Chapter Text
When Technoblade of Himmelblock first received the summons to the palace of Manberg, he thought it was an esteemed honor. It came in a silk scroll with elegant handwriting, signed by the king himself. As someone who came from a decent family from a small city-state, this was an incredibly big deal. To be called by the king could mean a great many small things, but the one big thing it brought was great prestige, a gift that every knight sought.
He made plans to ride out to Manberg the very next day on his favorite horse Carl, his finest clothes packed safely in a sturdy leather satchel and his trusty sword clipped to his belt.
When Techno arrived, he was met with great fanfare by his peers and the ministers of Manberg. The king was waiting at the top of the steps, his neck length black hair hidden under a heavy gold crown, a fur lined red cape lazily draped over his shoulder.
“Technoblade of Himmelblock! I heard a great many things about you,” the king said as Techno dismounted, instantly bowing lowly.
“All good, I hope,” replied Techno, his voice not changing tone or rhythm.
“What else is there to say about the greatest knight in the realm? Come, come, get up.” Technoblade picked himself up and trailed after the fast paced king. He was a shorter man, someone Techno easily towered over. Someone he could probably punt into the sun-- but he had to remind himself this was a king he was talking about.
The steward stopped him at the entrance, glancing at Techno’s sword with deep intensity. With a sigh, Techno unclipped it and handed it to the older man, continuing forward into the palace.
They entered a grand hall that was lavishly decorated. The king took his seat upon his throne while Technoblade stopped in the middle of the hall, his fist balled up and pressed against his chest as he waited for the king’s next words.
“I will turn you into a living sword,” the king said with a toothy grin, though his teeth looked sharper than most. Something predatory.
Still, to be of use to a king was a knight’s honor. “I will happily serve you,” Technoblade pledged, bowing his head once more.
The king laughed raucously. “Good, good…”
If only Technoblade had known what that meant.
Because he didn’t realize until his hands were bound by the force of ten men, pinning him to the ground of the hall in front of everyone who claimed to respect and admire him. His neck was pressed to the floor, and his chestnut hair was yanked back so he could continue to make eye contact with the king as a courtier entered the room with a large bowl of glowing red rocks.
“Do you know what these are, Technoblade of Himmelblock? These are Sanguis shards. My mages have been developing them since my father’s reign. Thank you for volunteering to be the next test subject.” The king said it with such genuine grace, but it was sickening to hear in this context.
Sanguis shards-- who in their enlightened age hadn’t heard of those sickly cursed rocks? They were said to be the crystalized blood that dropped from the fatal wound the Blood God died from. Their magic was so potent that most mages were overwhelmed before they could even go near it-- so how was this king wielding it so casually? Why was no one else reacting to them?
Techno could feel it like heat, waves radiating off the ruby shard and crushing his skin. Someone grabbed his jaw, prying his mouth open, and the king dangled a single shard above it, as if he were a master rewarding his pet.
“Eat up, dear Technoblade.” The shard dropped, and those that held him down clamped his mouth shut and he felt himself gagging on the sharp edges of the shard as it slowly slid down his throat and into his stomach, threatening to explode him from within.
Once they confirmed the shard went down, the king snapped his fingers and an underling took his place, grabbing the shards and shoving them down Techno’s throat, this time multiple at once. He didn’t even have time to vocalize his pain as more shards went down. His body was freezing up and exploding with heat at the same time. His vision became blurred, the scene growing dimmer and then bright red like a splatter of blood.
They stopped feeding him the shards at one point, but so much time elapsed or maybe none at all, that Techno didn’t realize. His mouth was open, instinctively waiting for more torture as he spasmed on the rich carpet of the room, tearing at the fabric in agony.
People watched him from afar, while others circled him, watching with greedy eyes to see if he’d survive this. Techno himself didn’t know. “He’s still going,” someone murmured curiously.
“Most subjects stop moving at this point. His Majesty will be glad to hear of this.”
