Mortenax Blade 🔞

Chapter 1: The Birth of the Blade from the Abyss of Voracity

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I. In the Crucible of the Great Sin

The Blue Maw knew no silence. It roared with the hungry, visceral echo of the Leviathan, within whose belly two irreconcilable forces had clashed forever: the insatiable, all-consuming non-existence of Voracity and the stubborn, blind, metastasizing life of Abundance.

Blade fell into this abyss deliberately. At the very bottom, where reality dissolved into canvas and primal chaos, he was already waiting for him. A monstrous phantom, a spawn of the Blood Wave – the Emanator Shuhu.

"You've fought me all this time and leapt into the Leviathan's maw, nothing more than a bid to drag me down with you? A pity, truly. For so long as a single soul in this vast world prays for Abundance, I shall return to bestow my grace. And now, I have come in answer to your prayer..."

— Shuhu

Blade's flesh, saturated with the curse of immortality, instantly responded to the presence of its creator. Tissues tore apart from insane growth, bones shattered under the pressure of Voracity's gravity and immediately fused back together, becoming wider, stronger, more grotesque. The Leviathan digested him, and the Abundance molded him anew. A thousand deaths in a single moment. Every cell screamed in agony, turning into a shapeless mess.

"Reshaping... Tempering..." the poisonous voice of Shuhu whispered inside him, offering to surrender, accept eternity, bring back old friends from the ashes, turning them into the same immortal puppets.

But Blade only gripped the hilt of his shattered sword tighter.

$$\text{furnace} = \text{husk of Voracity}$$ $$\text{iron} = \text{undying flesh of Abundance}$$ $$\text{hammer} = \text{death, a thousand times over}$$

"Do you truly believe that I dove into this abyss for the sake of 'a mutual end'? No. I came for 'forging.'" he spoke mentally, and this inner voice drowned out the roar of the abyss.

He was not going to destroy Shuhu. He was turning his own immortal body into an indestructible cage. He brought down his mental hammer again and again, driving the Emanator of Abundance deep into the foundation of his soul, pinning him to the anvil of the Leviathan. Time after time, through hellish regeneration, through blood spurting instead of sparks, the old craftsman Yingxing forged his last, most perfect creation.

Not a weapon for killing. A prison. The thorns of which would from now on and forever be aimed at the God himself – the Ambrosial Savior Yaoshi.

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II. Echoes of the Old Forge

In moments when Blade's consciousness faded between the phases of digestion, the abyss offered him fragments of the past. From the mist of the Canvas, the ghosts of Flamewheel Forge and old friends, whom he had once sworn to protect, emerged.

• Time after time, the image of the sword 'Departure' rose before his eyes – the first, crude blade he forged for the Cloud Knights, being still a mortal short-life species outsider. The arrogant youth Yingxing then proudly declared: "My home became a grazing ground for those borisin beasts. My parents, their fertilizer. Unlike you, I won't live to see them wiped out, but my blades will."
• Then followed the ghostly laughter of Baiheng – and the bow 'Luer', which she stubbornly renamed the 'Recurve Bow'. "In the end, it was I who forged the greatest sin," glooimly echoed in Blade's chest when he remembered the weapon that failed to save her.
• And, finally, the oaths of the High-Cloud Quintet – the shining four-meter glaive of Jing Yuan, the clinking of cups, and the cold gaze of Jingliu. "By the Reignbow and the Ten Lords. If I betray our bond, let all of existence hunt me down."

These memories were not a sweet dream. They were atonement. The final exam of his master, Huaiyan, who appeared to him in this dying vision:

"Crushed ore, old materials, rusted iron... As craftsmen, we spend our entire lives in such company. To take what is useless, to take every failed scrap and forge it anew, isn't that our very mission as craftsmen?"

— Huaiyan (In Dreams)

Blade accepted this answer. His light did not fade – it simply burned out, leaving behind pure, tempered steel.

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III. The Return of Mortenax

On the shore of Inkford Hermitage, the Trailblazer and Silver Wolf could barely contain the onslaught of Graphia, who had gone mad, her body defiled by the Destruction power of Asat Pramad. At the most critical moment, when Silver Wolf was already prepared to activate the dangerous 'LV.999' cartridge, the space above the Blue Maw shattered.

The darkness parted. From the abyss, he stepped out.

