Emotional Damage: Ardor - Chapter 3

After his visit to the guild’s infirmary, Ardor returned home and rested. At least, he tried to, but sleep wouldn’t come. Despite feeling exhausted, he also felt wide awake. His mind was practically vibrating with the recent events now that he had time to properly process all that had happened to him. Attempted robbery, Minotaur attack, dying apparently, signing up for the guild. It was a lot to take in.

Images of the fight with the Minotaur flew through his mind whenever he closed his eyes. They were so vivid, but Ardor was nothing if not stubborn, so he continued trying to sleep. Eventually, he finally began to drift off, craving the sweet comfort of a little more rest. His eyebrows began to relax, releasing the contorted expression they usually held.

Ardor swung his fist, screaming. Not a scream of fear, but of rage and muscle. He was fighting the Minotaur again, and someone was lying on the ground behind him. It was Barida; he lay there begging for help. His fist collided with something, and he felt it break. His eyes shot open, pain shot through his hand, and his breathing was heavy. Next to his bed was a fresh hole in the wall the size and shape of his fist. For a moment, he just lay there, processing while he caught his breath. Letting out a sigh, Ardor got up. He’d have to fix the wall at some point, but for now, it was clear sleep wouldn’t be coming to him anytime soon.

Ardor went to his workshop, his go-to location for times like this. With the clank of a hammer and an anvil, Ardor began pounding away at his problems. There was a rhythm to it, a melodic thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk as his hammer hit the steel of a blade, that he found quite comforting… normally, anyway. Eyes, that’s what he saw in the glowing red metal of the blade he worked. The glowing eyes of a Minotaur stared up at him between hammer strikes. He slammed the hammer down harder. The glowing eyes brightened. He brought the hammer down even harder, harder than necessary. Again, the glowing metal shone back at him. Wisps of flame lit atop his bald scalp, and Ardor roared at the sword on his anvil. He brought the hammer down over and over, all pretense of a controlled strike gone. He hammered the sword over and over and over, sparks flew at him, but he paid it no mind.

Over time, the sword cooled, and the metal ceased to glow. Ardor didn’t care, though; he kept hitting it relentlessly. Eventually, after some unknown length of time, Ardor stopped hammering and looked at the weapon. It was ruined. He had completely flattened much of it. Ardor tossed the destroyed weapon aside, waiting for the regret to come to him; wasting all that work was reckless. Except, the feeling never came. Instead, he found himself… smiling. He felt alive again. This was like when he first started his weapon shop and was still honing his craft, or when he first met Melissa. Or, he realized, when he fought that Minotaur.

He felt the urge to hit something, to break something. So, he grabbed one of his finished swords, a magical one imbued with the ability to channel flame much like the one he had used in his fight. He had just finished this one the other day to replenish some stock. Swinging it against the training dummy he used to test his wares, he could feel the balance of the blade, the minute grooves and grip in the hilt that allowed him to swing it faster without tiring his fingers with a tight grip, and decided that yes, this was a fine blade. As good as any other he had made.

Ardor allowed his thoughts to drift towards the fight with the Minotaur, imagining the dummy as the monster’s hideous figure. This time, when he swung the sword, it illuminated the room with a flame that blazed around the edges, but something wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. It felt… restricted. So he channeled more anger into it, and he could sense something in the sword resisting him, something fragile. He could tell that with a little more effort, he could break through.

It was late in the night, though, and what little anger he had worked up was spent. So, he went over to a cabinet and grabbed a small metal vial. He spun it around, looked for the label. “Anger” is what it read, which is what he was looking for. Using his fingers, Ardor felt around at the base of his skull, the small spot that connects the head to the neck. This is where his emotive seal had been installed, though he rarely made use of it. It was a technology invented by the Ataraxians before the two nations had merged back into one. It allowed someone to filter out emotion-inducing chemicals from their body and avoid experiencing them entirely. The technology works two ways, though; those same emotions could be stored and then re-injected later when desired. Such as right now. Ardor connected the small vial to the valve on his emotive seal. With a hiss, the contents of the vial injected themselves into his bloodstream, and anger flooded his body once more.

