Tale of a Hedonistic wizard

Instead of continuing on to the temple in Scroartint Central, Ofken had turned back, driven by an overwhelming need to return to his village and confront the horrors that had plagued it for so long.

It was this decision that had brought him to the edge of the Gravarane on this blood-soaked night.

The Knights of the Church, sent by Dyvaguer to protect the Xeborh—the sacred artefact at the heart of their faith—had followed Ofken on his journey.

They had watched in silent awe as the young man, armed with nothing but the Sword of Xeborh and his own indomitable will, had carved a path of destruction through the horde of beasts that had poured forth from the forest.

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As Ofken entered the forest, the very air seemed to recoil from his presence. Birds fell silent, small animals scurried for cover, and even the ancient trees seemed to lean away as he passed.

The sword of Xeborh pulsed at his side, eager for more combat.

He moved deeper into the forest, his enhanced senses alert for any sign of threat. It wasn't long before he found one.

The knights just followed him, acting as his protectors, and only needed to step in when needed. It was way of their test to see how powerful was the wielder of the Xeborh. They would step in if he was in any danger.

A massive bear, its fur a patchwork of scars and its eyes gleaming with malevolent intelligence, reared up before him. It was easily twice the size of a normal bear, its claws like daggers, and its teeth yellowed fangs.

Ofken didn't hesitate. He charged forward, the sword of Xeborh leaving a trail of blue fire in the air. The bear swiped at him with a paw the size of a shield, but Ofken ducked under it, bringing his blade up in a vicious uppercut.

His mastery over the blade was nothing short of remarkable. Despite the sword being in his possession for only a short while, he wielded it with an ease and finesse that suggested a lifetime of experience. Each swing was precise, each movement fluid, as if the sword itself were an extension of his own arm.

The power coursing through the blade responded to his every thought and motion, bending to his will as if bound by an unspoken oath.

Now, as he moved, the line between man and weapon blurred, and the sword became more than just a tool—it was a part of him, inseparable, as if forged from his own spirit.

The sword bit deep into the bear's chest, blue energy crackling along the wound. The beast roared in pain and fury, bringing both paws down in a crushing blow.

Ofken rolled to the side, the ground shaking as the bear's paws cratered the earth where he had been standing.

Rising to his feet, Ofken channelled more of the sword's power. His eyes blazed brighter, and arcs of blue lightning began to dance along the blade. When he swung the sword this time, a wave of energy burst forth, slamming into the bear and sending it crashing through several trees.

But the beast was far from defeated. It charged again, moving with a speed that belied its enormous size.

Ofken met its charge head-on, the sword of Xeborh clashing against the bear's claws in a shower of sparks and energy.

They traded blows in a deadly dance; Ofken's speed and the sword's power matched against the bear's raw strength and savage fury. Trees were felled as their battle raged, the very ground trembling beneath their feet.

Finally, seeing an opening, Ofken feinted left before spinning right. The bear, caught off-guard, left its neck exposed for a split second. It was all Ofken needed. The sword of Xeborh flashed once, and the bear's head fell to the ground, its body following a moment later.

As the echoes of the battle faded, Ofken became aware of movement all around him. The forest was alive with beasts, drawn by the sounds of combat. Eyes gleamed from the shadows, low growls and hisses filling the air.

A lesser man might have felt fear. But Ofken, empowered by the sword of Xeborh, felt only a cold anticipation. He raised the sword high, its blue glow illuminating the clearing.

"Come," he growled, his voice carrying through the forest. "Come and meet your doom."

The beasts of Gravarane Forest obliged.

They came in a wave of fur, fang, and claw. Wolves and bears, enormous cats with sabre-like teeth, boars with tusks that could gore a man in seconds, and creatures that defied description—all converged on Ofken.

The sword of Xeborh sang in Ofken's hand as he met their charge. He became a whirlwind of destruction, the blade leaving trails of blue like fire as it cleaved through flesh and bone. Wolves were cut down mid-leap, their bodies falling in pieces. A boar's charge was halted abruptly as Ofken's blade split its skull.

Ofken used every bit of the sword's power, channelling energy into each strike. When he swung the sword in wide arcs, waves of blue energy burst forth, cutting swathes through the ranks of beasts. He leaped impossible heights, coming down with earth-shattering force that sent creatures flying.

A giant cat, easily the size of a horse, managed to rake its claws across Ofken's back. But even as blood flowed, the wound began to close, the sword's power healing him almost as quickly as he was injured. Enjoy exclusive adventures from My Virtual Library Empire

As long as he held the sword, there was no stopping him. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he was consumed by the sword's power, becoming an unstoppable force of destruction on the battlefield. The beasts soon learned to fear the glowing blue blade that seemed to defy all logic and reason.

The battle raged for what seemed like hours. The clearing became a charnel house, the ground slick with blood and littered with bodies.

Still the beasts came, and still Ofken fought. His long-lasting vengeance and hatred against these creatures pushed him and made him stand his ground.