The sun shone through the cracks of the dark skies on the battered walls of Aleron. Outside the stone were mountains of blood, flesh, and ice. There was not a single sun in the skies, for the eyes and irises of the cities shone, painting the world golden.

 They fought and fought, until finally, the veil of darkness was uncovered, letting the southern sun shine on all who stood below it, enjoying the heat, light, and life it gave.

 In the front stood Hjorn, his sword gleaming, his soul unbreakable. None knows how many Witchborne he had killed, but the answer could only be: Too many.

 It wasn’t long, as minutes past and a few figures emerged from the edge of view. Hjorn turned, looking at the approaching figures. He couldn’t recognize most, yet some he could never forget.

 The Traveler emerged, a tired smile on his face. Behind him walked many he didn’t recognize, yet he recognized the kids that accompanied the Traveler in the cities.

 As the Traveler got closer, Hjorn walked toward him, sparks in his eyes.

 In a few seconds, they both froze as Hjorn’s face distorted. Moments went by, until finally…

 Hjorn bowed, works leaving his mouth.

 “Thank you, for helping my lord.”

 The Traveler smiled, waving with his hands as he walked past.

 “You must not thank me kid, I must do as much, for my friend.”

- - - - -

Fredek looked, focus on his eyes, at the skies. It has been a few hours as they saw the emergency flair, abandoning everything they were doing to rush to the location.

 He felt stress piling upon him, as he kept a facade of confidence and strength. When will it be…?

 As his emotions threatened to flood him, a hand pressed on his shoulders. He turned as he looked at Isar.

 “Relax. Believe in our men.”

 Fredek nodded with difficulty, his eyes returning to the skies. It's not that I don’t believe in our men, but I’ve seen what that Witch and her spawn did and could do. As she lives, we will never be free.

 As their march continued, they got closer and closer, the darkness in the skies got more and more concrete, Fredek felt it harder and harder to breath, yet he kept marching on, he felt a sense of terror, a sense of dread invade him as indistinguishable memories flooded him, he could only feel terror, blood and death… and nothing else.

 Isar said nothing, respecting Fredek’s resolve as they kept moving on. Suddenly, Fredek heard a boom shake the world. His eyes flickered to the skies, widening as light broke through the web of darkness, revealing the world back.

 Fredek didn’t know, did the Witch escape? Was she sealed? Was she killed? He had no way to know, yet somehow, he knew.

 He felt his knees shake before giving way, as he dropped to the floor. Tears pouring. Isar turned to him, worried as he tried to get him up as Fredek refused, speaking.

 “Finally, finally… we are finally truly free.”

- - - - -

Jorish looked at the skies, as ashes colored them, azure replaced by obsidian. Every few minutes, an explosion happened in one side or another, burning lava burning the ground occasionally.

 Yet, they were untouched as they walked through. Jorish was not worried, the sun was hidden behind the endless ashes and lava, yet it shone all the same upon Jorish’s body. He had not changed much since the battle two months ago, yet inside his eyes was a gleam hidden, carrying his will, his intention.

 The Volcanosmith turned, speaking.

 “Give it to me.”

 A moment later, Traves stepped forward handing something wrapped in cloth. The Volcanosmith unwrapped it, revealing a dull, gray metal. Holding it, the Volcanosmith’s hand visibly recoiled momentarily, his voice shaky.

 “Are you sure, Traveler? Isn’t this the last piece of the World’s edge you have?”

 Traves nodded wordlessly, as a resolute look appeared on the Volcanosmith’s eyes as they moved towards the biggest volcano peak. It was only a few minutes as they reached the top. Jorish, Cail moved to the side, followed by Anise, Dyce and Jorish. They stood at the rim, looking down as the Volcanosmith moved to a lower platform, just above the Magma.

 Traves started speaking.

 “World’s edge, that location is a place I only dared visit once, and I was fortunate, very fortunate. There, I got the material that shares its iconic name, the World’s edge. There is only one smith able and worthy to craft such a material.”

 “Worthy?” Jorish exclaimed.

 “Indeed, it is not just about equipment, World’s edge chooses to allow being forged. Same for wielding it, if it finds you unworthy, it would never truly unleash its true abilities. And once a weapon chooses a master, it rarely if ever accepts to be wielded by another.”

 Traves reversed his grip on his sword, handing it to Jorish.

 “Try using it.”

 Jorish took the Voyage from Traves’ hands. Watching as the fantastic emerald light shining from its tip turned dull and gray. He swung the sword around, feeling it heavy and unwieldy. He could use it, but not any better than any simple iron sword.