But this was no longer the same Blade. The Stellaron Hunter had changed – his clothes, woven from the ashes and clotted blood of the Leviathan, bore the marks of a supreme judge. He accepted the title of Mortenax (Mortenax Blade) – the Blade that passed through the maw of Voracity and subdued the hunger of the abyss.

"One-in-ten chance of survival? I choose to survive!" declared Mortenax Blade.

With one devastating blow of his renewed sword, he cut through the defilement of Destruction, bringing Graphia back to her senses.

"No way! Blade! You answered my prayers!" exclaimed Silver Wolf, hiding deep relief behind a mask of cynicism. "But... isn't this a bit much? How did you even change outfits? What happened down there?"

"I used the Leviathan's maw to imprison Shuhu. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I have made a decision... This time, I will stay and become a Supplicant. I am joining the Phantasmoon Games." replied Blade.

Silver Wolf only sighed irritably: "What? You're going to stay here and poke your nose into this world's business too!?"

Blade did not answer. He looked at his hands – the hands of a master weapon-smith, which had regained their firmness. Planarcadia needed protection from Asat Pramad, and his own unscripted path – the path outside of Elio's script – was just beginning. Thunder struck, the canvas of the world cracked, and the trio prepared for a long, grueling war for the future of Planarcadia.

Chapter 2: A New "Humanity" and a Fatal Encounter

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I. Things That Remain

The Stellaron Hunters' base smelled of cooled electronics, cheap instant noodles that Silver Wolf had once again left open on the table, and stale, conditioned air. Blade entered the common room without his usual heavy clatter, his steps now seeming soft, almost silent, as if the abyss of Voracity had taken away his excess weight and that eternal, annoying habit of stomping like a broken golem. Kafka was sitting in an armchair, lazily plucking the strings of her old violin, but at his appearance her fingers froze and her thin eyebrows shot up in surprise because this man no longer radiated madness for three kilometers around. He looked completely exhausted, with gray shadows settled under his eyes, but his gaze had become sober, ordinary, human – without that moronic crimson mist of Mara. Blade silently walked over to the terminal and dumped a pile of junk onto the smooth surface of the table, among which clinked a heavy, surprisingly clean controller, some kind of strange ancient blade, and, most importantly, a dimly flickering, manually rebuilt core from a Glamoth power armor.

"This is for Firefly" said Blade, poking a finger toward the heavy part, which still bore the marks of his blacksmithing tools "The left stabilization circuit burned out there, so I replaced it with an alloy from the Blue Maw. Now she won't shake so violently during overloads. Give the controller to the kid, she was whining that her old one lags during tournaments"

Kafka slowly set her instrument aside, looking at him as if Blade had grown a second head, and there was no usual condescending pity in her eyes – only pure, unadulterated astonishment.

"You... don't want to die, Bladie?" asked she, tilting her head to the side, and a touch of unusual bewilderness slipped into her voice because Elio's entire script, it seemed, had just gone straight to hell "You look like you actually got a good night's sleep, instead of being about to start a massacre"

"I found a place to dump the extra garbage" muttered he, turning around toward the exit of the hall and not even glancing at the terminal where another call from Elio was flashing "Shuhu is now sitting deep and quiet, so the script can wait, I have more important things to do than working as a free sword for Elio"

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II. Accounts Are Settled

The meeting with Dan Heng took place at a neutral repair station where the Express was stopping to refuel, and it was nothing like their past bloody dates when the walls cracked from the impacts of spears. Dan Heng stood by the panoramic window, clutching his spear in his hand, ready at any second to parry a strike, but Blade just sat down on a plastic chair nearby, stretching out his long legs and throwing his hands behind his head. In the room, generators hummed quietly, chunks of space debris slowly floated past the window, and this silence was strange, almost tangible, stripped of its former hatred.

"You're not attacking" noticed Dan Heng, not lowering his weapon, but his shoulders noticeably relaxed as he made out the calm face of his eternal pursuer "What changed, Yingxing?"

"Everything changed, kid" replied Blade, pulling an old, battered hair ribbon out of his pocket, which he had for some reason been carrying around for the last hundred years, and carelessly tossed it onto the neighboring table "I'm tired of running after the ghost of someone who is no longer here, and you – you're not the Imbibitor Lunae, you're just a frightened boy hiding on someone else's train, so live your life, accounts are settled"

Dan Heng looked at the ribbon, then at Blade, and such a complex expression reflected on his face as if he had just been told that an amnesty had arrived, but he had forgotten how to walk without shackles.

