Once, long ago and far from here, there lived a boy, and his name was Fenrir. He loved the simple things in life, from the flowers and the stars, to the moons and their light. But there was one thing that Fenrir cared for more deeply than anything else. You see, ever so often, there are those born into this world for a sole purpose. For Fenrir, that purpose was swordsmanship.

From a very young age Fenrir had shown an acute mastery of the blade that far surpassed his peers. By the time he was 16 he had mastered all forms of the sword, and the philosophies of the old had seemed to have been passed down to him prophetically. And although young Fenrir was not typically known for his ambitions, he is the only person in history to have declined being knighted by the Empress. Though he did have one dream that spoke to him every night after closing his eyes; he knew he was born to be the greatest swordsman to ever live.

The dreams spoke to him in the form of visions, playing out in tales that would never repeat themselves. The visions were so real that there were times Fenrir would wake up with the blood of his adversaries still on his hands. It was an odd thing. An unexplainable thing. It was because of these dreams that Fenrir knew his path. It had been carved out for him in the stars, and he would follow it until the end of time.

Yet with all the skill that Fenrir possessed, he soon came to find that there were no swords of his equal. Each and every blade he used would turn to rust and eventually crumble into dust. There was no sword that he could find, or have crafted, that could match his will. Because of this, Fenrir decided that he would seek out the Old Lord Masamune, a firstborn blacksmith who had crafted all of the swords he had read about in fairy tales.

Masamune was a legend in himself. Since the beginning of his time, it seemed that he had a similar ambition to Fenrir, except that his purpose was the sole creation of swords. They were as beautiful as the four seasons, sharper than the harshest word, and strong enough to be wielded by the greatest heroes of their world. Fenrir knew that only Masamune could craft him the swords needed to attain his dream.

And so it was that Fenrir traveled to the small village rumored to be the home of Masamune. It was a quiet place, full of trees and warmth and solitude. In the center of the village he found Masamune’s shop, and excited over finding it, quickly found his way inside.

The shop smelled of fire, iron and steel, a scent that brought a smile to his face. And there in the back of shop, sitting on a wooden bench and hammering away at the makings of a sword, was a very old man with long hair the color of midnight.

The old man stopped hammering when he felt Fenrir’s presence, turning his eyes to the boy standing idly in his shop. The moment Fenrir met his eyes he knew the old man to be Masamune. The fire in his eyes was of someone who had seen the world, and they told Fenrir many things. Throughout his life, Fenrir had looked into the eyes of the most dangerous beasts, the grandest of nobility, and master swordsmen from distant lands, but all of them paled in comparison to the eyes of Masamune.

             Fenrir bowed his head.

             “The answer is no,” Masamune said, turning back to his hammering.  

             Fenrir looked up hesitantly, trying to find the right words. “But I haven’t asked for anything yet.”

A tight smile curved Masamune’s lips. “Just because you have not asked me for anything does not mean that you have not come here to ask me for something. I can tell by your eyes that something fierce has brought you here, which is likely the desire of something, and I can tell by your hands that you have been more familiar with a sword than anything else in your life. I can judge from the two together that you have sought me out in the hopes that I will make you a sword.”

             “Swords,” Fenrir corrected. “Two to be exact.” He braced himself for the old man’s answer.

             The old man lifted an eyebrow. “The art of dual swordsmanship is one that requires complete mastery over each hand. It is not something to be taken lightly. It can take some a lifetime just to master the art of one blade, after all.”

             “I would by no means claim myself a master,” Fenrir said, “but if I am to become the greatest swordsman to ever live, I will need something stronger than the swords I have been using so far. Each of them turns to rust with a few uses and not long after, crumbles to dust. There is no blade that can match the power of my will, and thus is the reason for my seeking you out.”

             Masamune stroked his thick beard. “Well, that is something indeed. It has been a very long time since someone has spoken those words to me. But still, I will not make your swords. Now please exit my shop so I can continue my work.”  

