Side by side, Atticus and Avalon descended into the mansion's hidden underground basement.
As they made their way down, Atticus's thoughts echoed, 'Of course there's a secret basement.'
Their footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridor until they reached an unassuming wall. Avalon's smile hinted at the surprise to come, prompting Atticus's curiosity. With a touch of his right arm and a surge of mana, the wall illuminated.
"It recognizes my mana signature. No one else can open this apart from me or your grandfather," Avalon explained.
As the wall's glow subsided, the wall parted revealing an elevate platform engraved with runes.
"The platform is a teleport. It will transport you to our family vault's realm." Avalon continued. The concept left Atticus in awe, 'I should read more about this stuff' he thought.
Avalon's voice turned firm as he issued a directive, "Only you can enter. Choose a weapon and an Art, no more."
To which Atticus nodded. Then he stepped on the platform and a radiant gleam encompassed him immediately, swallowing his form. Avalon's worried voice lingered in the air, "I hope he doesn't try to get 'those' weapons."
The transition was both swift and surreal. Atticus found himself within an expansive hall, shelves laden with books and an array of weapons on display.
"Jackpot!" Atticus said with a grin.
Without wasting a single moment, Atticus ventured further into the hall.
As Atticus explored the vast hall, his gaze lingered on the weapons displayed. He couldn't help but recall the classification of arts and weapons.
Weapons were simply classified according to their grade, ranging from novice rank to paragon rank. On the other hand, arts were classified based on their potential.
An art with a dormant potential could only provide a novice rank output strength, while one with a transcendent potential had the potential to eventually exhibit paragon rank strength. Of course, achieving such levels required rigorous training.
Moving through the hall, nothing managed to seize his interest. Undeterred, he continued moving.
His steps carried him further, until he arrived at an elevated platform that displayed an ensemble of five weapons, a Glaive, a gauntlet, a spear, a katana, and a staff, each possessing a superior quality that set them apart from the rest.
A sign caught his attention, proclaiming in simple yet profound terms, "If the weapon chooses you, then it's yours."
"This is it!" Atticus said with a grin.
'The treasure out there are probably crap. The real gems are right here,' he mused to himself.
However, Atticus couldn't help but notice the ominous undertone. "What if it doesn't choose you?" he voiced his concern aloud. A brief silence followed before he added, "Then again, this is reality. I half-expected a ghostly guardian or something."
"Dad would've said if this was dangerous," Atticus reassured himself. He believed that his father would have warned him if there was a risk to his life.
With that in mind, Atticus opted for the katana. The touch of his hand against the katana set into motion an ethereal transformation, transporting his consciousness into it.
Atticus found himself on a platform, surrounded by darkness. And in front of him was a man, expressionless. He was adorned in traditional Japanese attire, which seemed to billow as if caught in an invisible breeze, emanating an aura of unwavering purpose.
A katana rested at his side, its sheathed presence an embodiment of mastery. Atticus' attire mirrored that of his enigmatic counterpart, with a katana also at his side.
'What the heck is going on?' Atticus couldn't help but wonder.
But before he had time to gather his thought, in a fluid motion, the man descended into a stance, hands poised upon the katana's hilt. The whispered utterance of,
[Transcendent Slash: Godspeed Grace]
marked the commencement of a sequence that defied Atticus' perception. Time itself seemed to fragment, reality giving way to a choreography of transcendent elegance.
For Atticus, there was no sensation of pain, no visceral awareness of his fate. Instead, a serene detachment enveloped him, his own beheading observed with an otherworldly clarity. A final thought formed within his mind before all dissolved into the void: "Ah, I just got beheaded."
Gasping for breath, Atticus regained his consciousness once more before the katana, his hand instinctively moving to his neck as an incredulous thought echoed in his mind, 'Did I just die?'
The abruptness of his defeat gnawed at him. Clutching for meaning in the aftermath, he muttered, "Fuck! I didn't even see him move."
Collecting his shattered composure, Atticus grappled to regain his bearings.
"It wouldn't have been displayed so grandly like this if it wasn't difficult to get." As if seeking solace in his own resolve, he took a steadying breath, acknowledging the arduous path that lay ahead.
'Okay,' he steeled himself, 'Looks like I'm in no danger of dying. I'm getting this sword, no matter how long it takes.'
With resolute conviction, Atticus initiated the ritual anew, his fingers touching the katana's hilt. Once more, his consciousness plunged into the enigmatic realm.
Inside, Atticus quickly unsheathed his katana, surging his body with mana and manipulating the very air to amplify his speed, preparing himself for whatever will come his way.
Yet, the echoes of his previous attempt repeated itself, the man's movements a symphony of mastery that eluded Atticus's grasp.
Atticus was beheaded once again.
