Emotional Damage: Ardor - Chapter 1

Fire washed away Ardor’s hair, which was frustrating because it had just started to grow back. He knew he shouldn’t let the fire of his anger out like that. She would’ve scolded him for the lack of emotional control, but she wasn’t here anymore and this butt-rash of a customer was instead.

“Like I already told you, there are no returns” Ardor instructed the man, punctuating his words.

Ardor was a sword-smith, and a shattered sword lay on the counter between the two men.

“Master Ardor, you sold me this weapon with the assurances that it would hold up” the customer said calmly. “I’m not asking for a return because I never received what I bought. Your work is well known, I’m simply asking for what I paid for.”

He wasn’t really that well known. Maybe in some entry-level adventuring circles, sure. He made affordable swords that didn’t break under the rigors of channeling the emotive magicae. Until recently, he supposed. This wasn’t the first customer to come in with a similar issue, and while Ardor had been replacing them for free, it was becoming cost-prohibitive to continue doing so. A recent increase in unexpected monster spawns had been a great traffic driver for him.

The flames atop Ardor's head continued to flail about, raging against the long charred ceiling above him. His wife wouldn’t have wanted him to unleash his fury on a customer like this. Especially when that fury wasn’t entirely their fault. Ardor took a deep calming breath, and the flames atop his head subsided. It would be brash of him to treat poorly someone who trusted him with their tools of life and death.

“Fine, let me have a look,” said Ardor, relaxing his voice.

Ardor picked up the sword to investigate it further, attempting to deduce the cause of the problem. The others had been victims of a weak soul channel. Unable to withstand the magicae forces channeled through it it would shatter and explode at a magical level that was quite distinct. That didn’t appear to be the case with this sword, however. This sword had no trace of any soul channels in it to begin with and appeared to be shattered physically rather than magically. Odd. The sword-smith flipped the blade over back and forth, looking for something he couldn’t seem to find. It was just a regular sword, and poorly made at that. It bore none of Ardor’s signature marks, undoubtedly indicating it wasn’t one of his. Flames once again raged atop his scalp.

“Master, is it? Does that mean this is this a joke? You come into my shop, challenging the quality of my wares, demanding recompense, and insulting me with this worthless scrap as the centerpiece of your scam?” shouted Ardor,. “Get out of my shop!”

Ardor raised the blade against the exposed scammer, who took that as their queue to quickly vacate. As the scammer ran out the door, the sword embedded itself in the wall next to him with a loud thunk. Ardor had thrown it, relying more on strength than precision. It was no where near hitting the man, but the message was clear.

Agitated once again, Ardor took a deep breath and tried to center himself. He turned to look at a simple ceramic jar displayed on a shelf behind him and asked “How would you have handled this?”

Ardor brushed the jar softly with the back of his hand, the flames of rage above his head gradually dimmed to a soft glow. Then he flinched. There was a loud crash outside somewhere, but he ignored it, preferring to continue staring at the ceramic. Another crash resounded, this time shaking the walls enough to knock his display pieces to the ground. Thankfully, the jar did not budge. That would have been a real mess to clean up. What in the blazes is going on out there?

Grabbing his favorite sword, he stepped outside. It didn’t take long to see the problem. The body of the would-be scammer flew through the air and hit a stone wall. The man slumped over. Whether dead or knocked out, he couldn’t tell. In the direction from where he flew stood what looked like a humanoid bull standing on goat legs with a single large horn on its head. A minotaur. It was massive compared to an average person, Ardor had no idea what size was typical for the creatures.

We’re in the middle of the city, where could that have come from?

He looked between the slumped man and the monster and realized the creature wasn’t done playing with him yet. It was going to charge the unconscious man, and that would undoubtedly be the end of him.

Ardor knew how to use a sword, not as well as a proper fighter, but well enough to be to spar with the average guard. It was important to have at least a baseline understanding of swordsmanship if you’re going to be a sword-smith. His wife was an adventurer and had trained him on the basics of both swordsmanship and the emotive magicae.

There wasn’t enough time to get between the minotaur and his prey, so instead Ardor channeled the rage he had recently wielded, which was quick to respond to his call, and directed it through the sword which pointed directly at the charging monster. A stream of fire burst forth from the tip of the sword, engulfing the minotaur in flames. It roared in pain and fury as the flames burnt first fur and then flesh. It stopped its charge and turned to face Ardor, the smoke and stench of burnt hair surrounding it.

Ok… now what? Ardor thought to himself, pinching his nose with one hand.

The creature charged again, this time in Ardor's direction. Flames continued spewing from the sword, and he directed them toward the creature's face hoping to blind him. Unfortunately, the rage that had filled him was shallow and quickly spent, replaced by fear. His flames sputtered out and the monster continued its charge, having already crossed half the distance between them.