             Despite his frustration, Fenrir knew it would be rude to argue with the old man. Nodding his head, Fenrir took his leave. That night when he dreamed, he saw himself holding two of the greatest blades he had ever laid eyes on, and upon waking, knew that he mustn’t give up hope.

             So it was that Fenrir came to Masamune’s shop each and every day, requesting that the old man reconsider his decision. And each and every time, the old man turned away Fenrir, telling the boy that he would never reconsider, and that he chose those whom he made swords for, not the other way around.  

             For 28 days straight, Fenrir returned to Masamune and was rejected every time. But he did not lose hope. He knew that the old man was the only person capable of crafting the swords he needed. Declaring to himself that he would visit the old man a thousand days in a row if he had too, Fenrir set off on the 29th day to Masamune’s shop.

             On his way, Fenrir came across an old woman sitting on the side of the road. She was thin as a skeleton, her hair was frail and dry, and one look into her eyes revealed that the woman was quite sick. Stopping to offer the woman some of his water, Fenrir asked if there was anything he could do to help.

             “My boy,” said the old woman, her voice weary and tired. “I am plagued by a rare disease and I fear that there is none who can help me now. I have seen shamans and witchdoctors and specialists, but none have known the cause of my illness, nor how to cure it. “However . . .” the old woman struggled to catch her breath. “. . . There was one shaman who told me something of importance.”

             “What was that?” Fenrir asked.

             “He told me that although he knows not of what ails me, he had heard stories of a panacea named the Gargantua flower, that, in all the stories he’s heard, can cure someone of any illness.”

             “I’ve never heard of it,” Fenrir admitted.

             “Neither had I,” the woman continued, looking down. “But he did tell me what he knew about it. It is a flower that grows once every thousand cycles, and that the reason for its name is its unique properties. Apparently, it is a flower half the size of a man, and one that weighs nearly a thousand pounds. Upon hearing the news, I knew that I had no chance in finding one, let alone retrieving one for myself. So, I have set myself on the side of the road, hoping that a passerby has some knowledge of the one thing that can save my life.”

             Fenrir felt pity for the old woman as he looked down at her withered and dying body. There was nothing he could say to console her. Perhaps the shaman who had told her about the panacea had simply just been trying to give her hope.

             “If I come across one, I will return it to you,” said Fenrir.

             The woman nodded her head, and soon Fenrir was on his way.

             That day when Fenrir came into Masamune’s shop, he found him in the same state he always found him in. However, this time, when Fenrir asked the old man if he would reconsider making him swords, Masamune did not simply reject him. He sat there in silence, contemplating something for many long minutes.

             “Why do you return when the answer is clearly no?” Masamune finally asked.

             “My dream is all I have, my journey . . .” Fenrir paused, choosing his words carefully. “If I were to give up, I would be giving up a part of myself. This is my destiny . . . and I have already made up my mind. I knew this path wouldn’t be without challenges. Whatever those challenges are, I will surpass them.”

             “I see,” Masamune muttered. “Then I will agree to make you your swords in exchange for three items.”  

             Fenrir’s eyes lit up. “Anything.”

             “They will not be easy to obtain,” Masamune added.

             “I will not fail,” Fenrir said. “It is my destiny to become the greatest swordsman to ever live.”

             “Very well,” said Masamune, standing. “The first is the feather of a Nowl, the rarest and most expensive item one can purchase in Soria. The second is a fragment of the darkness, only obtainable by traveling to the realm of Mortal Aeryx. And the third I will reveal to you if you are able to bring me back the first two. These are my conditions. Do you accept?”

             Fenrir stood still for a moment. “Both of the things you have asked me for are in direct violation with the laws of Soria. Everyone knows that Nowls are celestial creatures, and interaction with them in any way is an extreme offense.” Fenrir took a deep breath. “And traveling to Mortal Aeryx is impossible. Not only is it a breach of the 3rd Great Law, but no one has ever been down there and returned alive.”

