Marvel: Sin Lord

Two years had passed since Inarius killed the man with the blue flaming sword. Two years since he discovered that his ability could take more than memories—it could take power. And in that time, Inarius had grown stronger.

Living in the homeless shelter was still hard, but it provided enough stability for him to figure himself out. He stayed unnoticed, kept his head down, and didn't talk to anyone more than necessary. His days were spent blending in, and his nights were spent in the sewers, training.

The purple sword had become an extension of him, a part of his power that felt as natural as breathing. He'd discovered something incredible—every time he absorbed sin, the sword grew stronger. Its glow intensified, its edge sharper, and its energy more responsive to his will.

Tonight, the sewer was quiet except for the occasional drip of water and the soft scurrying of rats. Inarius stood in the dim tunnel, barefoot on the damp concrete, his body poised and still. A blindfold covered his eyes, tying back his long black hair, now thick and reaching past his shoulders. In his right hand, the purple sword hummed faintly, its aura casting eerie shadows on the walls.

He concentrated, his breaths steady and controlled, listening for the faintest sound of movement.

A rustle.

He turned, slashing in one swift motion. The sword sliced through the air with a faint whoosh, connecting with a rat scurrying along the ground. As the blade hit, the rat vanished in a pulse of purple light, absorbed instantly.

He paused, waiting. Another noise, this time behind him. He spun, swinging the sword, but the blade missed, cutting through empty air.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.

He kept practicing, chasing the faint sounds of tiny claws against the concrete. His movements were still clumsy, the sword sometimes slipping in his grip, but he pushed himself, determined to get better.

After an hour, he finally pulled off the blindfold and let out a frustrated sigh. He wasn't good enough yet—not even close. He could feel the potential in the weapon, the raw power it held, but wielding it properly was another story.

He looked at the blade, its glowing edge flickering faintly in the darkness. "You're stronger than me," he whispered to it. "But I'll catch up."

The sword dissolved into purple light, fading into his hand as he turned to leave the sewer.

Back at the shelter, the usual sounds of the evening filled the cramped space—snoring from the bunks, the shuffle of footsteps as a worker cleaned, and the low hum of an old television in the common room. Inarius slipped in quietly, his shoes damp from the sewer water.

He headed to his corner, where his worn-out mattress and few belongings were tucked away. But as he passed the front desk, he hesitated.

The man sitting there, Carl, was one of the few people who was kind to him. Carl was older, with graying hair and a round face that always seemed to carry a gentle smile. He had never pried into Inarius's life, never judged him for being quiet or withdrawn.

"Hey, Carl," Inarius said softly, stepping closer.

Carl looked up from his crossword puzzle and smiled. "Hey there, kid. What's up?"

"Uh... do you think I could use your phone for a second?"

Carl raised an eyebrow but handed over the phone without question. "Sure, just don't go running up my data plan."

Inarius gave a small smile as he took the phone. He quickly opened the browser and typed in what he was looking for: Historical European Martial Arts near me.

The search results came up, and his eyes scanned the screen. One of the listings caught his attention. There was a small HEMA club only a few blocks from the shelter. It wasn't fancy—just a converted gym where people practiced sword fighting as it was done centuries ago.

It felt... right.

He handed the phone back to Carl, who gave him a curious look. "What were you looking up, kid?"

"Nothing important," Inarius said, shaking his head. "Thanks."

Carl chuckled. "Well, let me know if you need anything else."

Inarius nodded and headed back to his mattress. He lay down, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling.

The sword was part of him now, and he needed to learn how to use it. The club could be his chance to finally take control of it. To fight with precision and skill, not just raw instinct.

Tomorrow, he thought, his determination hardening. Tomorrow, I'll go.

As he closed his eyes, the faint hum of the sword echoed in his mind, a reminder of the power he carried. For the first time in years, he felt like he was moving forward.