Ardor went back to the target dummy and swung again, this time dumping a surplus of anger into the sword. He sensed something resisting his magicae within the sword, like a dam blocking a river. He pushed, channeling more anger into the weapon, and felt the resistance burst. With the resistance gone, anger flooded into the sword, more than Ardor had intended. Much more, something was wrong. An explosion rang in Ardor’s ears, and a flash of light blinded him for a moment, just a moment. When his vision returned, he saw that the sword was broken. Shattered pieces of metal had flown all around the room, and a piece was even embedded in the leather apron Ardor wore. What the hell!? Swords weren’t supposed to explode! If one of those shards had cut him, or opened an artery… he didn’t want to think about it.

For a few moments, he just stood there, stunned. How could that have happened? The shattered blade in his hand reminded him of the swords he had been getting back lately under warranty. Not like the one that idiot Barida had brought in, but like the legitimate claims before him. He tested two more swords this way, and the result was the same. Shattered. There really was an issue with his swords. The blacksmith grumbled to himself, insulted.

On a whim, he retrieved the sword he used in his fight against the Minotaur and tested it the same way, just to be safe. Nothing happened. Well, that is to say, nothing exploded; the sword did exactly what it was supposed to. Why was this one special? He looked at it, and he remembered forging it. This was one of his first magical swords, back when he first learned how to make them. He could remember forging this sword in particular; he recalled the passion and excitement he had poured into it, as well as the pride he had felt during its construction. That’s why it was a display piece after all. It’s been a while since he’s felt that way.

Except that wasn’t true, was it? For all the torment the image of that Minotaur gave him, when he thought back to that fight, he couldn’t help but feel… everything. He felt alive, passionate, and angry. Well, he always felt that. That wasn’t everything, though; he also felt purpose.

When had he lost that?

He didn’t need to wonder long; he knew when that was. The smith could practically feel the presence of the ceramic jar staring at him through the walls to the other room. Ardor looked around his workshop. Years of effort had been spent in this room, crafting swords and other gear for adventurers. Adventurers who saved lives, their battles started here long before the contract ever landed at the guild.

“I think you would be good at it. More than that, I think you would enjoy it”, Melissa’s voice rang in his head, as clear as the day she had said it, and her smile as bright as the sun itself.

He had dismissed her at the time, of course. She was trying to talk him into joining the guild with her, again, and had just given him a custom version of some new tech the adventurers were falling in love with. It integrated with the emotive seal in their necks and provided a graphical interface and database of magicae abilities that helped people understand magic better. At the time, he had been bombarded by a plethora of pop-ups and displays that were so overwhelming, he turned them all off. At her suggestion, though, he had kept the emergency notifications on.

Alone in his workshop, Ardor looked through previous system messages to find what he was looking for.

You have died.

Soul transition has been delayed by an internal effect. Stubbornness and Anger have combined to create a 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.

“You have died,” he said to himself, tasting the words on his mouth.

Ardor didn’t resent those words; he didn’t even fear them. He simply agreed with them, though he did have one complaint. They were late, far too late. He had died long before his encounter with that monster. Not physically, but mentally. He, himself, the culmination of experiences and personality that was “Ardor, the blacksmith,” had died with Melissa. It showed in the quality of his work, he knew, but he never would’ve admitted it before now. The metal work may be fine, but that was just the physical aspect. A skillset honed and mastered with years of practice. Magicae infusion, though, demands more than that. The Emotive Magicae is fueled by emotion, and so the emotions of the smith making a magical weapon are incredibly important… and Ardor’s had been numb for a long time. It was no wonder his swords were failing; he just hadn’t been willing to acknowledge it before.

A pile of shattered swords lay on the ground, spread around him, shards covering the floor. He couldn’t continue like this; something needed to change. He was still holding onto the sword from the fight in the street. In the street, the words echoed in his mind. He had almost forgotten. It was impossible for monsters to appear in the city; it was supposed to be anyway. The city was protected by magical barriers designed specifically to prevent this sort of thing. Not only had it appeared in the city, but it appeared right next to his shop. An idea began to form in the back of his mind. The world was changing, and so was he. He couldn’t continue like this.

Ardor nodded to himself. That settled it. Tomorrow morning, he would go back to the Adventurer’s Guild. He was going to take a contract. He was going to live again, or die trying… again.