There stood a clearing around a hundred feet in diameter, enclosed on all sides by massive, looming trees, casting long shadows and only serving to heighten the tense atmosphere.
Near the center of the clearing stood a small group of students aged from their late teens to early twenties. Numbering no more than fifteen, they were dressed in gleaming black uniforms and stood in orderly lines, looking more akin to the shadowy trees that surrounded them than humans. None were talking; indeed, nothing could be heard other than the gentle rustle of the trees in the wind. The tension could clearly be seen in the students’ faces, taut as it was in stone-cold solemnity. However, who could blame them? After all, it was the most important day in their lives.
The Visanya Collective boasts a long and proud history, overcoming much adversity from the realm of monsters they bordered. They gained immense power and renown after the creation of Executioners, their enhanced soldiers, a millennia ago, though none of this is important right now.
What is important, is that the first Executioner wielded the weapon Unmaker: a sword able to annihilate everything in its path, and one which became so cursed with the blood of monsters that it was abandoned, left embedded from the hilt up in a platform in this very clearing.
These students (named Aspirants), who have just completed the Executioner program, have at the end of their training, one very simple task: to pull out the sword and bring about the Collective’s new golden era.
Of course, if it was such a simple task, there would be no need to test generations of Executioners. No, the one to pull out the sword had to meet some special condition, though, no one knows what it could be. It's been debated countless times by scholars with varied theories. What was agreed upon was that the one who pulled out the sword had to be an Executioner, for nothing else could withstand the terrible power of the Unmaker.
I exhaled a silent breath as I surveyed the rest of the Aspirants, finding no solace in the steely, expressionless gaze that marked every one of their faces. Though, as the survivors of the dreaded Executioner program, boasting a mortality rate of almost 99%, it would be a surprise if they looked anything but. I’m sure if I looked into a mirror, I’d see the same gaze staring back at me.
Oddly enough, I did still feel some sliver of emotion in me. It seemed no matter how many horrors I witnessed through that decade-long program, it was impossible to crush that insignificant seed of (nervousness?) in my heart. It could only be because the famed Unmaker lay in front of my eyes.
In just a few minutes, the ceremony would begin. But was I ready? Even if I could not draw the blade, even touching it was enough to make me quail.
Once again, I tried looking at the Aspirants. This time, I caught a few signs of emotions: unsteady breathing and slight perspiration. It seemed even they could get nervous, even if pulling out the Unmaker was a foregone conclusion: the one to do it would be the best of our class, A302, a natural leader and warrior whose bloodline was theorized to be the one destined to wield Unmaker.
And, while A302 is amazing, the rest were nothing to scoff at either. As the only fourteen to survive of the initial thousand, it was expected that each of them were geniuses, excelling in various arts that would prove a great addition to the Collective. And me? I was the most pathetic of the bunch. With no special talent and only above average physical skill and intelligence, I had no claim to be here with the rest of the Aspirants except by fluke. No one expected me to draw the blade, least of all myself.
“A003”
If the atmosphere was tense before, now it was frozen. The first name was called, and an Aspirant strode up to the platform, grasping the hilt and pulling slightly after a small pause. With no change to the sword, she let go and walked back. It was said that the one who would wield the Unmaker would be able to slide it out like butter; putting in effort was unnecessary.
“A689”
The next Aspirant walked out, trying and failing as the first had.
After that, it seemed the names started rattling off one by one. Time seemed to both accelerate and slow as I waited for my turn, my heart hammering in my chest.
But why was it beating? I wasn’t nervous, or excited. I knew I had no hope of pulling out that sword, so what was I feeling? Name after name seemed to be called up, as though there were many more than our small number.
“A999”
All at once, it was as though everyone’s eyes were on me, judging me as I was called up. There wasn’t any open hatred; I was still their comrade. Rather, it was a quiet disdain, telling me that there was no way I could pull out the sword.
Thump. That thought fired something within me. I walked towards the platform, faking a confident stride. I stepped onto the platform, each step coinciding with the beat of my heart.
Thump, thump
I walked closer and closer to the Unmaker. My heart felt like an engine.
Thump, thump
My hand reached for the hilt of the sword, grasping it.
Thump, thump
I forced strength into my body, pulled, and…
Nothing. The sword was as rigid as the platform I stood on.
My vision turned red, and I finally realized what the emotion plaguing me was: I was furious. Not at the rest of the Aspirants, but at myself. This fury was one I had since I began as an Aspirant.
Every day, I had trained till I was coughing blood for what the others could do easily. It wasn’t out of optimism or faith. It was anger. I didn’t understand why I was so much worse than the others, so I punished myself day in and day out to make up for it.
And all that work, all that effort, for this? I didn’t want fame or glory. I just wanted to be better. And yet, was this the extent of my potential?
I knew I couldn’t pull out that blade, but…did that really matter?
I tightened my grip around the handle. I could hear low murmurs in the background, but it was insignificant against the pulsating of my heart.
THUMP, THUMP
If my entire life was for this moment, then why not burn it all away?
I drew a clear breath, and, with every last ounce of my body, pulled. I drew on every single fiber of my enhanced muscles, feeling them shake. I could feel the muscles and tendons in my arms rip, soaking my uniform in blood.
But it didn’t matter.
I pulled even harder, trying to rip out the Unmaker. I could hear my legs crack, the bones breaking and the muscles tearing apart. Once I finished this action, I would never walk again.
But it never mattered.
Every inch of my being was on fire, but my mind was clear. I had only one path, one purpose. Anything else was unnecessary.
The sword did not move.
But that was to be expected. For I still had more of my life to burn. I dug my broken heels into the ground. The ancient podium, made of some material that hadn’t shown any wear in a thousand years, cracked beneath my feet.
The sword still did not move.
My body was broken and continued to break. But I could still give more. I crushed the hilt in my grip. What remained of my upper body continued to pull the sword. I couldn't last much longer. And…
A dull cracking shook the air. Slowly, ever so slightly, the sword shifted. Moved by an unworthy touch.
I had already lost my vision, along with most of my senses. I distantly felt the Unmaker move, but that changed little. I had only a single purpose, and that purpose was not yet complete. I had not yet given my life.
The blade continued to move out of the pedestal, slowly unearthing the Unmaker that had been buried for millennia.
I strained harder and harder, but I no longer knew why. I could feel myself fading away.
The unearthly glow of the black blade shone as the blade was being pulled out. Almost its entire length was uncovered.
My mind was crumbling. I knew my purpose would be complete. And so, with the last of my life, I -
The sword that could not be drawn was drawn. The Unmaker, which had once sown terror throughout the world, was once again bared for all the world to see. Bared by the corpse of a man.
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