Chapter 2: Swords and Salt

To retrieve those four weapons, killing and taking them would be the fastest, most direct way. But honestly, I’m just too lazy. Too lazy to draw my blade, too lazy to fight, too lazy to kill. I’d rather waste time on a porch with a lemonade than chase anyone down with blood on my mind.

So I decided to use another way to fulfill my promise.

The first weapon the smith wanted back was a sword. Derek Carson—the most famous swordsman in Maple Heights, Ohio. A small town with a big Main Street, the kind of place where everybody’s business was everybody else’s.

When he was young, his town was ravaged by criminals, his family destroyed. He wandered until the head of the Silver Lake Dojo took him in. He swore lifelong loyalty to his benefactor, and by seventeen, he was already the undisputed number one swordsman at the dojo. Folks in Maple Heights still tell stories about him—how he moved like a shadow through alleyways, always ready to defend what was right.

But later, he wanted to pursue greater swordsmanship, so he tried to leave and follow someone else, breaking his vow. The head of the dojo refused to let him go, so Derek Carson pointed his sword at his former mentor and even killed several people from the dojo.

In the bladesmith’s eyes, this was disloyalty.

When I found Derek Carson, he was drinking coffee in a diner. The place had a neon clock on the wall, bottomless mugs, and a fry cook who looked like he’d never left the griddle. Grease and coffee hung in the air, and the vinyl booths squeaked under every shift.

"You really know how to take care of yourself," I said, carrying a six-pack and sitting down across from him.

"Who are you?" Derek Carson looked up at me.

"Mason Reed. I’ve come to invite you for a drink." I smiled, picked up two mugs, and filled them with beer. The waitress shot me a look, but didn’t say a word—it was that kind of place.

Derek gave me a hard look, then said, "You sure you want to start something in here?" He picked up both mugs, flipped his hand, and poured all the beer out onto the floor.

"Then why don’t you treat me?"

"I can treat you."

"Wonderful!" I grinned.

"I invite you to get lost."

With that, he went back to his coffee. The sound of the spoon clinking in the mug made the moment just awkward enough.

"First time I’ve seen someone unhappy to be treated to a drink. They say swordsmen are odd, and it seems true," I sighed. "Luckily, I practice with a blade."

"You talk too much."

"She says that about me, too." I smiled.

"She?"

"My girlfriend."

I put down the six-pack and tapped the table. The table’s Formica top had carvings and old initials—teenagers in love, truckers with too much time.

"Derek Carson, I want your sword to buy a knife for my girlfriend."

"You’re nuts," he said, giving me a sidelong glance.

I laughed. "I suppose a lot of people have tried to get this sword from you."

"They all died."

His eyes were dead calm, like he was just stating the weather.

"You want me dead, too?" Derek Carson looked up again, a chill in his eyes.

"Of course not." I poured myself some beer.

"I know you wanted to leave Silver Lake Dojo and killed the head because someone named Shane Jensen promised to teach you better swordsmanship."

At this, anger slowly crept into Derek Carson’s face.

"He lied to me. He couldn’t teach me anything. His so-called swordsmanship was worthless, so I killed him and left his body in the woods."

His eyes darkened, tinged with sorrow.

"There’s no one left in the world who can teach me the best swordsmanship."

I put down my cup and smiled. "What if I said I could? Would you give me your sword?"

"You?" Derek Carson eyed the blade at my belt. "You don’t even have a sword—what could you teach me?"

"Sword, knife—any weapon, it’s all the same. The essence isn’t in the shape."

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. "I’ll teach you just one sword move. Master it, and you’ll be unbeatable."