"And that's it? After everything you've done?" asked Dan Heng, taking a step forward, but Blade was already getting up from the chair, rubbing his stiff neck and looking as if the conversation had lost all interest for him

"Did you want us to fight until the end of time?" snorted Blade, heading toward the sliding doors of the airlock "I have too much work in Planarcadia to waste time on old grudges, so take care, I won't be coming after you anymore"

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III. Noise, Dirt, and a Fatal Glitch

Silver Wolf turned out to be unbearable when she realized that Blade was no longer sitting in his room in the pose of a sullen monument, so she dragged him to the dirtiest, loudest, and most overcrowded intergalactic bazaar in this sector under the pretext of buying new circuit boards. An unimaginable din stood all around, smelling of fried oil, cheap plastic, some kind of sickeningly sweet local spices, and traders of all kinds – from the Foxian people to humanoid pieces of iron – were screaming as if their lives depended on it. Blade walked behind the girl, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets and lazily shoving aside particularly brash barkers with his shoulder, feeling maximally stupid in this crowd that was bustling around for the sake of some penny clothes and food.

"Listen, Bladie, if you keep walking with a face like you have a dead mouse in your boot, I'll buy you that pink juice with sparkles" threatened Silver Wolf, not looking up from her handheld screen where she was enthusiastically bargaining down the price of some rare part from a local cyborg merchant

"I just don't understand why I am needed here, you could have taken Firefly" glohly responded he, intending to turn around and go back to the ship

Blade sharply froze right in the middle of the road, ignoring a dull bump to his shoulder from some loaded courier robot that squeaked its brakes resentfully and rolled further about its business. His gaze locked hard onto a small antiquity shop on the opposite side of the street where you were fully arguing with a fat merchant of the Foxian people over some rusty part, a dubious-looking piece of iron that was clearly not worth the money being asked for it. Your laughter, loud, lively, and completely out of place in this stifling, profit-reeking market bustle, distinctly cut through all this background hum, forcing the Stellaron Hunter to completely forget for a second why he had even come here. Inside his chest, somewhere deep beneath the layers of old scars and the locked power of Shuhu, something shifted dully, as if a heavy forge part had settled into the correct groove for the first time in a hundred years, leaving behind a strange, ringing silence. He silently watched the stubborn look with which you took your prize from the relenting merchant, and in the head of this sullen man, who just a minute ago wanted only one thing – to return to the ship, a completely sober, selfish thought clicked: this person will stay with him, no matter what it takes.

Chapter 3: A Shadow Beyond the Window (Stalking and the First Flowers)

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I. A Strange Presentiment

The evening was flooding the city streets with the usual neon light, which lazily reflected in the puddles left after the recent artificial rain. You sat in a small, half-empty cafe on the corner, lazily stirring your cooling coffee and listening to your friends eagerly discussing the latest gossip from the market quarters. In the room, some unobtrusive music played quietly, cups clinked, but you just couldn't get rid of a sticky, nagging sensation somewhere between your shoulder blades, as if someone was staring intently straight at the back of your head through the thick panoramic glass.

"Come on, you're just being paranoid again" dismissed one of your friends, popping a piece of pie into his mouth and laughing "Who could possibly be watching you? The merchant from the bazaar from whom you wrangled a discount for that rusty piece of iron? He's probably still crying over his lost profit rather than hatching revenge plans"

"I'm serious, this has been going on for about three days now" softly responded you, glancing at the dark window behind which the blurred silhouettes of passers-by hovered, but still failing to notice anything suspicious "You walk down an alley – and it feels like there are footsteps behind you, you turn around – nobody's there, just the wind blowing trash around"

"Just get some proper sleep" advised a female friend, gently nudging your side with her elbow "You're already having hallucinations from this eternal work at the warehouses, soon you'll be seeing an IPC spy in every janitor robot"

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II. Uninvited Tenderness

The strangeness didn't end but took on a completely material form the very next morning when you opened the door of your apartment, intending to run off to take care of business. Right on the threshold, neat in the middle of the mat, lay a small, flawlessly arranged bouquet of rare, pale blue flowers that were usually brought from distant garden-planets, and they smelled of freshness, morning dew, and something faintly metallic. Among the stems, a thick note made of expensive, slightly rough paper was carefully secured, on which a heavy, unusually even handwriting had traced just a few words.