             “If it was going to be this easy to turn you away,” Masamune began, “I would have offered you these terms the first day you came in. Bringing these items is the only way I will forge your swords. Breaking the laws of Soria will be your risk, not mine.”

             “So be it,” said Fenrir, turning to the door. “I will return with the items you requested.” Masamune watched as Fenrir took his leave of the shop.

             “We will see,” Masamune murmured, returning to his craft.

             And so, Fenrir set off on the first challenge of Masamune. He gathered every book he could find on Nowls, and for three days did not sleep or eat or rest. He read through every single book from cover to cover until he had learned everything there was to know about the mysterious and elusive creatures.

             After closing the last book, Fenrir laid himself down to rest and slept through a fortnight. In his dreams the Nowls hid within the shadows, their gleaming eyes set on him from afar. No matter how hard he tried, he could never close the distance between himself and them.

             Upon waking, Fenrir knew that the only way to catch a Nowl would be in the sky. He would have to learn how to fly, an age-old technique of his race that few could master. Knowing that he could not spend the amount of time needed to properly learn, Fenrir climbed to the top of the Great Tree and began meditating at the top.

             He sat with his eyes closed for a time unmeasurable, listening only to the sound of the wind. Upon finally opening his eyes, Fenrir walked to the edge of the highest branch and stepped off. Falling rapidly toward the ground, Fenrir focused on everything around him. He felt the energy of the wind come upon him, and although he could not grasp it, he could feel it holding him. Just before he hit the ground, Fenrir’s descent slowed until he came to a stop, hovering just above the water of Senyria lake.  

             Turning his eyes to the sky above, Fenrir took off in pursuit of the Nowl’s known resting place: the cliffs beneath Vale’s Garden. It was a place that no one had ever seen, save the Empress, yet he was undaunted. Shades turned to days and days to weeks as Fenrir searched for the Nowls. Refusing to return empty handed, Fenrir flew higher and higher into the sky until something caught his eye.

             There was a single dark cloud above him, and from within he could sense the life force of something oddly familiar to that of the Great Tree. Taking a deep breath, Fenrir flew into the cloud. Almost instantaneously and taking him by much surprise, he passed through into a clear space of sky. Directly above him emerged a floating island, and perched on the side of the its cliffs were hundreds upon hundreds of Nowls.

             Feeling his strength rekindle, Fenrir took off towards the cliff. Upon flying closer, he felt the gaze of each and every Nowl, as if they were weighing his worth. Fenrir glanced around at all the inquisitive eyes locked on him and for reasons unbeknownst to him, began telling the story of how he had come to find them, and why. As he finished telling it, one of the Nowls took off from the cliff as if challenging his quest. Fenrir took off after the Nowl and the chase began.

             For what felt like days, Fenrir chased the Nowl through the sky and clouds. He chased it all the way back down to Falia and across both of the floating nations. Their chase took them past the castle, over the Great Tree, and to many places he had never seen before. But as the chase continued, Fenrir began to feel his strength dwindling.

Feeling for the first time as if he might fail, Fenrir summoned the entirety of his remaining energy and the two of them took off in a final sprint. He could feel himself gaining on the Nowl and knew the battle would be a test of endurance. Just as the last remnants of his energy faded, Fenrir knew that he had lost. He came to a stop, staring up at the Nowl who, surprisingly, also came to a halt. After a moment of staring at one another, the Nowl took off back towards its home, and as it flew away, he saw something falling back down toward him, arcing back and forth in the air. Reaching out his hand, Fenrir felt a single feather of the Nowl fall gently onto his palm. He bowed his eyes to his adversary in respect, and sent his words of thanks on the wind.

“Bolt,” Fenrir whispered. “That is your name, for you are quicker than lightning and swifter than the wind. I hereby bow my head to you my friend, for you are the fastest creature that has ever lived.”