Ardor should run, he knew this. He should have already ran instead of foolishly engaging. Every scrap of good sense he had told him so. Guards, adventurers, and almost anyone else would be more qualified than him deal with this. But he didn’t see any. In addition, the creature was charging directly at him. It was challenging him, and Ardor had never lost a game of chicken to this day. For that matter, he doubted the minotaur had either. Shifting his feet into a perpendicular stance, he braced himself for an attack. An instant later, it came. The minotaur crashed into him with the force of a falling anvil. Ardor attempted to dodge, but he couldn’t match the beast’s speed. Pain exploded from his chest as he felt the wind get knocked out of him. The minotaur’s remaining momentum carried him past Ardor and crashed him into the outer wall of his sword shop.

The sword Ardor had been holding a second ago stuck out from the chest of the minotaur, who seemed to pay it no mind. It was buried deep and would be impractical to try reclaiming now. Minotaur blood flowed freely from the sword wound, and the beast howled in rage. Instinctually, Ardor went to roar back at him but the pain in his chest stopped him. Blood poured from a massive hole in his rib cage, even quicker than that of the minotaur’s wound and he was having a hard time breathing. His lung was likely punctured by the beasts horn in the charge. Panic washed over him, but he squashed it down when the minotaur locked eyes with him once again.

“You’ll pay for that” the beast’s eyes seemed to say.

Ardor visualized the minotaur’s incoming attack, preparing to deflect it and redirect the momentum into a stone wall behind him. He hoped that would stun the beast enough to give him enough time to do some damage and find a way to bring it down. There was just one problem, the minotaur charged and Ardor had wildly underestimated the monster’s strength. He was no slouch of his own, spending much of his time hammering steel into swords, but this monster was on a whole other level. Any attempt at redirecting the attack was fruitless, barely managing to even nudge it in a given direction. The minotaur’s horn skewered Ardor up against the wall and he lost his ability to breathe, both lungs now ruptured.

Where were all the guards?

Pinned against the wall and losing blood rapidly, his mind began to drift and thoughts turned to his wife. Proficient and passionate she had been, with a deep yearning to protect those around her. That was what got her in the end, he thought. She said she saw the same instinct in him, but he had never believed it. Looking at his current circumstances though, perhaps she was right.

Her sacrifice was for nothing he thought. I’ve wasted it.

He was going to die right here to another monster. It wasn’t even supposed to be possible for these to manifest in the city with the dimensional protections in place. Yet, the holes in his chest seemed a stronger argument to the contrary than his faith in the city’s competence.

The minotaur pulled his horn out and Ardor dropped to the ground, landing on his feet in a puddle of his own blood. His chest ached and he could feel cold air flowing through the holes in his chest. The monster rammed him again, hoisting him back up against the wall. Ardor stared back at the monster, unable to speak or scream because he hadn’t been able to breathe for several seconds. He closed his eyes, his face was blank. When he opened them again, his pupils had been replaced with an inferno of fire.

No, he thought to himself. Using both hands, he slammed down on the creature's neck. Flesh turned black and left behind the smell of burnt hair, Ardor’s attack having been infused with fire. Once again, he dropped to the ground, the minotaur reeling back in surprise for just a moment. But that moment was all Ardor needed. This time, he didn’t hesitate. With one hand he grabbed onto the sword, still sticking out of the beast’s torso, and channeled his rage into it. The blade became engulfed in flame from within the monster. Using his other hand Ardor grabbed the beast by the neck. The fire in Ardor’s eyes flared bright and flames spewed out of the minotaur’s mouth and eyes, into the air above them.

The light in his eyes dwindled, and he let go of the monster with it’s brain thoroughly cooked. It fell over onto the street, dead. Ardor looked down and saw that he had stopped bleeding. There was a lot of blood under him, a surprisingly large amount. He felt relieved to not lose any more, perhaps some of the fire had cauterized the wound. His heart sank when he realized that wasn’t the case, as an interface message popped up before him. Melissa had insisted that he get it installed, despite his hesitations.

You have died.
Soul transition has been delayed by an internal effect. Stubborn and Anger have combined to create conditional status [too stubborn to die]. Soul transition delay will remain in effect for as long as this emotional state can be maintained, with the emotive cost increasing over time.

Ardor felt his strength vacating his body like a sword being quenched in water. He fell to the ground. Through tunneling vision he saw the stumbling form of the definitely-not-dead scammer moving in his direction saying something that he couldn’t hear. A light emanated from his hand and reached out to Ardor.

That bastard was the last thought to cross Ardor’s mind.