"This color suits you"

When you brought this bouquet to a meeting with your company, your friends immediately snatched the note from you, starting to turn it over in their hands and exchange knowing looks.

"Wow, look at that, it turns out we have a secret romantic here" whistled your friend, passing the piece of paper around "Flowers, notes... Sophisticated, sure, but the handwriting is such as if this suitor of yours held a heavy crowbar his whole life instead of a pen"

"It's beautiful though" smiled you, examining the unusual petals and involuntarily feeling warmth rushing to your cheeks from such unexpected, if a bit scary, attention "Though I have no idea who it could be, none of my acquaintances suffer from such things"

"Well, rejoice until this maniac moves on to heavy artillery" joked your female friend, lightly flicking your nose "Maybe it's some wealthy heir from the high-born, playing at mystery"

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III. The Chronometer of the Abyss

Blade stood on the roof of the opposite building, hidden by the thick shadow of the ventilation systems, and silently looked down – straight at the windows of your kitchen, where a soft, yellowish light was burning. A small terminal was gripped in his hand, on the screen of which Silver Wolf had, at his request, displayed a complete, minute-by-minute map of your movements over the past month. He knew your schedule down to the second: what time you wake up, which road you take to the workshop, where you buy that ridiculous, overly sweet coffee, and how many minutes you waste talking to your useless, noisy acquaintances.

"Seven minutes to say goodbye at the cafe doors... Too long" glohly muttered Blade, putting the device into his jacket pocket and crossing his arms over his chest

The Mara no longer burned his brain, Shuhu was held on a secure chain, but this void inside demanded filling, and now his entire world had narrowed down to one single point – to your silhouette behind the thin curtain. He saw how you put his flowers into a glass of water, how carefully you straighten the petals, and a barely noticeable, heavy smirk appeared for a moment on his stern, scar-covered face. Blade wasn't going to rush, he knew how to wait, just as a blacksmith knows how to wait while the metal heats to the right temperature in the forge, and now he was going to take your life under his complete, absolute control, step by step.

Chapter 4: Crossing the Line (Defiled Comfort)

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I. Scattered Pieces of Life

With each passing day, this once pleasant attention began to resemble a noose, slowly but surely tightening around your neck. The texts in the notes had changed, their former innocence completely evaporating to give way to a heavy, frightening passion that sent a chill down your spine.

"I saw you smiling at that piece of trash in the workshop. Do not do that again. Your smile belongs only to me"

But it became truly terrifying when things began to disappear from your apartment – unnoticed, one by one, as if someone was carefully cutting out pieces from your familiar daily life. First, your favorite old t-shirt that you usually wore at home vanished, then the mug with the chipped handle disappeared somewhere, and today you couldn't find your hairclip in its usual place. You sat on the floor in the hallway, holding your head in your hands, while a tired officer of the local police lazily filled out a form, glancing at his watch every now and then.

"Look, there are no signs of forced entry, the locks are intact, the windows are closed" said the police officer, snapping his tablet shut and shaking his head "Maybe you're just overworked and forgot where you moved these items? We can't post a 24-hour guard here over three mugs and a t-shirt"

"I feel like I'm just losing my mind and losing everything, do you understand?" softly responded you, staring at the empty shelf where your thing had lain just yesterday "I remember exactly where I put them, this can't be a coincidence"

"Take some sedatives and change the locks if it makes you feel better" indifferently advised the officer, heading toward the exit and leaving you alone with a dull, sticky horror

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II. The Midnight Guest

At night the city fell silent, and a thick, heavy darkness reigned in your bedroom, broken only by the quiet ticking of the wall clock. You slept restlessly, tossing and turning in your sleep from dull rustles outside the window, but you didn't wake up when the massive balcony door opened soundlessly, letting in a draft of cool night air. The huge, dark silhouette of Mortenax materialized straight from the night shadows, silently crossing the distance to your bed and sitting on the very edge of the mattress, which sagged only slightly under his impressive weight. Blade sat motionless for a long time, his heavy, completely sober gaze sliding over your face, capturing every detail, every line in this weak, defenseless half-light.

He slowly extended his huge hand, covered in scars and old bandages, barely touching your hair with his fingertips and carefully smoothing the strands. His movements were strangely gentle, almost reverent, which completely mismatched his frightening, stern appearance of an executioner.

