The Luna Trials

Episode 21

Weapon Crafting

The acrid smell of metal and sweat filled my nostrils as we were herded like cattle to the weapons crafting station. Another trial in this endless circus of survival. I couldn't help but smirk at the irony. Here we were, supposedly the cream of the crop, reduced to primitive tool-making. But I knew better. This wasn't about crafting weapons; it was about crafting our fates.

As the faceless drones running this show laid out the raw materials before us - wood, metal, and leather - I felt a familiar surge of adrenaline course through my veins. This was it. This was where I'd show these amateurs what true skill looked like.

I scanned the array of tools provided, my lip curling in disgust. Pathetic. Did they really expect us to create anything worthwhile with these rusted relics? No, if I was going to craft a weapon worthy of my skills, I needed better.

Without a word to the others - why waste breath on those who wouldn't be around much longer? - I began to scour the area. My eyes darted from station to station, cataloging every scrap of material, every forgotten tool. To the untrained eye, it might have looked like I was lost, wandering aimlessly. But I knew exactly what I was doing.

As I moved, I caught snippets of conversation from the other contestants. Whispers of strategy, half-formed plans, and thinly veiled threats. Amateurs. If they were smart, they'd keep their mouths shut and their plans to themselves. But then again, if they were smart, they wouldn't be here competing against me.

"Did you see what happened to Gerald?"

"I heard MaryJane orchestrated the whole thing..."

"Better watch your back around her..."

I allowed myself a small smile at that last one. At least some of them were learning. Fear was a powerful motivator, and if it kept them out of my way, all the better.

Finally satisfied with my scavenged supplies, I returned to my station. The others were already hard at work, their faces twisted in concentration as they fumbled with their materials. Pathetic. They looked like children playing at being warriors.

I set to work, my movements precise and deliberate. Every cut, every bend of metal, every stitch in leather was executed with surgical precision. This wasn't just a weapon I was crafting; it was an extension of myself. A physical manifestation of my will to survive, to dominate, to win.

As my hands worked, my mind raced. A sword was the obvious choice - versatile, deadly, classic. But it needed to be more than just a blade. It needed to be a statement. I thought back to the betrayals, the alliances formed and broken in the blink of an eye. This weapon needed to embody that chaos, that unpredictability.

Hours passed like minutes. The world around me faded away, narrowing down to the weapon taking shape in my hands. A sword, yes, but unlike any they'd seen before. The blade was a masterpiece of folded steel, patterns rippling across its surface like water. The guard, an intricate web of metal, designed to trap and break an opponent's blade. And the handle, wrapped in supple leather, molded perfectly to my grip.

As I worked, I couldn't help but glance at my competition. Their clumsy attempts at weaponry were almost laughable. Marcus, the fool who'd been giving me sideways glances since the fort fiasco, was struggling with what looked like a malformed club. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Elara, on the other hand, was crafting what appeared to be a bow. Smart, I had to admit. Long-range would be an advantage in the trials to come. For a moment, I considered sabotaging her work. It would be easy enough - a subtle weakening of the wood here, a frayed string there. But no. Let her have her small victory. When the time came, no bow would save her from me.

As the deadline approached, a palpable tension filled the air. Sweat beaded on foreheads, hands trembled with exhaustion and nerves. But not mine. I stood tall, my weapon gleaming in the harsh light of the crafting station. Perfect. Deadly. Mine.

The faceless judges moved among us, examining our creations with cold, calculating eyes. I watched as they shook their heads at Marcus's pathetic attempt at a weapon, barely concealing my smirk. When they reached me, I held my sword out without a word. Let the craftsmanship speak for itself.

Their eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Good. Even these emotionless drones could recognize true skill when they saw it.

"Impressive work," one of them muttered, running a finger along the blade. "Perfect balance, exceptional edge retention. You've done this before."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "I'm a fast learner."

