Wise Choice

🗡

The crimson blade slid free, its glow flooding the common room.

The leader’s eyes instantly widened.

“Hey! Who told you to–!”

He never got to finish. The moment the Bloodblade left its sheath, Flint was already moving, crossing the distance between them in a blur as the crimson edge traced a single line across the man's neck.

The innkeeper's wife stared in confusion as the hand gripping her neck suddenly slackened. She stumbled free, rushing straight into her husband while behind her, the leader’s sword slipped through his fingers.

“Isabela!”

A thin red line appeared across his throat, as blood gushed out like a torrent. The leader collapsed with a resounding thud, amidst the silence that had swallowed the room.

One of the bandits stared.

“…Boss?”

The crossbowman was the first to react.

“Kill the kid!”

The bolt flew from his crossbow without hesitation.

"Flint!" Isla warned, her tone laced with panic.

With a single turn of the crimson blade, Flint ricocheted the bolt harmlessly into the far wall.

"Shit!"

The crossbowman fumbled for another bolt, only to find the young man already standing before him. The crimson blade swung, cleaving the crossbow cleanly in two before flowing seamlessly into a second strike that opened the bandit's chest from shoulder to waist. He collapsed with nothing more than a wet gurgle.

“You little shit—“

Another bandit charged with a wild overhead swing, but Flint stepped inside the attack as though he'd seen it long before it began. A single vertical cut opened the man's abdomen, and he managed only one unsteady step before collapsing face-first onto the wooden floor.

The fourth man didn’t even try to attack, instinctively backing away with his eyes fixed on the crimson blade.

“…What the hell…”

Flint’s expression hadn’t changed at all.

There was no triumph in what he had done.

No glory.

Only quiet resignation showing in his face.

The remaining bandits exchanged panicked glances.

“This…”

One of them took another step backward.

“This ain’t worth it!”

“Run!”

The last three bolted for the entrance, shoving each other aside in their desperation. Within seconds the bandits were gone.

Only the bodies remained, along with the young man standing silently in the middle of the room, the crimson blade still trembling softly in his hands.

Wise choice.

The blade didn’t mock him. It simply stated a fact. And that was what infuriated Flint the most.

As the sword returned to its sheathe, the young man let out a long and weary breath.

Just as suddenly as the violence had erupted, silence reclaimed the common room. Outside, the crowd had already formed, as the rays of the morning sun spilled through the window.

“Mama! Papa!” The little girl crossed the room, landing straight into her parents’ arms. The woman held her so tightly it almost looked painful.

“It’s alright…”

She could barely speak through her own tears.

“It’s alright now…”

The innkeeper wrapped his arms around both of them.

For a long moment neither Flint nor Isla said anything. But then the quiet mage moved.

“Flint?”

He didn’t answer her. His gaze remained fixed on the wooden floor where crimson blood slowly crept between the floorboards. The blade didn’t disintegrate humans like it did the undead. Against men… it was just a blade.

“…Flint. Are you—” She gently rested a hand on his shoulder, only for him to flinch beneath her touch. It was subtle, but she felt it all the same.

The innkeeper slowly approached them, his clothes disheveled and his hands still trembling from fear. When he finally reached Flint, he didn't speak immediately. Instead, he lowered himself into the deepest bow he could manage, his trembling voice barely holding together as he whispered, "Thank you."

Flint blinked, taken aback.

“You saved my family… You saved this inn.”

His voice trembled, teeth gritted in relief.

“My daughter still has her mother because of you.”

Flint lowered his eyes.

“…Please.”

The innkeeper looked up.

“…Please don’t thank me.”

Flint struggled to find the words.

“I’m just glad… you’re all safe.” The young man managed a small smile.

I wasn’t good enough.

The man smiled, as cheers erupted from the bystanders outside the inn.

But Flint didn’t hear them. He didn’t want to.

If he had been stronger…

If the axe had been enough…

If he had truly been the hero he’d always dreamed of becoming…

Then this sword would never have left its sheath.

He slowly bent down, grabbing his woodcutting axe and placing it back on the loop on his belt.