 “The World’s edge has no real weight, yet its weapons are not designed with that assumption. As someone it approves wields it, it would adjust to be perfect for him. And that is not even considering the rest of its properties, but enough of that! The Volcanosmith is about to begin, it is rare to watch such a master at work.”

 Jorish nodded, his hand twitching as he resisted taking his book out of habit, deciding to focus on the figure of the burly smith. He gripped air with his hand, as the air got more concrete, taking the shape of a hammer. Jorish watched as every muscle on his body tensed, as he brought the hammer down, its sound echoing.

 One and twice, the hammer kept hitting the dull metal, the anvil crimson from the heat. Yet, the Volcanosmith didn’t bother dipping the World’s edge in the magma, as if that was a pointless endeavor.

 Louder and louder, each strike struck and the metal remained unchanged. With every strike, manga flew into air, tranquility disturbed as hammer blows rained on the metal which refused to bow.

 Jorish watched as the veins on the Volcanosmith widened, as he wore a crazed look, jumping into the Volcano holding the World’s edge. As his skin touched the magma, it began to burn, searing sounds slithering.

- - - - -

The Volcanosmith grip hardened, his energy shaping into a hammer. He ignored the pain as his skin burned, reinforcing his body with Energy to keep the damage from getting critical. As his body sunk in the burning magma, he stared at the piece of the World’s edge.

 Truth be told, he didn’t hold absolute confidence, it was almost a miracle it worked last time, so long ago, and it was not purely because of him. The World’s edge deemed him passable, but it wished to be molded into a weapon, one wielded by the Traveler.

 His thoughts turned to Jorish, he was a good man, perhaps lacking in strength compared to the Traveler back then, yet he thought of watching him fighting the Witchborne. If there is something he doesn’t lack, it is will.

 His blows got stronger and stronger, the Volcano disturbed and crazed, lava flying into the skies as it rained upon the roads of Helmgard. Yet, one strike after another it remained solid, unchanged.

 The Volcanosmith started feeling hesitant. Am I really going to succeed again? So many years, and only one success. The Traveler was just too outstanding. I must’ve worried Jorish sick by now…

 The Volcanosmith glanced upwards, taking in Jorish’s face. He felt shocked as he took it in, Jorish’s eyes held no hesitation, no fear nor questions. He stood, arms crossed and eyes posed downwards, not even a shard of hesitation.

 The Volcanosmith felt his heart skip a beat, as a single thought on his mind. If even a practitioner hasn’t given up, on what right do I have to?!

 His grip got harder, insanity touching him as he let his Energy go loose. He no longer knew what he held, he just swung downward leaving a print almost as large as the volcano’s mouth, and again.

 One strike after another rained, furious, and insane. The Volcanosmith’s thoughts simple and tyrannical.

 Break.

 That man is the disciple of the Traveler! Not a single one of them wasn’t great one way or another, a legend in his own right. And he too shall be!

 The hammer descended yet again, its sounding deafening.

 He is more than worthy, far more than worthy!

 The hammer descended again, fueled with the Volcanosmith’s insanity, as he stopped supplying Energy to protect his body, going all out on every single strike as he felt his flesh burn deeper and deeper.

 Finally, a crack sounded, so faint it could barely be heard, yet it was heard all the same. Strike after another kept raining down, as the occasional echo of the hammer strike sounded. Shaping a half an arrowhead as the mass kept shrinking and condensing.

 The Volcanosmith’s look of insanity got only stronger, pouring Energy into the ring in his hand, masses of materials appearing around him.

 I shall make you, a worthy weapon!

 He grabbed the silver metal, his thoughts in disarray.

 Northern frostbite steel, its aura sharp enough to cut if you touched it, almost if you had frostbite!

 He hammered the Northern steel, shaping the rest of the blade. Minutes later, he held a blade long enough for a short sword. But he was not making a short sword. No. He was making something greater.

 A moment later, his hand extended grabbing another material. He held a large wooden branch which held a metallic gloss, an incomparable sheen.

 A branch of the Radiant tree, impossible to get, mythical interactions with light Energy.

 He set the branch in the lava, hammering it as it got softer. The branches of the Radiant tree didn’t burn, they were almost like metal as they got softer. Slowly, he shaped it into the polearm’s handle. Hammering went on, until finally, the Volcanosmith emerged, skin charred black, breath weak, holding the glaive.

 Traves looked at him, nodding as he held the spear. The spear didn’t light up, it knew the Traveler was worthy, but he wasn’t the one it was made for. Traves held the spear for a few moments, exclaiming.