The testing phase began, and one by one, we were called to demonstrate our weapons on a series of dummies. I watched with growing disdain as my fellow contestants hacked and slashed clumsily at the targets. Marcus's club splintered on impact, sending him sprawling to the ground amidst a chorus of barely suppressed laughter. Pathetic.

When my turn came, I approached the dummies with measured steps. This wasn't just a test; it was a performance. A chance to show these fools exactly what they were up against.

With a flick of my wrist, the sword sang through the air. The first dummy's head hit the ground before anyone realized I'd moved. The second fell in two clean halves, bifurcated from crown to groin. For the third, I got creative. A series of lightning-fast cuts reduced it to confetti before the pieces even hit the ground.

Silence fell over the group. I turned, sword held casually at my side, and met their wide-eyed stares with a cool gaze of my own. Let them wonder. Let them fear.

As I walked back to my place in line, I locked eyes with Marcus. The hatred burning in his gaze was almost palpable. Good. Hate was a distraction, and distracted opponents made mistakes. Mistakes I would be all too happy to capitalize on.

The results were announced without fanfare. To no one's surprise - least of all mine - Marcus was deemed the weakest. His pitiful excuse for a weapon and even more pitiful performance had sealed his fate.

As the drones led him away, Marcus's composure finally broke. "This is bullshit!" he screamed, struggling against their grip. "She cheated! MaryJane, you manipulative b***h! You'll get what's coming to you!"

I met his accusing glare with a raised eyebrow. "I didn't realize crafting a superior weapon was considered cheating," I drawled. "But then again, I suppose losers always need someone to blame."

His face contorted with rage, but before he could spit out another pathetic insult, he was dragged out of sight. Good riddance.

As the other contestants dispersed, whispering among themselves and shooting furtive glances my way, I stood my ground. Let them talk. Let them scheme. In the end, it would make no difference.

But as I turned to leave, a flicker of doubt crept into my mind. Marcus's words echoed in my ears. "You'll get what's coming to you!" It was an empty threat from a sore loser, nothing more. And yet...

I shook my head, banishing the thought. Doubt was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not here, not now. I was MaryJane, and I was going to win these godforsaken Luna Trials if it was the last thing I did.

Back in my tent, I sat cross-legged on my bedroll, my newly crafted sword laid out before me. As I ran a cloth along its gleaming surface, I couldn't help but admire my handiwork. Every curve, every edge, every minute detail was a testament to my skill, my determination.

But as I polished, my mind wandered. Marcus's accusations, the whispers of the other contestants, the constant, gnawing feeling that I was missing something crucial - it all swirled in my head like a toxic fog.

Was I really the manipulative schemer they all thought I was? The rational part of my brain scoffed at the idea. Of course I was. It was how I'd survived this long, how I'd stay alive until the bitter end. And yet...

I paused in my polishing, staring at my reflection in the blade. The face that looked back at me was hard, determined. The face of a survivor. But there was something else there too, something I hadn't noticed before. A flicker of uncertainty in my eyes, a tightness around my mouth.

For a moment - just a moment - I allowed myself to imagine a different path. One where I formed real alliances, where I didn't see every interaction as a potential threat. It was a nice fantasy, I had to admit. But that's all it was - a fantasy.

I resumed my polishing with renewed vigor, pushing the errant thoughts from my mind. This was no time for self-doubt or moral quandaries. I was here to win, plain and simple. And if that meant being the villain in everyone else's story, so be it.

As I put the finishing touches on my blade, a small smile played across my lips. Let them call me manipulative. Let them fear me, hate me, scheme against me. In the end, it would only make my victory that much sweeter.

With a final, loving stroke of the cloth, I set the sword aside and lay back on my bedroll. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new trials to overcome. But for now, in the quiet darkness of my tent, I allowed myself a moment of peace.

As sleep began to claim me, one last thought drifted through my mind. In a world where trust was a weakness and allies were just enemies in waiting, maybe being alone wasn't such a bad thing after all.

I closed my eyes, a sardonic smile on my lips. Let the games continue. I was ready.