Technoblade willed himself to scream at them, but his throat was filled with daggers ripping at the flesh within him. His heart beat faster and faster, and he felt something attach itself to his very soul.
Then he just stopped. He just stopped moving. It’s not like he didn’t want to, but he physically couldn’t. His fingers wouldn’t move and his toes wouldn’t curl and he couldn’t even feel his arms.
There was a sudden applause and the jarring sound of cheering. Someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up, moving his arm in his periphery view. He stared in horror at the sharp silver color his arm was… Like a sword.
He was becoming a living sword.
“His Majesty was wise in choosing such a specimen! Who else but Technoblade of Himmelblock would be able to withstand the Sanguis shards?”
Everything after that was a blur.
He was made to eat a Sanguis shard every day until he could become a fully formed sword. He was a long spatha, his hilt decorated with rubies, and a gold engraving lining the blade. The only honor the king granted Technoblade was for him to keep his name.
Technoblade-- but not of Himmelblock. He was now Technoblade, the Holy Sword.
He was laid on a plush red pillow and presented before the king. His hilt was harshly grabbed and he was presented grandly to a crowd of adoring citizens, none knowing the horrors that created the very sword they revered.
“This is the sword to end all wars,” the king declared, but it was the exact opposite. The holy sword started wars and devastated homes and started fires. Technoblade of Himmelblock was well-acquainted with the ways of war, but it wasn’t meant to be seen everyday. It was always some new blood, some new cadaver his wielder almost tripped on. With each kill, a new voice attaches itself to the shards-- to his soul.
Even his own city-state of Himmelblock was nothing against the sheer might Manberg manifested with a sword created from the Sanguis shards.
And then the king that tormented him so was suddenly old and tangled in his silk sheets, barely able to heave a sigh. His successor held his hand and the old king presented a familiar plush pillow and a legendary sword, and the nightmare continued.
It was cyclical.
Blood spatters and dead children; dry grass and cold winds; lost hope and numbness. The Manberg hegemony grew over city-states and kingdoms. Technoblade stopped counting the years after the second century of this existence. He was no longer human and no longer aged according to the universal laws of man. He was an immortal weapon that was cleaned tediously every week, never allowing rust to or dirt to consume him. He was a cherished sword but a neglected person.
Technoblade didn’t want to be a sword anymore after the four hundred and twentieth year. It hit him like a brick on a window when he suddenly wished to die. Or better yet, if he could go back and change it all, he would without a second of hesitation.
He found himself praying to the very god that consumed his soul with his blood. Please, if you’re able to, save me from this sufferin’. It’s something beyond unbearable.
He didn’t expect a response. Technoblade had never been the religious type-- he didn’t believe in the existence of gods. He thought there was an empirical story behind the shards and he found magic to be natural to the earth rather than a deity granting them privileges.
But a voice unlike the thousands collected on the battlefield rumbled in his mind. It was like the sound of a war horn and the cries of the exhausted. What do you expect me to do?
I am human, I swear it, Technoblade cried out, I want to go back-- I want them to pay. I want them dead!
The voice rumbled approvingly. You truly are the perfect vessel, though most unwilling. I can grant you your revenge, but I am attached to your soul, not your body. I remain with you as you will remain with me.
In a flash of light something truly changed. He was no longer in a glass case on display in the throne room of Manberg, but in his homely room in Himmelblock. The last time he’d been in Himmelblock was when he was quelling a rebellion.
He had hands again. His fingers felt unfamiliar but not unused. He flexed them with wonder as he looked around. His old, unstable wooden desk sat in the corner of the room, a stack of papers and a jar of ink messily staged on the surface.
He released a deep breath, and then sharply inhaled, a shaky tear falling out of his eye. He quickly wiped it away. He pulled himself out of the bed, lifting his leg and letting it establish itself on the ground before resting his weight on it.
He fell on his face.
As soon as he got used to his limbs, he climbed to his window, watching the servants of the estate bustle about on their completely normal day.
But for Technoblade, this was the day he was fourteen again.