Once, I was the end of all things.

  Empires crumbled beneath my footsteps. Armies bowed or burned. I was the tyrant in every prophecy, the nightmare cloaked in obsidian fire. Children didn’t whisper my name—they were born already knowing it, like a fear stitched into the soul.

  And then, I died.

  Not in battle, not in some climactic duel with a chosen hero, surrounded by fanfare and last words etched into history. No, I slipped on a bar of soap during a bath, hit my head on the edge of a jade tub, and bled out while my generals stood frozen outside, too terrified to enter uninvited.

  That was the punchline of my grand, world-ending saga. Death by hygiene.

  The universe, I’ve decided, is a sadist with a terrible sense of humor.

  Because now? Now I am a sword. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. I mean this in the most literal, horrifying, forge-hot way. A blade. A hunk of steel. A pointy stick with opinions and no limbs.

  I can think. I can feel. I can scream internally. But I cannot move. I cannot wield myself. And worst of all, I am currently stuck in the corner of what appears to be a chicken coop disguised as a shed, half-buried in hay that smells of mildew, old potatoes, and goat urine.

  Outside, the wind stirs in lazy spirals. The scent of freshly turned soil rides in on the breeze, mixed with the earthy aroma of grass and manure and something sweet—perhaps wildflowers blooming by accident. It should be peaceful. Idyllic, even. But to me, it's just another cruel joke.

  Sunlight leaked through the thatched roof in shy golden beams, dust motes dancing lazily in the air like smug little ghosts. If this is purgatory, it is insultingly rustic.

  Then, the door creaked open.

  Boots shuffle against the packed earth. A wooden bucket thunks softly against the floor. I can hear him before I see him—a soft hum, tuneless and content, the kind of sound made by someone who waters plants and apologizes to them if he trims too much.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He enters my vision a moment later.

  Young. Slender. Calloused hands. Messy hair the color of overbaked honey, sticking out at odd angles like hay after a storm. His eyes are large, soft, and warm like tea with too much sugar. He wears patched trousers and a lopsided smile, and looks like someone who would name a pet rock and cry if it chipped.

  And then he sees me.

  “Oh, hello there,” he says, stepping forward with the cautious reverence of someone approaching a baby duck with a bazooka. “You’re... wow, you’re shiny.”

  Shiny. He called me shiny.

  Listen, I was forged in dragonfire by blind monks who wept blood and etched runes with their fingernails. Kingdoms fell for the chance to wield me. I once cut a continent in half because someone looked at me funny.

  Now I’m shiny.

  Don’t pick me up, I beg the cosmos. Leave me in the hay. Let me rot. Let the goats chew on me. Anything but this.

  He picks me up.

  And just like that, the bond snaps into place with all the subtlety of a catapult made of hugs. I feel it latch onto my essence, warm and bright and horribly affectionate. I want to recoil, but I have no limbs to recoil with. Instead, I hum involuntarily—betrayed by my own enchantments—as magic flows between us.

  “Oh! Did you just... vibrate?” he whispers in awe, holding me up to the light. “That’s so cool. I knew you were special.”

  Special. SPECIAL?

  I am the Doomblade Eternal. I am the World-Ender. I am—

  “You kind of sparkle in the sun, don’t you?” he murmurs. “I think I’ll call you Mister Glimmers.”

  ...

  I wish I could scream. I would flay the skies with it. I would write obscenities across the stars in blood and thunder. Instead, I make a noise somewhere between a disapproving hum and the distant whimper of a dying volcano.

  And then—because the universe hates me—I am carried. Cradled, actually, like a kitten with social anxiety. To his cottage. Which is even smaller than the shed, which I didn’t think was architecturally possible. One room. A crooked table. A fireplace that looks like it’s been mugged by the wind. There’s a goat inside, chewing cud and staring at me like I owe her money. She knows. She senses the evil within me. We lock gazes. A silent agreement is made: she will destroy me the moment I show weakness.

  The boy has begun boiling water at this point.

  He hums again, and now that I’m bonded, I can feel his emotions bleeding into me. Calm. Hopeful. A little lonely. An entire heart full of gentle light. I have killed demigods for less.

  He sits down and places me on a folded cloth on the table, like I’m a precious teacup and not an instrument of cataclysm.

  “You must be a gift from the forest,” he says with a small smile, eyes shining. “Or maybe... maybe someone left you for me. That happens in stories, right? Magical swords and chosen ones.”

  Please, I think. I am not your destiny. I am not a bedtime tale. I am not your friend. I am not “Mister Glimmers.”

  The system hums to life like a smug librarian clearing their throat.

  [New Wielder Bonded: REN, FARMHAND LVL 3]

  [Compatibility: 98% – Warning: Host Too Kind For Standard Functionality]

  [Trait Acquired: Heart Resonance I – +1 Empathy, +1 Gentle Grip, +5 Emotional Fortitude]

  Gentle. Grip.

  This is a nightmare. This is penance. This is divine punishment crafted specifically to break me in the most infuriating way possible.

  But there is one final indignity. One small, stupid, utterly damning thing I cannot ignore.

  When he picked me up—

  Just for a moment—

  I felt warm.

  And worse...

  I think I purred.