Fenrir returned that night to Masamune’s shop and handed him the feather. Judging by his appearance, Masamune could tell that the swordsman had gone through a grievous effort to obtain the feather.

“You caught him?” Masamune asked.

Fenrir shook his head. “I could not, but I gave him the chase of a lifetime and in honor of our friendship, he gifted me with his feather. I hope that will suffice.”  

Masamune took the feather in his hand and was quiet for a moment. “It is because of this, Fenrir, that your swords will be the swiftest of all my creations, and the purest, for by handing me this feather you have given up the desire of wealth. But your trials are not yet over. Now you must travel to Mortal Aeryx, and bring me back a fragment of the darkness.”

Fenrir bowed his head, then turned and exited the shop.

It wasn’t long before Fenrir was standing before the Edge. He stared down into the unknown darkness beneath him, wondering what it was that he would find in Mortal Aeryx. Lifting his arms out to his sides, Fenrir stepped off the cliff.

It is unclear how long Fenrir fell. Some say days, others, weeks. There are even some who believe Fenrir fell for an entire ring before he passed into the realm of Mortal Aeryx. The one thing we do know is what he felt upon entering the darkness.

It was cold. The air was hard to breathe, and Fenrir felt as if he had stepped into a dismal cloud, a thousand times denser than the ones we know. But most of all it was dark. The kind of dark one feels when they are afraid and most vulnerable. It was in this heavy, fearful darkness that Fenrir touched down upon Mortal Aeryx.

The ground was not sturdy like the earth he was accustomed to walking on, and it gave him the impression that he was walking on the wind. And as he passed cautiously into the pitch-black void, he began to hear whispers.

At first, they were so soft he thought it was his imagination. But as he walked further and further, the words became clearer, until he stopped and focused only on listening. The whispers spoke to him as if they were a piece of him, deviously trying to work doubt and fear into his heart. He closed his eyes as they hissed into his ears, unveiling to him the doubt that secretly existed in his mind.

Feeling suddenly afraid, Fenrir opened his eyes to find a subtle shift in the darkness. And out before him walked something he never could have expected. It was him, or at least, it appeared to be him.

The figure stood before him, it’s eyes glowing red in the dark. Where Fenrir’s hair was bright as starlight, the dark version had hair the color of shadow. It spoke to Fenrir, asking him why he had come, despite knowing that he was fearful of what he might find. It told him that someone such as himself could never succeed in what he had set out to accomplish, that it had seen a future in which he fails, but most painful of all were the words about his dreams.

The dark Fenrir grinned wickedly as it told him everything that hid in the shadows of his own heart. It mocked him for believing his dreams could be a prophetic foretelling of his destiny, and that they were only his narcissism trying to convince himself that he was meant for something great. It told him that he was truly meant for nothing, and that everything he ever did would be in vain, that he was fated to meet only failure.

Fenrir’s doubt continued to grow within his gut. He took in the words of the dark figure, letting them penetrate deep into his soul. And then, despite the cruel words and the fear in his heart, he looked himself dead in the eyes.

“No matter how fearful I am,” Fenrir said, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I will not let fear or doubt dull my blade, for of all the things that I dread, it is the regret of not giving my all that I fear the most.”

As he pulled his sword forth from its sheathe, the blade revealed itself with a glow of light that sent the winds howling. The darkness around him twisted and turned, screaming in agony before the light.

With the dark form of himself roaring in pain, Fenrir leapt forward and struck it down. But as he pulled his sword free of his dark self, it’s form shifted and changed, revealing itself as something hideous and disgusting. It was a dark creature, with sharp teeth and a deformed face. Its claws were like daggers and down the spine of its back ran hair in the form of slithering shadows.

