Chương 16: Chapter 15 — The Part Where Everything Goes Fine

Nibbles had given difficult speeches before. He had delivered eulogies for three High Priests. He had announced to the Order that their entire treasury was gone. He had told an elephant king, in a chamber with forty-foot ceilings, that the prophesied hero of legend was a two-month-old zombie. His voice had only squeaked once. He was prepared for this. He stepped to the podium with the bearing of someone who had reviewed his notes seventeen times and was confident in the structural integrity of every sentence.

"Citizens of the kingdom," said Nibbles.

"We gather today to mark a moment of historic significance. The hero of prophecy — the Unextinguished, foretold one thousand years ago — stands among us." A murmur from the crowd. Positive. Impressed. From the far end of the courtyard, Max stood in his blue ceremonial robes, hood forward, armor plates catching the morning sun, absolutely still. From this distance, he was magnificent. From this distance, everything was fine.

"The hero has undergone intensive preparation," Nibbles continued.

"He has demonstrated remarkable progress. He has faced the challenges of this world and prevailed. He has—""Boob," said Max. Nibbles did not pause.

"—demonstrated the unequaled qualities that mark the chosen. Today we present him with the sword of prophecy, commissioned one thousand years ago for this moment, that he might carry it forward into the trials ahead." Fenwick, on the shoulder, kept his eyes forward. Sindy said nothing. Nibbles had prepared for this, too. Not for the boob — there was no preparing for the boob — but for the crowd. He knew what they needed. They needed to believe.

They needed to look at whatever was standing at the far end of that courtyard and find in it the thing they had been waiting a thousand years to see. He gave them the space to do it. He spoke about the prophecy. About the Eternal Flame. About the thousand years of faith that had brought this moment to pass. He did not speak quickly. He let each sentence settle before the next one arrived, the way he had learned to preach — not to fill the silence but to use it.

"You will notice," said Nibbles, "that the hero does not stand alone. Chosen on the first night, named by the prophecy itself, Brother Fenwick of the Order has trained alongside him since the beginning. They are our heroes both. We look forward to seeing what they will achieve together." A murmur moved through the stands. Eyes found the small figure on the hero's shoulder. Fenwick looked straight ahead and said nothing. His ears were very red.

In the front seats, in a reserved spot, his mother sat with one of his brothers. The rest of the family was back at the farm tending it. His mother's smile could be seen from the stage. Fenwick had avoided her all morning, and this was the first time she had seen him — two sprigs on his robe for his new level, sitting on the shoulder of the hero of prophecy. From the far end of the courtyard, Max had found something on the platform to look at. From that distance, it read as focused. It read as presence.

Lady Whitmore leaned toward Lord Hartwell and said something quietly. He nodded. The Woolwich family sat very straight. Fenwick was close enough to see what Max was actually looking at. It was a beetle. The sword had been kept in the palace vault since the summoning. It was extraordinary. There was no other word for it. Four feet of blade, perfectly balanced, the metal worked with a quality that no living smith could reproduce.

Along the flat of the blade, runes had been etched in a script that predated the kingdom — the same script as the prophecy, the same hand, the same thousand-year-old conviction that this weapon would one day find its wielder. The hilt was wrapped in leather that had not cracked or dried in a millennium. The pommel stone caught the light and held it as if it were pleased to be there. Two palace guards carried it out on a velvet cushion. Sindy saw the enchantment the moment it entered the courtyard. It was extensive.

Layered. The kind of magical work that took decades and considerable power — protections and bindings and a very specific, very thorough ward against necrotic damage. Against undead. Against anything that had crossed the boundary between living and not. Against Max. She had approximately thirty seconds. The screen erupted. Red X's cascading across every surface. Skulls and crossbones. Every warning image she had, firing in rapid sequence, filled the display with the visual equivalent of screaming.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Max watched the shiny thing approach with the focused attention he usually reserved for beetles. Fenwick was mesmerized by the sword. Fifty-two days of riding a zombie through a forest, and now a legendary weapon was being carried toward them on a velvet cushion, and for one moment, he was not managing anything. He was just watching. The sword came closer. He saw the system's screen and panicked. He should have been watching Max.

He knew this the moment the thought arrived, which was the same moment Max's attention shifted from the beetle to the shiny thing being carried toward him on a cushion. Fenwick's hand went to the acorn bag. Empty. He had used the last one an hour ago and had not refilled it. He looked at the screen again, the system's warnings were already there, every red symbol she had firing in sequence — and then he looked at Max's hand, already rising, already reaching towards the sword. There was nothing to throw.

