ELARION : The Echo Breaker

CHAPTER 4: The Merchant of Dust & Scrap Iron

Night on the border path wasn't black, but gray. A thin mist hung knee-high, hiding potholes ready to snap the legs of unwary horses.

Ganda walked alone.

His steps were soundless. The effect of the Nerve Oil was terrifying. His right hand hung at his side, heavy and alien. He tried to make a fist. The muscles obeyed, but there was no sensation.

Like moving a corpse's hand sewn onto his shoulder.

Cold. Efficient. Dead.

Two hours of walking. Silence. Then, the wind carried the sound.

Screeech...

Not a wolf. Not the wind. It was the sound of wood screaming. High frequency, unnatural, a sign of a structure forced to bear a load beyond its elastic capacity.

Ganda stopped. His ears twitched.

Around the sharp bend ahead, a large cart sat tilted.

A short man in a leather vest full of pockets was kneeling in the mud, beating a wheel with a wrench. The figure looked dwarfed beside his mountain of merchandise pots, rolled carpets, wooden crates, and all the world's junk.

He wasn't fixing. He was panicking.

"Come on, you bastard..." the man hissed, his voice shaking. He kicked the wheel rim. "Don't break here. Not on the 'Ghost Path'. Turn, damn it!"

He knew something Ganda didn't yet: In the rocky hills above them, deserter spies were watching. A stationary cart was fresh carrion.

Ganda approached from downwind. He didn't greet him. He just stood at the edge of the cart's lantern light.

The short man jumped. The wrench in his hand raised not as a tool, but a desperate weapon.

"Back off!" he shouted. His voice cracked. "I have no money! Just used pots and wet salt! Go away!"

Ganda didn't back off. He stared at the cart. His eyes didn't see the pile of carpets or wooden crates. He saw stress lines.

Rear left wheel. The axle wasn't straight. The support wood at the core was cracked inside, hollow like porous bone.

Every second the cart sat still, the crack widened.

"It's not the wheel," Ganda's voice was rasping. He stepped into the circle of light. "Your center axle is screaming."

"Don't come closer!" The man swung his wrench wildly. "You think I'm stupid? You're with them, right? With the bandits on the hill?"

Ganda ignored the iron swinging in front of his face. He knelt beside the wheel. His hand touched the grease-stained axle.

He closed his eyes. Fine vibrations traveled to his palm. Crack... Crack... The wood was about to split.

Ganda looked around. By the roadside, there was a flat river stone with a sharp edge. He picked it up with his right hand, the numb hand.

"Hey! Don't touch my assets!" The man took a step forward, cold sweat soaking his temples.

Ganda ignored him. He slid under the cart. Cramped. Smelling of grease and wet earth. He found the gap. The point where the support wood met iron. There was an empty space the width of a finger. The source of the scream.

He needed a hammer. He didn't have a hammer.

Ganda made a fist with his numbed right hand. Hard. Bone met stone. Then he slammed the stone into the axle gap.

THUD!

The merchant flinched.

Ganda struck again. This time he used the back of his right hand as the hammer. Skin grazed. Blood seeped out. But no pain signal reached the brain.

CRACK.

The stone fit perfectly. Locked. The screeching sound vanished instantly. The cart's weight now rested on the stone, not the cracked wood. The structure's scream was silenced.

Ganda crawled out. The back of his hand was bleeding, yet his face was flat.

"Drive," Ganda said.

The merchant stared at Ganda's bleeding hand, then at Ganda's expressionless face. His mouth hung open. He lowered his wrench slowly. The fear in his eyes shifted shape from fear of being robbed to something more cautious.

Ganda stood up. His eyes swept the pile of goods on the cart.

Ganda’s gaze stopped on something protruding from behind a roll of musty carpet. A handle. Black wood, wrapped in leather straps brittle with age. A rusty iron ring at the pommel.

Ganda recognized the shape. It wasn't a straight Aurellian knight's sword. It wasn't a slender Kaijin Katana.

It was a Dao. A single-edged broadsword. Top-heavy, designed to chop bone and split helmets. An ancient weapon from the era before the Iron Empire rose to power.

Ganda pulled it out. The blade was dull, covered in red rust stains. To a layman, this was scrap metal.

"Hey, that..." The merchant stammered. "That's just scrap iron. I found it in a trench from the war ten years ago. It weighs a ton, nobody wants to buy it."

Ganda gripped the handle.

The weight fell at the tip of the blade. This wasn't a knight's sword balanced for quick duels. Nor a katana precise for clean slices.

This was crude iron designed for one thing: Momentum.

Ganda's numb right hand couldn't feel the handle's texture, but his shoulder muscles understood the language. This weapon didn't ask for finger dexterity, something he had lost. This weapon asked for body swing.

A sword that didn't ask for speed. A sword that asked for commitment.

Once swung, it wouldn't stop until it hit bone.

"I'm taking this," Ganda said. Not asking.

The merchant swallowed hard. He watched Ganda hold the heavy sword with one hand, relaxed as if holding a twig.

"Take it..." the merchant's voice grew small. "Call it... a discount for the repair."

Ganda climbed onto the left side of the cart, sitting among the piles of goods. He placed the rusty Dao on his lap.

The merchant still stood there, hesitant. He glanced at the dark hills behind them. Then back at Ganda, who sat silently.

Rapid calculations happened in the merchant's head. His cart worked. But he was alone. Bandits might still be lurking. This man... he wasn't a robber, he was something else. But this man had just fixed his cart and was now armed.

"Listen," the merchant's voice changed. Lower. His trading instinct took over. "Name's Niko. Logistics Specialist."

He jumped onto the driver's seat, picking up the reins.

"We heading the same way?" Niko asked without looking back, eyes straight on the road.

Ganda leaned his head against the cart wall, his bloody fingers stroking the handle of the old Dao.

"North," Ganda answered briefly.

Niko nodded. He whipped the donkey.

"Good. Hold on tight, Mr. Passenger. If any bastard tries to take my pots..." Niko glanced at the sword in Ganda's lap through the corner of his eye. "Make sure you swing that scrap iron as hard as you hit that rock."

Ganda didn't answer. He just closed his eyes.

The wheels turned. Smooth. No screaming sound. The cart glided through the mist, carrying them further from the safety line... towards the Sun's Throat.