"So fragile... such a light step away from non-existence" barely audibly whispered Blade, leaning a bit closer and listening to your even, sleepy breathing, which worked better on him right now than any of Kafka's remedies

He trailed his palm a bit lower, tracing the line of your cheek, and a heavy, possessive warmth spread inside his chest, somewhere in the very heart of Shuhu's locked abyss. You turned slightly in your sleep, sighing softly and unconsciously reaching toward this foreign, frightening warmth, but Blade pulled his hand away in time, not wishing to destroy this perfect, defiled comfort of yours ahead of time.

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III. The Hunter's Altar

Blade's hideout on an abandoned tier of Planarcadia looked like a monument to his new, terrifying obsession. There was nothing extra here, no furniture except for an old workbench, but one of the walls had been completely turned into a real altar, a sight that would make any normal person's blood run cold. The entire concrete surface was covered with your photos – Silver Wolf had taken hundreds of pictures from surveillance cameras, not even suspecting what exactly her sullen partner was using this data for. You at the market, you laughing with friends, you walking home tired, you sleeping in a subway car – your every step was documented and carefully pinned to the wall with heavy blacksmithing rivets.

On a small ledge right beneath the pictures, your missing things lay neatly, like the greatest relics. There stood that very mug, there lay the home t-shirt that still retained your faint scent, and the hairclip glinted dully. Silver Wolf leaned against the doorframe, chewing gum and staring at the wall with a mix of boredom and slight disgust.

"Hey, Blade, but why do you even need this, did they do something bad?" asked Silver Wolf, popping a bubble and pointing a finger at the central photo of you

"Hm.. no?" grunted Blade, running his fingers over the fabric of your t-shirt and staring at your smile on the hidden camera shot "I just suspect them. Need to check"

Silver Wolf only rolled her eyes, muttering something about weirdos under her breath before exiting, leaving him alone again. He picked up a new note from the table, which he intended to leave on your threshold in just a few hours, and a barely noticeable, harsh smirk of a blacksmith touched his lips, knowing exactly that his trap had snapped shut perfectly.

Chapter 5: Captivity and the Taste of Horror (Roleplay Start)

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I. The Last Straw

The point of no return was an ordinary rainy evening when you, returning to your empty apartment, found something right on the dining table that made everything inside you go cold. In the middle of the empty tabletop lay a fresh bouquet of pale blue flowers, and next to it – a note written in that very heavy, sweeping handwriting.

"You look around too much. Tomorrow I am taking you home"

Panic washed over you instantly, to the point of nausea and the dull thud of blood in your ears. You realized the police wouldn't help, that the locks were useless, and, frantically tossing your first available documents and a couple of things into a backpack, you rushed toward the exit, intending to flee to the station, to the authorities, anywhere, just to be far away from here. But the moment you threw the front door open and bolted out onto the dark, rain-slicked stairwell, the space around you warped strangely. A shadow, huge, insurmountable, and smelling of ozone and clotted blood, materialized right in front of you. A short, stifled sob drowned in a heavy palm that clamped hard over your mouth, robbing you of the ability to take even a breath. The world spun, the reality of Planarcadia cracked, and your consciousness went out, dragging you into the darkness.

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II. The Blacksmith's Lair

Cold, damp concrete. That was the first thing you felt when you came to on the floor in some half-dim, vast room resembling an abandoned factory floor. Your eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and the first thing that caught your attention was that very wall, plastered with hundreds of your photos, illuminated by the dim light of a single bulb. Nearby, on an old workbench, your mug, t-shirt, and hairclip lay neatly – like trophies on a madman's altar.

Heavy, measured steps made you flinch and curl into a ball. Out of the shadows stepped he – huge, grim, in his terrible clothes smelling of ash and steel. Mortenax Blade. His gaze, sober and frighteningly calm, pinned you to the floor harder than any hydraulic press.

"Awake" glohly mumbled he, stopping a couple of paces away from you and slowly stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets "That was quick. I thought I'd have another half hour to finish with the cleanup"

"Please..." your voice broke into a helpless, begging whisper, and hot tears rolled down your cheeks, leaving trails on your dusty skin "Let me go... Why do you want me? I have nothing, I'm just an ordinary person... Please, I won't tell anyone, I'll just leave..."

