Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop

“Unlike Master Vlad, who hath mastered his Vision more than his Force, I find myself more inclined towards Force Art and have devoted much time to hone my skills. Five centuries have passed; I am not as I once was,” Isaiah said.

The dragon smiled. “I shall offer thee a worthy sword. In return, thou shalt spar with me.”  

Burn grinned. “Sure, but just once. I have to bring Morgan back before tomorrow.”

“It shall not take long,” Isaiah nodded.

Another door to a chamber creaked open, revealing an array of legendary weapons that dazzled Burn's eyes. Each type of weapon, whether enchanted or merely unique, bore the weight of history's annals.

A mere glance confirmed that each one shimmered with glory, equal in worth to his last trusty sword, rest in peace.

“What weapon do you prefer to wield?” Burn asked.  

Isaiah hummed thoughtfully, “A spear.”  

Burn nodded, suppressing a smirk. With purpose, he strode toward the rows of long swords, searching for just one—sturdy and balanced enough for a general's use.

After all, practicality in the heat of battle should never be underestimated, even amidst such legendary distractions.

“All of them are decent,” Burn said.

Isaiah grinned. “Doth it render it difficult to choose?”

“No, I’ll just choose randomly,” Burn touched the one with the longest blade.

“Pray, allow me to offer mine recommendations,” Isaiah said, stepping closer. He waved his hand, revealing a new chamber deep in the room. This one housed a massive, broken horn—towering at 20 feet.

Burn narrowed his eyes and then turned his face to Isaiah and his broken horn on his head.

“Thou art correct. This one is mine,” Isaiah said.

Burn frowned. “No, this is weird. A sword made of the horn of a dead dragon, sure, but someone I know who is alive? That’s almost gay.”

The corner of Isaiah’s lips twitched, and a vein popped on his cheek. “By thy reasoning, utilizing the horn of a fallen dragon is verily necrophilic.”

“I wasn’t being serious. I was asking if you were serious about offering me your horn,” Burn said dryly.

“Do not make it sound weird!” Isaiah turned blue.

Burn sighed and pointed at the room. “I mean, the way you store it is like storing a secret, erected dragon’s dildo behind your other shiny regular toys.”

“I possess not such inclinations!” Isaiah snapped. “Moreover, thou nearly didst select the one with the longest blade. Is that not somewhat ‘gay’ as well?”

“That’s just practical. If you want to argue, a spear is longer than a longsword,” Burn sneered.

“Desirest thou my broken horn or not?” Isaiah sounded tired now.

“Don’t make it sound weird!” Burn yelled. “Besides, I need a ready-made sword, not a legendary material to make a sword.”

Isaiah snapped his finger, face deadpan, and the 20-foot-tall horn shapeshifted into a longsword with a long blade, perfectly to Burn’s preference.

“Oooh, a two-in-one dildo,” Burn hummed, impressed.

“This wretch—!”

“I love you, homie,” Burn winked with a little click of his cheek.

“Thy Holiness! Restrain thy husband!” Isaiah's face was dark, gritting his jaw as he felt violent goosebumps.

Burn chuckled as he called forth the sword. As he reached for the hilt and grasped it, he felt that he would never find a sword like this again.

“Hmm,” Burn began to wonder. “Why didn’t you use this as your own weapon? If you can change it into a longsword, you can certainly change it into a spear too, right?”

“Utilizing mine own body part as a weapon doth feel most peculiar,” Isaiah replied.

Burn narrowed his eyes in disgust at the sword again.

“I jested. I employed it not, for I favor this one instead,” Isaiah deadpan called forth one of the spears as it flew into his grasp. “This is wrought from my late mother’s horn.”

Isaiah laid it out: dragon body parts, including those impressive horns, were still tied to the dragon’s main body in some way. This meant they could shapeshift like dragons too, but only if the dragon gave it the old thumbs-up.

Now, once a dragon kicked the bucket, those body parts were pretty much stuck like that forever. That meant if you had some horns still attached to a dead dragon, they’d stay horns, and getting them off required some serious tools and a craftsman who knew what they were doing.

Since those horns lost their shapeshifting options post-mortem, they became more of a raw material. Sure, you could process them to create fancy weapons or boost existing gear, but they’d be a shadow of their former selves. 

Weapons made from those living, shapeshifting horns? Yeah, they were leagues tougher and more reliable. But good luck finding a dragon willing to chop off a bit of themselves for a weapon. They tend to be a bit attached to their bodies, after all.

Unless, of course, they suspected their days were numbered and figured, “Hey, why not leave a piece of me for the next generation?”

“Hmm, I’m flattered,” Burn remarked, grasping the long sword with a practiced confidence.

He balanced it expertly in his hand, as if it were merely a dagger from the royal cutlery set, rather than a weapon meant for the kind of endeavors that generally ended with a fair amount of bloodshed. “So, now, what’s left is the oh-so-joyous spar.”

“Come with,” Isaiah commanded, his tone lacking the enthusiasm typically reserved for less deadly activities, like baking cookies.

They departed the weapon chamber, venturing deeper into the cave. To Burn’s surprise, they stumbled upon an expansive hall, illuminated by the faint glow of magical orbs, which did wonders for the cave’s surprisingly dreary vibe.

The cave stretched before them—an enormous, empty expanse punctuated only by bare columns reaching skyward, resembling a forest that had long forgotten its own purpose.

One might have thought a lack of vision had the resident artist pull an installation piece on a particularly uninspired Tuesday, leaving this hall as an empty testament to ambition gone horribly wrong.

Burn swung his new sword, the blade cutting through the stale air. Adapting to its weight was an act akin to forging a new relationship—except without the awkward small talk and inevitable breakdowns.

For a warrior, after all, a sword was an extension of their very being, much like a limb. Acquiring a new sword was like going through a mid-life crisis, wherein one casually replaces their own arm with a flashy new model, replete with all the bells and whistles one could hope for. 

“Ready?” he asked, with the sort of bravado reserved for a man who does not know the true meaning of worry.

Isaiah raised his spear and chuckled. “Please.”

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