 “Good spear!”

 He handed the spear to Jorish, who suddenly froze as his hand gripped the spear.

 “Wait!” The Volcanosmith shouted. “Aren’t you going to warn him?”

 The Traveler smiled. “He needs no warning, his will is unbroken, he is the one who burned his own heart for victory. Such a man, is definitely worthy!”

- - - - -

Jorish held his spear, as his mind blanked. He could faintly hear echoed, as if something was calling out to him, asking him.

 Who am I?

 The voice echoed.

 Who are you?

 It continued.

 Why you?

 Jorish felt his thoughts go astray, as the voice kept asking him questions, prodding him for answers.

 Jorish’s thoughts went over the last two years he had spent, his miserable life, his lowest point, meeting the travelers, and growing up.

 He thought about his travels through the Sun-touched Cities, of meeting new people like Sitki and Mitki, of facing the senator, and watching Traves clash with the Sovereign.

 He thought of meeting Fredek, exploring the Free cities of Tenes. Of meeting his various allies in the army, of meeting the various captains, meeting Nao and Sayaka.

 His mind settled on the figures of his teammates, the faces of Anise and Dyce settled in his mind. Every scene and every motion during the last years, they were on his side, and he was on theirs. And we shall be forever.

 Finally, his mind shifted to Traves. His mentor, his master… his friend. The one who got him from his life, into the hell of growing and scaling the skies, to reach the peak one day.

 They both recognized it, Traves was his master, and Jorish was the student. Yet they never spoke about it, Jorish felt a tinge of bitterness, yet ignored it. This doesn’t matter.

 His thoughts came back to his spear, as he said, voice echoing through the emptiness.

 “Once, I was weak.”

 “No longer shall I bow down anymore.”

 “Once, I was afraid.”

 “No longer shall I step back; I shall move only forward.”

 “I have fought and fought. I climbed from the depths of hell, aiming for the skies.”

 “And no longer, shall that be enough.”

 “If an army stands before me, I shall mow them down.”

 “If a horde of beasts came upon me, I shall bring them slaughter.”

 “And if the very sun came to oppose us, to threaten what we hold dear, then you, shall fly, and pierce the sun itself!”

 “And thus, you, are the Sun-piercer, and that shall be your name!”

 Moments later, Jorish felt the world turn vague, as his senses returned to reality. He crossed eyes with Traves, whose smile widened.

 “Congratulations on your new... spear.”

 Traves and Jorish laughed, as Traves asked.

 “Did you name it yet?”

 Jorish nodded. “This is the glaive that will one day pierce the sun, The Sun-piercer.”

 Traves nodded. “Good name!”

 Jorish smiled, as he turned towards Dyce and Anise, about to walk towards them.

 “Jorish”

 He turned, looking at Traves. He saw him slightly recoil as if he remembered, relived something. He waited until finally the Traveler sighed and took a deep breath.

 “Would you… take me as your master.”

 Jorish went into his knees immediately, I had only been waiting for those words, why did it take so long for those words.

 He bowed, without a word. His answer was clear. He looked at his master’s face, calm on his face, as if a wound was healed.

 Jorish stood up, holding his spear. He felt surprised as he saw Dyce approach Traves.

 “Traveler, please, teach me as well!”

 Traves shook his head, as he spoke.

 “I am truly unable to, Dyce. But worry not, there is one person I know who is more worthy than me to be your master.”

 Dyce nodded, moving back, his eyes holding a burning flame, a wish to get stronger, a wish for justice.

 Jorish took a deep breath before asking. “So, Traves, what is next? What is our next destination?”

 Traves smiled.

 “First, we shall go teach you how to fight, as for our destination…”

 His smile widened, his hand entering his cloak as Jorish smiled as well, watching him take out a coin.

 “Would you like the honor, or shall I?”

- - - - -

Traves walked, enjoying the quiet as they left Helmgard. His mind raced, stuck repeating his parting words with the Sword Saint.

 The memory surfaced, they stood opposing each other’s as they spoke.

 “Traveler, have you noticed?”

 “Indeed, I did. Change is coming.”

 The Sword Saint shook his head. “It is not simply changing, power scales are getting out of control, people are gaining power at an abnormal rate… And the signs are aligning.”

 He gripped the sword on his hip, his eyes deep and sharp.

 “Change is truly coming, a catastrophe, or perhaps simply a tribulation is coming. And all of Regalia is in danger of being annihilated.”

END OF ARC 2

END OF BOOK 1