Blade silently walked closer, and his massive figure completely blocked the meager light of the lamp from you, plunging you into his personal, suffocating shadow. He slowly dropped to one knee right in front of you, ignoring how frantically you tried to crawl back until your spine hit the cold concrete.

"Leave?" repeated he, and a heavy, perverted smirk hit his low, quiet voice, sending those proverbial, frightening butterflies through your spine – a wild mix of terror and a strange, unnatural arousal "Where will you leave from a blacksmith who has already chosen his material? You didn't listen to my notes very well"

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III. The Breaking of Will

His huge hand, wrapped in old, stiff bandages, suddenly shot forward, fingers clamping hard into your hair, forcing your head back with brute strength to make you look him straight in the eyes. The pain was tangible, but not bone-shattering – he held you firmly, the way one holds the hilt of a sword, completely controlling your every micro-movement.

"Look at me" ordered Blade, and his dominating, velvet baritone literally paralyzed your will, forcing you to obey without a single blow "Cry. I like how you glisten in this darkness. But don't you dare beg me for freedom. You won't be seeing that foolishness anymore"

"It hurts... let go..." croaked you, clawing with weak fingers at his heavy wrist, trying to loosen the grip, but his hand was like a steel vice

"Hurts?" Blade leaned even closer, so close that you could feel his hot, even breath on your lips, and this intimate, filthy contrast between his roughness and proximity made your heart beat at its absolute limit "This isn't pain. This is the taste of your new reality. You will sit here, quietly, like a obedient thing, until I decide what to do with you. Say: 'Yes, Blade.' I want to hear your voice break"

You frantically gasped for air, staring into his dark eyes, completely mad in their calmness, feeling your last resistance crumble inside under his filthy, masterful pressure, leaving only animal fear and this strange, feverish submission.

"Yes... Blade..." squeezed you out through tears, going limp in his grip

"Good thing" quietly exhaled he, slightly loosening his grip on your hair but not letting go completely, only lazily running his thumb over your reddened skin at the roots "Now we begin our game"

Blade gripped your hair a bit tighter, forcing your face to within mere centimeters of his own. He smelled of gunpowder, stale blood, and a bitter metallic residue that had etched into his skin along with the soot of a hundred forges. His free hand slid down slowly, with deliberate pressure, tracing the line of your neck, lingering on the frantically beating vein, and then unceremoniously slipped under the collar of your jacket, making you shudder convulsively from the coldness of his fingers.

"Look at you" he breathed right against your lips, his heavy, hot breath scalding your tear-wet skin "Trembling as if I’m about to scrap you. Though... you are raw material, after all. Unrefined, fragile, skittish"

"Please, don't... Blade, stop..." you whispered, jerking to the side, but the movement only caused his fingers to dig harder into your strands, sending a sharp, sobering flash of pain through the roots of your hair

"I said—do not beg" his voice dropped to a dangerous, vibrating whisper, laced with an absolute, perverted enjoyment of your weakness "I don't give a damn what you want. Your body, your voice, your stupid fears—it all belongs to my workbench now. You bargained so stubbornly for that rusty piece of iron at the bazaar, didn't you? Thought you were in control. And now you're here, on your knees, licking my boots with your eyes and whining like a beaten dog"

He slowly slid his palm lower, roughly bunching the fabric of your clothes over your chest, forcing your heart to fearfully catch every beat. The contrast between his absolute, icy calm and the primal, filthy authority with which he took what he considered his own knocked the last ground from under your feet. Inside your stomach, everything twisted into a tight, hot knot, blurring the line between pure horror and a shameful, feverish submission.

"Tell me" Blade leaned even lower, practically brushing his lips against your ear, burning it with an intimate, filthy revelation "You like this fear, don't you? You like feeling my hand holding onto your very life while you choke on your own tears? Answer me. And don't you dare lie to me, I can hear your pulse racing"

"I'm... I'm scared..." you squeezed out, losing yourself in this suffocating, possessive vortex, unable to tear your eyes away from his dark, frighteningly sober eyes

"Fear is a good lubricant for obedience" he smirked harshly, finally letting go of your hair, but only to cup your face with a heavy palm, roughly digging his fingers into your cheeks and forcing your mouth slightly open "You will be a perfect thing. My own personal, quiet, broken toy that I will forge anew every single day until not even ash remains of your former pride. Now close your mouth and listen to me very carefully"

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IV. The Blacksmith's Lesson

His fingers pressed into your cheeks even harder, forcing your lips to part helplessly while your tears lubricated his rough skin, which was covered in old calluses. Blade slowly tilted his head, examining your gaze—clouded with panic and humiliation—with the purely professional, cold interest of a blacksmith assessing the malleability of glowing metal. There was no madness of the Mara in his eyes—only the frightening, absolute sobriety of a predator who knows exactly that the prey has nowhere to run.

