Chapter 1980 wed Creation


    Morgan opened her eyes in the darkness. She had fallen asleep while sitting on the cold stone floor, her back leaning against a b of crumbling stone. The wind was howling as it passed through the ruins of the main keep, and pale moonlight poured through the gaping holes of its partially copsed dome. Taking a deep breath, she leaned on her sword and stood up. Her vermilion cloak had turned to tatters, and her ck armor was broken and battered. Dismissing both Memories to give them some time to mend themselves, Morgan felt a cold wind caress her skin gently. It was a pleasant feeling, especially after days spent in fric fighting.


    Her ck tunic fluttered slightly, revealing how littered it was with tears, most of them crusted by blood. She sighed and listened to the sounds of the ruined castle, trying to evaluate if there were any immediate threats. It did not seem that way. Herpanions would have warned her if the enemy wasunching another attack… or if something else was. They would not have been eliminated without a fight, either, and there was no chance that she would have missed such a disturbance.


    It seemed that Mordret was still licking his wounds after thest assault, just like they were.


    ''Good...''


    Morgan walked into the moonlight and looked up at the tall dais towering above the ruined hall. There was no throne on the dais, and no altar. Instead, there was only an iron anvil. Beautiful swords were scattered on the floor below the dais, glistening in the cold moonlight. There had been a mountain of them here once, but her father had taken most of the swords with him to Godgrave, to use in the battle against the Raven Queen.


    Morgan stared at the abandoned swords for a while, a strange mixture of regret and amusement shining in her striking scarlet eyes. It used to be that she admired the swords her father had forged quite a lot, never missing the chance to steal a look at them. But now, she saw them for what they were — wed creations that had been discarded by their demanding creator for failing to live up to his harsh expectations. Morgan knew because she was one such creation herself. …Thank the gods.


    People seemed to be disturbed by the notion, but she had always known that her father saw her as a de to be forged into a wless weapon more than he saw her as a human being. That was how he saw everyone, really, and the only distinction between her and the rest of them was that she had been the most promising of des. One made of most precious steel, one that he had harbored the most hopes for, and had forged with most care.


    Morgan knew that people had always misunderstood her father. To them, he was many things: a great warrior, a genius sorcerer, a wise ruler… a fearsome tyrant. But what he really was, first and foremost, was an artist. An artist who resented the deep imperfection of the world and rebelled against it, striving to create one wless thing with all his heart. A wless sword. Morgan had been meant to be that sword, so she understood him best, and she had been fine — happy, even — to carry that responsibility, despite how cold and harsh its weight was. She had been proud. It had all changed after Antarctica, of course.


    Looking at the scattered swords, Morgan sighed. There, she had learned the error of her ways. Ever since being a child, Morgan had always done what she was told. She had followed the guidance of her father, enduring his harsh training by sacrificing most of what other children had, and what most other people cherished. She had always excelled, never failed, and satisfied his every demand. And she still lost. Which inevitably made her think about the reason for her defeat, of course. What Morgan realized as a result… was quite disturbing. If she had done everything her teachers told her to do wlessly and withoutint, and still lost, then the fault did noty with her.


    Instead, the faulty with her teachers, and the very form they were trying to mold her to… In truth, it was not just the King of Swords who had be disappointed in his daughter after Antarctica. Morgan had be disappointed in her father, too.


    ''Good thing I did.''


    Looking at a beautiful, discarded sword thaty at her feet, Morgan smiled wistfully. She would have probably be an actual sword if she had continued to follow her father''s will blindly. That would be quite a fitting Transcendent Transformation for a girl who had been raised to be a perfect tool… a pretty, deadly de to be wielded by someone else. However, Morgan did not really want to be a sword, nor did she want to be wielded by another''s hand. That seemed like quite a pathetic fate to her. n/?/vel/b//jn dot c//om


    So, her Transcendent Transformation had turned out to be something else. Of course, she could still transform into a sword — if she wished to.


    But that was not at all the only thing she could be. Picking up the abandoned sword, Morgan silently absorbed it into her body and smiled. ''...How nice. I should have done this much sooner.'' A momentter, her figure rippled, turning into a river of liquid metal. It flowed across the moonlit hall, drowning it. The violence of its passage put cracks into the marble floor and made bs of stone crumble to dust. Sweeping every abandoned de thaty forlorn on the below the dais, Morgan climbed the steps and swallowed the ancient anvil, as well. Finally, the river of liquid metal coalesced back into a human figure. A momentter, it regained color, and Morgan was back to her original self. Looking up, she observed the radiant remains of her shattered moon and sighed. "Time to face another day."