There was nothing to say. Max looked on.

"Boo," said Max.

"Max. The shiny thing they are bringing. Do not touch it." Max watched the shiny thing they were bringing with the focused attention he usually reserved for beetles. The guards reached the platform. They stopped. They held the cushion out with practiced solemnity. Nibbles, from the podium, gestured. The crowd held its breath. Max reached for the sword.

"Max—" His hand closed around the hilt. The sword knew immediately what was holding it. Steam rose from Max's palm in a thin curl. Then more steam. Then the hilt began to glow with a clean, beautiful white light, designed to destroy exactly what was currently holding it. The flames that followed were low and controlled and precisely targeted, and Max made a sound that started somewhere in his damaged throat and came out shaped like a word everyone in the courtyard could hear.

"Shit." He dropped the sword. It hit the platform with a resonant clang that carried to the far end of the courtyard. The crowd was too far away to see exactly what had happened. They saw light. They saw the hero move. They heard a word that did not carry clearly at this distance, and most of them chose to interpret it as something ceremonial. Stondall had heard it clearly. He wrote something in the margin of his documents. The guards stared at the sword on the platform. Fenwick stared at Max's hand.

The flesh, such as it was, had not been improved by the encounter. Before the lights could die down, he cast a couple of castings of Grayson's Sparkly Hands over Max's hand, the pink smoke and glitter drawing a few confused looks from the nearest guards but keeping the immediate problem contained. Quickly, he whispered to Nibbles to keep up the distraction. Nibbles cast a cloud spell that obscured the platform, then cast a few fireworks spells to keep the crowd distracted.

All while pleading with his eyes at Fenwick to fix this and fix this now. Fenwick had requisitioned a plain sword from the palace armory three days ago, when Nibbles had first described the ceremony. Heavy iron, functional, the kind of weapon a guard captain might carry. The plan had always been to leave with the plain sword and to store the legendary one until Max had the stats to wield it appropriately. They hadn't planned on the sword actively attacking the hero.

They were going to switch them as he left the stage. He had placed it under the edge of the platform that morning, out of sight. He dropped from the shoulder, rushed to the sword, and retrieved it. He gave the sword to Max while kicking the legendary sword off the stage into the grass. Max looked at it. Max took it. Nothing happened. Max held the sword with the loose grip of someone who had no strong feelings about swords specifically but had decided to keep it anyway, the same way he had decided to keep the club.

He looked at it for a moment. Fenwick scrambled up into his harness, straightened his robe, and whistled to Nibbles to dispel the cloud.

"Good," said Sindy quietly.

"Boo," said Max. As the smoke cleared, Nibbles looked at the king. The king looked at Nibbles. Something passed between them, the communication of two people who have both understood exactly what just happened and have agreed, without words, to describe it differently. Nibbles turned back to the crowd.

"The hero has received his sword," said Nibbles, with the bearing of someone who had never once in forty-five years of holy service allowed a situation to go unmanaged.

"The ceremony is complete. The Unextinguished stands ready." The crowd applauded. The applause started at the back of the stands and moved forward. Cheers and whooping erupted from the younger squires, and their masters quickly quieted them down. Lady Whitmore brought her hooves together with the composed enthusiasm of someone who had been told this was historic and had chosen to believe it.

The Woolwich family applauded with the vigor of landowners who had made a long journey and intended to get something out of it. In the front row, a guinea pig in her good dress applauded harder than anyone. Fenwick looked straight ahead. Tonight, he would have to talk to her, make small talk, and keep from her the fact that his partner was undead. Stondall looked at his documents. He did not applaud. He said nothing, which was somehow worse.

The palace guards quietly retrieved the legendary sword of prophecy from the grass where it had landed, wrapped it carefully in its velvet, and carried it back to the vault. The vault was very deep. The vault was very secure. The vault would hold it until someone could figure out what to do about the enchantment. [SYSTEM PRIVATE LOG] ──────────────────────────── [Entry 52 — Addendum] The sword burned him. I knew it would. I could not tell anyone.

Between the spells of Nibbles and Fenwick, the crowd thought it was a ceremony with special effects. He has a plain iron sword now. It suits him. Fenwick had it ready the whole time. Of course he did. ▌ Becca, if you are reading this — ▌ He not only yelled Boob to the king but also Shit.