The creature leapt for Fenrir’s face with a cry of pure disdain, but Fenrir was no longer afraid, and with newfound quickness, felled the beast in one swift slash. As the creature’s body began to dematerialize into the darkness surrounding them, Fenrir snapped off one of its claws and placed it in a satchel. As he looked around, dozens of other creatures the same as the first were approaching him. Their whispers returned, and the weight of them tried to bring back the fear that was so heavy on his heart from before. But he ignored their attempts to weigh him down, and bearing the burden of their words on his shoulders, took off back into the dark sky.

He could hear their screams desperately trying to dissuade him, crying out that once he had entered the darkness, there was no return. But their attempts were fruitless as Fenrir focused on nothing but the hope of his return home. He pierced through the veil of clouds above, leaving the despairing voices in silence.

It was many days after Fenrir’s return to Soria before he came back to Masamune’s shop. The moment the old man saw him, he knew that the swordsman had seen something no other had ever had. The shadows of the darkness sat heavily upon on his shoulders like a cloak, and the light in his eyes had dimmed.

Masamune said nothing as Fenrir walked forward and opened his satchel. Inside, the old man’s eyes fell upon the claw of a beast that could not be of their world. The energy around it was the same as that of the shadow that sat upon the boy’s shoulders, and the old man picked it up with utmost caution.

“You are brave,” said Masamune. “I have met only a few others in all my life with a courage such as your own. I will not ask what you found down there, nor how you came about it, but know this: It is because of your bravery, Fenrir, that your swords will always be the light. No matter how dark your adversary is, nor how evil, these blades will never break or wither or rust, for it is with your courage that they will be tempered.”

Fenrir nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.

The old man looked carefully at the shadows twisting about Fenrir’s shoulders. “It seems you have brought something back with you that plagues your heart. I don’t know how you can rid yourself of it, but as long as you bear that weight on your shoulders, even you yourself will not be able to wield these swords, should you succeed in the final trial.”

Fenrir nodded once again, and Masamune caught his eyes. “You have completed the first of my two tasks, Fenrir. And for that I commend you, but your challenge has one more piece before it can be complete. Are you ready?”

Fenrir stared back into the old man’s eyes. “Yes.”

“So be it,” Masamune said. “There is a place in this world called the Thousand End Caves. It is in these caves that you must find a fragment of a fallen star. Only with the ore made from this star can your swords be tempered. This, is your final trial.”

“Where can I find it?” Fenrir asked.

“The only entrance I know of,” began Masamune, “is at the bottom of Cataclysm’s Gorge.”

Fenrir turned and headed for the door.

“You’ll want to bring something to help you find your way out,” added Masamune. “Many have entered only to get lost in the labyrinth of its passageways.”

Fenrir raised his hand in thanks, and exited Masamune’s shop.

“Good luck, my boy,” whispered Masamune.

So it was that Fenrir found his way down into Cataclysm’s Gorge, and soon found himself staring into the entrance of a deep cavernous pit. As he walked into the cave he found that there were many different paths to take, and as he continued, he began building waystones to help guide himself back out.

In the depths of the Thousand End Caves, Fenrir soon realized that it was difficult to tell how much time had passed because of the lack of sunlight. There was no sound in the caves other than the faint trickling of water here and there, and after what felt like days of walking to no end, Fenrir sat down against a wall to gather his thoughts.

It was here that he reminisced over everything he had done up until that point. He thought of the chasing of Bolt and how he had leapt from the Great Tree to teach himself how to fly. He thought of everything he had done up until he had met the old blacksmith, and the trials he had faced after.

He had faced himself, though in the cloak of some creature, and realized that no matter how much bravado one emanated, there were always feelings of doubt deep within. He realized that he had once believed that his dream would be the hardest thing he would ever face, but he had been wrong. The greatest adversary he would ever meet was one that could never be completely vanquished, for it was the one looking back at him in the mirror. It was all these things that had brought him down into the caves seeking the ore of a fallen star, and that it was these things that had shaped him into the man he had become.

An overwhelming feeling of gratitude swept through Fenrir in that moment, and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face. He wept, sitting there against the wall for a very long time, feeling himself to be one of the luckiest people to ever live.

