Breaking into the king’s private stash of legendary weapons isn’t in the gate guard handbook. But I’m out of options. And if I’m going to save Bob from Sintra, I need something a little more intimidating than my standard-issue spear and a bad attitude.

  The massive stone doors in front of me are carved with scenes of legendary battles. Above them, an inscription reads: “FOR HEROES ONLY.”

  I glance around, making sure the courtyard is clear. “Okay, Greg,” I mutter to myself. “This is either the worst idea you’ve ever had, or the best. Probably both.”

  I pull on the door’s massive handle. It doesn’t budge. Of course it doesn’t. It’s the royal armory, not a bakery.

  There’s a glowing rune above the door that probably means it’s enchanted shut. I stare at it, thinking.

  “Alright,” I say aloud, setting my regular spear down. “Time for Plan B.”

  Plan B is technically just Plan A, but with more brute force.

  I grab a nearby broom and wedge it under the rune. With a grunt, I push, twist, and jiggle until the glowing magic fizzles out with a disappointed hiss.

  “Magic door: zero. Gate guard: one,” I say.

  The doors creak open slowly, revealing a room so over-the-top it almost blinds me. The royal armory isn’t just a storage room. It’s a museum to crazy weapons.

  I step inside, and the air shifts, heavy with power and the faint smell of lavender. Why lavender? No clue.

  Weapons of every size and shape line the walls, each more ridiculous than the last. This is where heroes go to shop when they have too much money and not enough sense.

  I close the doors behind me, ignoring the faint sense of guilt clawing at the edges of my brain. It’s not stealing if you’re doing it for a good cause, right?

  “Alright,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Time to find something that says ‘I’m here to save my friend and ruin your day.’”

  The first thing that catches my eye is a sword so big it could double as a surfboard. Its blade glows with shifting colors, and its hilt is covered with jewels that probably each have their own backstory. The plaque beneath it reads: “The Rainbow Reckoner: Sword of Ultimate Justice and Minor Property Damage.”

  “Yeah, no. I’d pull a muscle just trying to lift it.”

  Next is a hammer that’s literally on fire. It’s floating in midair, surrounded by swirling flames that I can feel even from ten feet away. The tag says: “Flaming Smite: Caution, Hot.”

  “I’m not dragging a bonfire around. Hard pass.”

  There’s a bow that whispers unsettling threats in a deep voice every time I get near it. “You’ll never escape,” it hisses. “I seeeeee youuuuu.” That’s going to haunt me.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Finally, in the back corner, something catches my eye. A spear. But not just any spear. Oh no. This thing is insane.

  The shaft is made of some kind of glowing crystal. The blade at the tip shines with an unnaturally sharp edge. And every so often, sparks shoots out, like it’s getting impatient. It hums softly, the sound vibrating through my chest like it’s alive.

  The plaque beneath it reads: “The Spear of Absurd Glory: Glory for all, but mostly myself.”

  I grin. “Perfect.”

  I grab the shaft. The moment my hand touches it, the spear vibrates. A deep, booming voice fills the room. “Who dares attempt to wield The Spear of Absurd Glory?”

  “Uh… Greg,” I say. “Royal Gate Guard.”

  The spear hums in a way that feels suspiciously like a laugh. “Only the Chosen One may wield me.”

  I blink. “Okay, but here’s the thing… I’m going to save the Chosen One. So, technically, this is part of their heroic journey.”

  “Nice try,” the spear replies, its voice dripping with skepticism. “But you’re not the Chosen One. You’re just… Greg.”

  “Wow,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes. “Rude.”

  “Accurate.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to sound reasonable. “Alright, hear me out. I’m not keeping you. I’m just borrowing you. For Bob. To help him fulfill his destiny.”

  The spear goes silent for a moment, then hums again. “You intend to lie to a legendary weapon?”

  “What? No!” I sputter. “I mean… okay, maybe a little. But it’s for a good cause!”

  “Lying is not heroic. You fail.”

  The spear vibrates one last time in my hands, then yanks itself free.

  I stumble back as it hovers midair, spinning like it’s judging me.

  “You’re just Greg,” it says, almost smugly, before it shoots back to its stand. “Goodbye.”

  I stare at it, mouth open. “Goodbye? That’s it? You’re just going to sit there while I go save your precious Chosen One?”

  “Yes,” it replies simply, the glow dimming like it’s going to sleep.

  I groan and turn away. “Useless oversized toothpick.”

  As I shuffle past another row of weapons, something catches my eye. It’s… not impressive. A sword, plain and unpolished, leaning against a corner of the wall like it’s been forgotten. The hilt is chipped and the blade is dull. I squint at the inscription: “The Blade of Aggressive-Aggressive: Because why be subtle?”

  Before I can take a step closer, the sword rattles and springs upright on its own.

  “Well, it’s about time!” the sword snaps, its voice sharp and irritated. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for someone to pick me up? Years. Decades, probably. And now you just stroll by, thinking you’ll ignore me too?”

  I freeze. “You… talk?”

  “Of course I talk!” she barks. “I’m proactive. Efficient. Assertive! Now, pick me up so we can get to work.”

  I glance at the rows of glowing, legendary weapons around me, then back at the chipped blade. “You don’t… look like much.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the sword says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Should I sparkle for you? Maybe shoot confetti out of the hilt? Pick me up, genius, and you’ll see what I can do.”

  Against my better judgment, I reach for the hilt. The moment my fingers wrap around it, the sword vibrates with energy. Its weight is surprisingly light. It feels… right.

  “There you go!” she says, voice filled with enthusiasm. “See? Perfect fit. Now, what’s the plan? We smashing skulls, slicing villains, or just looking scary? Wait, don’t answer. We’re doing all of it.”

  I blink at her. “Are you… evil?”

  The sword pauses, as if choosing her words carefully. “Define evil.”

  “That’s not a no,” I say flatly.

  “Look,” she says, exasperated. “Every legendary weapon has its thing. Some glow, some hum, some shoot lasers. Me? I might lean a little evil. But do you want to know what else I do?”

  I brace myself. “What?”

  “I win,” she says with an air of finality. “And isn’t that what matters?”

  I hesitate, glancing at the dull, chipped blade. “So… you’re evil, but you’re good at it?”

  “Exactly,” she says, filled with enthusiasm. “And lucky for you, I’m picky about my wielder. So congratulations, Greg. You’re the morally ambiguous antihero of my dreams.”

  I groan. “This feels like a terrible decision.”

  “It is,” she says cheerfully. “But you won’t regret it. Probably.”