"From this moment on, you will forget about your home, your foolish friends, and the life you thought was yours" his low, filthy whisper seemed to penetrate beneath your very skin, causing your insides to tighten with a strange, shameful warmth "Your world is now confined to these walls and my will. You will obediently open your mouth when I tell you to, you will give me all your thoughts, your every breath. If I want to, you will stand like this for hours until your knees bleed against the concrete. Do you understand me?"

You tried to mumble something, but the steel fingers on your face wouldn't let you move your jaw properly, turning your protest into a pitiful, stifled croak. This absolute helplessness, mixed with the heavy, suffocating scent of his body, knocked the last remnants of common sense out of your head, leaving only an animal desire to submit just to make this unbearable pressure stop.

"I don't hear an answer" he said a bit quieter, a dangerous, vibrating threat slipping into his voice He loosened his grip on your face for a second, allowing you to catch a frantic gasp of air, but immediately shifted his palm to your neck, squeezing it slightly, reminding you of whose hands your life was currently in "Repeat what I told you. Whom do you belong to now?"

"To you..." you breathed out along with a sob, going completely limp beneath his heavy body and unconsciously clutching the sleeves of his jacket with your fingers, seeking support in your own executioner "I... I belong to you, Blade..."

"That's it" a satisfied, heavy smirk finally appeared on his stern face, sending another wave of those wild, frightening butterflies rippling through your body in a violent shiver He slowly removed his hand from your neck, but only to roughly pat your cheek, leaving a dirty smudge from his bandages on your skin "First lesson learned. Now, get up. My workbench is waiting for its material"

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The old Blade burned away in the abyss of Penacony. On a pyre of his own flesh and the endless regeneration of the Emanator of Abundance, he forged a new destiny, locking Shuhu within his body as if in an eternal, impenetrable cage. The Mara receded, leaving behind only dull scars and a ringing, unfamiliar void. There was no longer any thirst for revenge. He let go of Dan Heng, silently acknowledging that the old debts of the blacksmith Yingxing were paid in full. He returned to the Stellaron Hunters as a different man – quieter, frighteningly calm, almost... human. Kafka no longer whispered orders in his ear, and Silver Wolf proudly toyed with the controller he had forged, while Sam installed a new core, created by Blade’s own hands, into his armor.

Everyone thought he was finally cured. That the broken blade had been remelted into peaceful iron. They were wrong. The Mara did not leave – it simply mutated, transforming from blind rage into a cold, incurable obsession. And you were the catalyst for this sickness.

It happened at a bustling, neon-lit Eastern bazaar on a border planet, where Silver Wolf had dragged him "to get some air." Blade lazily swept his gaze over the crowd until his eyes landed on you. The world around him went deaf. His pulse, which had been hammering in his temples like a heavy sledgehammer for centuries, stopped for a second, then exploded with wild, painful heat. Something so hungry and dark stirred in his chest that he gasped for air. He was lost.

From that day on, Blade became your personal shadow. A frantic, calculating stalker. At first, he simply watched from the darkness of alleys, studying every step you took, your schedule, your habits. Then, that wasn't enough. Bouquets began to arrive at your doorstep – heavy, expensive, with no signature. You were touched, reading the neat lines on the cards, thinking you had acquired a romantic admirer. But the notes changed quickly. From innocent "Your smile lights up my day," he moved to ambiguous "I saw what kind of underwear you slept in today." And then came the direct, suffocating promises: "You will belong to me, even if I have to break your legs."

You began to lose your mind from fear. Items in your house started to disappear: your favorite hairclip, lipstick, a worn-out home shirt, a chain... You thought you were losing your memory, but in reality, Blade was taking them to his lair, building a real, creepy altar around your photographs that smelled of your perfume and his own sweat. He would come to you while you slept. He sat on the edge of your bed for hours, listening to your breathing, winding your curls around his rough, calloused fingers, barely holding himself back from sinking his teeth into your neck.