And as he wept the shadows on his shoulders wisped away into nothingness until there were no more traces to be seen of it. The fire in his eyes returned, igniting the conviction in his soul. And when he finally stood, he smiled, for his spirit felt lighter than it ever had.

Hearing what sounded like one of his waystones crumbling, Fenrir stood and followed the sound down one of the passageways. It wasn’t long before it dead-ended into a cave, and there, sitting against the far end of the wall, was a chunk of shining ore, the like of which he had never seen.

Fenrir could hardly believe his eyes. The end of his trials had come. He had accomplished what he had set out to do. But it was then that his eyes noticed something else in the cave. Something odd. Something unexplainable. A few feet away from the chunk of ore grew a strange flower half his size, and one that was seemingly made entirely of iron.

Walking over to the flower, Fenrir placed his hand on it to find that it was quite warm, like a stone basking under the sunlight, and it was then that he remembered the sick woman he had met sitting on the side of the road.

“This is it,” he whispered, “the Gargantua flower.” He tried to pick it up, but realized it was far heavier than he thought. Just as he looked back at the shining chunk of ore, the caverns began to shake. Rocks started to fall from the ceiling as the trembling grew worse and worse.

Fenrir knew that he had to escape and fast, but he also knew he could not take both items with him. Relinquishing the hopes of meeting his destiny, Fenrir heaved the Gargantua flower out of the ground and took off running out of the cave.
He ran as fast as his legs would take him. The cavern thundered and shook as different passageways crumbled in his wake. Each of his passing waystones collapsed as he ran past them, and without knowing how he had done it, he suddenly found himself back outside the entrance of the caves.

He turned just in time to watch the opening of the caves crumble, closing his sole opportunity of ever completing Masamune’s trial. Taking a deep breath and accepting his choice, Fenrir left Cataclysm’s Gorge.

Fenrir returned to that same place he had found the sick woman on the side of the road. There he found her, looking just as hopeless as she had the first time. Kneeling down and gently placing the Gargantua flower in front of the old woman, Fenrir watched her open her eyes.

“T-this . . . This is . . .” The old woman could barely speak.

“Yes,” Fenrir answered, smiling. “It’s the panacea you’ve been looking for. I told you if I found it, I would return it to you.”
The sick woman wearily stood to her feet, leaning heavily on a wooden cane.

“Congratulations,” she said, her voice changing. Fenrir’s eyes watched in bewilderment as the appearance of the sick woman changed as if by some magic. Before he knew it, Fenrir was staring into the eyes of Masamune.

“You’ve passed the final trial, Fenrir.”

Fenrir stood motionless, unable to find the words.

Masamune smiled and placed his hand on Fenrir’s shoulder. “A true swordsman is many things, my boy. Of course, one must be strong and fast and brave, but there are many who exhibit those traits. However, it is seldom I meet the spirit of someone who can sacrifice themselves for another, and you have done just that. You have the true soul of a swordsman.”
“But the Thousand End Caves,” said Fenrir. “They’ve fallen. There is no way to get the ore.”

Masamune looked down at the Gargantua flower. “The shining ore you found in the caves is a rare stone native to our world. It would have made fine swords, but not the ones that you were seeking. You see, when that star fell long ago to our world, traces of it blossomed into what you see before you, the Gargantua flower. This, is the true ore.”

Leaning down, Masamune pulled a hammer from his belt. Knocking off one of the iron petals, Masamune held it up for Fenrir to see. On the inside of the flower was the most beautiful looking ore Fenrir had ever seen.

“You have earned the swords I will craft for you, Fenrir. And it is because of your honesty and loyalty to your word that your swords will never be tainted. They will always cut with the strength of your soul, and they will always be true to your heart. There is no evil that will darken their glow, and no other that will ever be able to wield these swords but you, for it is with these swords that you will meet your destiny.”