It was his 16th birthday, and Zen was nervous. He lay in his bed, thinking about the recent events that had transpired. A recent raid by the Brutra clan due to territorial disputes had left his clan in a state of turmoil, resulting in a few dead and many injured. Among the heavily injured was Zen's parents, both of whom were considered the strongest of his clan's Armament users. They had been in the forefront of the battle, doing their best to fend off endless waves of attackers and taking their opponents' attention away from the fleeing children and wounded. Such has always been their job as part of the Nithza clan, but no longer would they fight alone.
When one reaches adulthood, it is said that one's spirit power peaks, and most people are able to materialize a Spirit Armament. However, there are a select few who are bestowed a Sacred Armament, weapons with destructive abilities that can crush the opposition. Today, Zen would go through the ritual, obtain his Armament and turn the tides of battle.
He sprung out of bed, got dressed and made his way to the sacred altar, all the while brooding over his thoughts and trying to still his heart. As a son of the strongest Armament users and the next heir to the Nithza clan, many hoped that Zen could get a Sacred Armament, and he could feel the pressure. Even the wounded had gathered for his ritual, and they looked onto him eagerly, like hungry men staring at one last meal. He was their salvation, their only hope in the coming years; the other children were far too young.
As he stepped into the magic circle and calmed himself, he began to feel a torrent of power growing inside his inner mind, spreading warmly across his body.
"Subdue it, and bring it to bear on your arm", said the priest.
Zen focused hard, shrugging off the pressure from the many eyes staring at him. He felt a rush of adrenaline, and suddenly the power drained from his body at an incredible speed towards his right hand, leaving him weak and weary. As he stumbled to the ground, he grasped his right hand tightly.
Blinking, he slowly examined his Armament. In his hand was a sword as long as he was tall, and it looked almost inappropriate for battle. Runes were carved along its length, and the blade had a glow with a white tint. It was plain, far too plain, unlike his father's lightning hammer, Mjorm and his mother's dual scimitars, Seleri. He looked down in guilt.
Disappointment did not have time to set in. A loud screeching noise sounded, accompanied by horns and drums. They were here.
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