When the firm intention to go to the police appeared in your eyes, he realized: it was time.

And now you are here. In his dark, isolated hideout, where the walls muffle any screams.

You are kneeling on the cold, dirty floor, and the fabric of your home trousers is already soaked with dampness and dust. Your chin is tilted up so high that your throat feels dry, and your neck starts to ache from the constant tension. Blade is not pushing with all his might, no – his massive palm is just resting on the back of your head, but this presence is weighty, like a granite slab. His fingers, long, dry, with traces of ingrained metal filings under the nails, lazily sort through your hair, carefully untangling the knots as if he were grooming a thoroughbred dog. This caress is more terrifying than any blow. Tears are streaming from your eyes incessantly, leaving wet, shiny tracks on your cheeks, and you can only gasp convulsively, not daring to move.

"Shhh... Now, now... What’s wrong? Little one..." his voice sounds surprisingly quiet, almost velvet, with a slight hoarseness that wraps around your hearing. He leans a little lower, and you feel his warm breath, smelling of bitter coffee, tickling your damp skin. "Don't cry. No one will hurt you, silly. Do I look like a monster to you?"

You try to answer something, your lips trembling, uttering only a pathetic, intermittent:

"P-please... let me go... I... I will do anything, just... don't kill me..."

Blade lets out a quiet, condescending chuckle. There is no rage in his eyes – they glow with a lazy, sated triumph of a puppeteer who finally holds his most fragile toy in his hands. He slowly lowers his free hand to your face. His thumb, rough and calloused, presses against your lower lip, pushing it down firmly. You obediently part your mouth, and he pushes his finger inside without the slightest haste, touching your tongue.

He begins to slowly, almost hypnotically fuck your mouth with his finger, moving it back and forth. This movement is dirty, wet, devoid of any rush. His finger slides across your teeth, pressing your tongue against the lower palate, forcing you to involuntarily swallow the saliva collecting in your mouth. With every thrust of his, a dull, stifled whimpering sound escapes your throat, and the corner of your lips is stained with a shiny thread of saliva mixed with tears. Blade watches this with fascination. He studies how your little face deforms under his fingers, how your eyes widen with panic and shame. You think that if you bite him or stop obeying, this huge man will simply snap your neck right here on this dirty floor. And this primal fear of death makes you absolutely pliable.

"That's it... Good girl. Obedient," he whispers affectionately, continuing to move his finger steadily in your mouth, making you smack your lips around his phalanx. "Make a beautiful face for me. Don't hide your eyes. Look at me while I ruin you. I need to see how much you fear me."

He slowly pulls his finger out, leaving your mouth helplessly parted, and reaches for the heavy buckle of his belt. A soft, metallic click sounds, followed by the dry hiss of a zipper on his dense uniform trousers. Your heart skips a frightened beat, a lump rises in your throat, but Blade just gently takes your chin, guiding your head toward his crotch. From the slit in the fabric, a dense, heavy-heat-filled bulge appears, covered by the dark cotton of his underwear. It smells of musk, gunpowder, and suffocating male body.

Blade takes a short step forward with his hips. Deliberately slowly, as if accidentally, he begins to rub this hot bulge against your tear-stained cheek. The rough fabric of his underwear smears across your delicate skin, staining with your tears, and Blade himself closes his eyes, letting out a low, vibrating sigh of pleasure from deep within his chest.

"Come on," his palm on the back of your head pushes you forward slightly, forcing your nose and lips to rest directly against the dense fabric. "Kiss it. Lick it right through the fabric, gently, just the way you know how. Show me how much you want to stay alive. Taste me."

Your fingers clutch his massive thighs convulsively, trying to keep your balance. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears spray from them again, and you begin to obediently lick this hot mound through the dark fabric, feeling its pulsation right on your tongue. The sounds of your wet kisses and heavy, panicked breathing echo through the dark room. Blade runs both of his palms through your hair, pulling it back slightly to control the amplitude of your movements, but he does so smoothly, guiding you with frightening, almost paternal care.

"Clever girl..." he exhales, and his hips continue to rub against your face steadily, unhurriedly, crushing your dignity, turning your entire neat, clean image into something broken, dirty, and depraved. "And now help me. Take it out yourself. Free it for your little mouth."