“Please, don’t be in a rush! I’ll explain everything to the guards and then—“

“No need, sir.” Flint smiled. He simply walked to the door, and stepped out in the morning air. The crowd quietly stepped aside, falling silent at the sight of his solemn expression.

Isla bowed to the innkeeper in gratitude.

“Thank you for your care.”

She said before dashing after Flint.

“He’s a hero…!”

“Did you see how he moved bak there?!”

“But his face…”

Nobody understood what had happened to the young saviour.

“Flint, wait!”

Isla managed to catch up to him, as Flint turned to meet her with a small, apologetic smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Sorry… I just needed some air.”

Isla stopped in front of him, letting out a quiet breath. Her eyes were a mix of worry and exasperation.

“Liar.”

Flint’s smile didn’t budge.

“What? But I told you—”

“Flint.” She said his name softly, “Please.”

The young man's face fell in a way only someone who truly knew him would have noticed. He quickly looked away, guilt and disappointment written plainly across his features.

Isla quietly closed the distance between them.

“They’re calling me… a hero.”

“Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

“Not like that.”

Flint’s eyes lowered to his hands.

They were clean. The Bloodblade had left no blood upon them, yet he could still feel the resistance of flesh against its edge. He could still see the thin red line opening across the leader’s throat.

“…I killed him because it demanded someone.”

Isla’s breath caught.

“The others attacked me. Maybe there really wasn’t another way with them.” His fingers slowly curled into his palms. “But their leader…”

The unfinished words dying in the man’s throat returned to him.

“The moment I drew the Bloodblade, somebody had to die. And instead of finding another way… I just accepted its rule.”

“Flint, you were trying to save her.”

“And I let the sword choose what saving her would cost.”

Isla fell silent.

That was why the cheering had hurt him.

The people inside the inn had seen a young man step forward and save an innocent woman.

Flint had seen himself accept the Bloodblade’s cruel exchange.

One life offered for another.

And because the woman had survived, everyone around him was calling that exchange heroic.

“The sword saved them,” Flint whispered.

Isla didn’t tell him that it was alright. She couldn’t.

A man was dead because Flint had drawn the blade. Nothing she said could change that. But as she looked at him now, she finally understood why he had sworn never to draw it again.

It wasn’t because the Bloodblade frightened him.

It wasn’t even because it made killing effortless.

Berthram’s final request echoed in the back of her mind.

Don’t let him shoulder it alone.

Until now, Isla had believed he meant the Bloodblade itself; the terrible sacrifice it demanded whenever Flint drew it.

But perhaps that wasn’t the burden Berthram had feared most.

Perhaps he had known that every time the blade demanded a life, Flint would take the blame upon himself.

He would tell himself that he had decided one life was worth less than another.

That every person claimed by the sword had died by his judgment alone.

Even when there had been no time.

Even when there had been no other choice.

Even when everyone around him called him a hero.

Flint would carry every death as proof that he had failed to become one.

That was the burden Flint would insist on carrying alone.

And Isla couldn’t let him.

Slowly, a natural smile found its way onto her face. A smile full of conviction.

“Then prove it wrong.”

Flint blinked.

“Next time, prove you can save someone without the sword.”

He stared at the old woodcutter’s axe.

“…What if I… can’t?”

Her smile never wavered.

“Then you’ll try again. And you’ll keep trying, until you eventually get it right.”

She looked him straight in the eyes.

“That’s the Flint I know.”

For a long moment, he simply stood there.

Then he let out a slow breath. His shoulders relaxed, if only a little.

Next time…

Next time I won’t use you.

He stared at the dormant blade lying inside its sheath.

“…I’ll try.”

Isla’s smile grew just a little.

“I know you will.”

Flint stood there, rooted to the spot for another moment.

He had left the village with a coat, an axe and a dream. And a few days later, that dream… was already beginning to crack.

But he couldn’t let that happen.

If he truly wanted to become a hero… then giving up here was never an option.

He quietly adjusted the axe at his hip and took a deep breath.

“Ah…” He scratched his head, pointing with his thumb, “Can we go back? I want to apologize for the mess…”