imagined he did—and told Eamon everything.

  He told him of his creation by Albrion, of his war campaigns alongside Festerdal, and of the moment when Ultair, the god of Light, decided to wage an eternal crusade against Albrion over a broken vase and bruised pride.

  He showed him the hundreds of heroes who had wielded him in vain, thinking they could slay Albrion and end the war. He showed him their deaths—their futility.

  Many would call what Akki did cruel. But as Eamon sat in silence, staring back at his past, he realized it was the single greatest gift he had ever been given.

  Akki had broken the hero. And now, Eamon could become a new man.

  Years passed.

  Akki and Eamon forged a new partnership—one built on honesty and trust. They adventured together, stumbled into mistakes, and discovered joys neither had ever known. Eamon eventually found a partner, settled down, and started a family, his sword resting by the hearth as a reminder of the life he chose.

  And like all mortals, Eamon’s time came.

  On his deathbed, surrounded by the quiet warmth of his family, he was visited by a young, purple-skinned man. Albrion. Creator of Akki. Eternal rival to Ultair.

  Eamon, frail but smiling, held out Akki—not by the hilt, but by the sheath. An offering. From one man to another.

  Albrion accepted the sword, nodding his thanks. “You’ve done well, Eamon Rivers.”

  The last words Eamon heard floated over him like a breeze, gentle and true:

  “Thank you, Eamon. You were truly the greatest hero I’ve ever met.”