As time drew onward the world continued to decay. The human population began to dwindle with each passing day as the Fell Dragon fed upon their lifeblood. Droves of his undead army plagued the land, prettying upon whatever form of life they could find. The eye of heaven, that once magnificent day-star no longer shone through the pitch clouds that obscured the purple sky. With each passing year, Owain grew even stronger. By the time he became a teen he could slay an army of five hundred Risen with ease. Year by year this number would double. When he could fell two thousand Risen he felt his training nearing completion. His bloodthirsty sword hand twitched constantly, aching for a worthier challenge. Though he knew his strength was more than sufficient enough to defeat the mighty Grima, he knew that none of his trusted blades had the temperament to withstand such a terrifying clash of force. His faithful blade, Scarlet Maelstrom, wouldn't stand a chance. Nor would the Three Force Sword, or the Eternal Blade of Demise, nor the Sword of Revealing Light. Not even Soul's Edge, the Sword of Grey Skulls, or the massive Cloud Buster would survive a scrimmage between him and the Fell Dragon. Perhaps if he had been chosen to wield Falchion, but it was not his by birthright. Instead, the great blade had chosen his noble cousin. Owain knew that he was destined for an even greater blade, though- Mystletainn.

The Demon Sword of old, spoken about in an ancient holy war, was once a sword that belonged to a royal family with a name long forgotten. Possession of this great weapon transferred to another royal family as a symbol of unwavering loyalty. Centuries afterward it came to be possessed by a lionhearted lord and wielded in battle both for and against his friend. After its master's unfortunate execution, the blade changed hands once more, falling to the skills of its previous wielder's war-god like son.

Back in his childhood, when our great hero first heard its most mythical name grace his ears he felt his soul burn with the intensity of a thousand suns. Owain knew within split moments that this ancient blade was the fated mate to his sword hand. If only he could manage to obtain that legendary demon blade…surely then he'd be able to smite his Fell Foe. Alas, the whereabouts of that great sword were unknown even to the greatest of historians. In spite of all his searching, our amazing hero was unable to unearth the blade.

And so it came to be that the scion of legend had no choice but to seek a knowledgeable magician that would be able to assist him in locating Mystletainn. As everyone knows, there's always a mage beside a great hero of lore. Though our dark swordsman knew in his soul that this particular companion was sadly transitory and that one day in the future a great sorcerer, a true master of the dark and mystical arts, would become his ally. With that thought in mind, Owain Dark set off to the literary abode of his group's encampments in order to address his quest with his point-hatted companion. Said compatriot, however, was less than pleased to have his precious scientific inquiries interrupted. The mysterious hero's request was imperative to their very survival, though, so he had no qualms about interrupting the mage's minor studies.

"I bid thee great salutations, oh wise scholar of magic!" greeted our hero with the flair of respectful acknowledgment.

And, like a poison-spitting winged sea serpent, the mage hissed in anger, his eyes alight with the very fires of hell. Those blazing orbs fixed upon him, flickering behind two metal rimmed glass looking-panes affixed to the magician's face. "Silence, you blubbering, delusional fool!" he whisper-shouted at the hero. "This is a library. Surely your skull isn't so thick that you're ignorant of the rules."

"Alack, my friend, for rules are meant to be challenged!" Owain countered bravely before adding points to his flawless argument. "That aside, the point is moot, as you and I are the only living beings occupying this space. Even if that were not so, what reasoning should we have in upholding the rules and traditions of a society we've spied crumbling before us throughout all of our lifetimes?"

"…much as I'd like to contest your ludicrous point of view, I have better things to do." The bespectacled magician replied in withdrawn defeat. "Surely you had some sort of reason to interrupt me so brusquely."

"Most naturally! I have come to seek your aid in defeating our terrifying foe, Grima."

At this, the mage's eyes nearly doubled in size, shortly before narrowing in intense suspicion. "I find it highly unusual that you'd suddenly take our situation so seriously, Owain." He said as he continued to eye the swordsman.

"You wound me, my great ally! It is true that there is a peculiarity in that I, the mighty Owain Dark, am requesting for assistance. You are right to be suspicious! Indeed, you must have thought, 'this cannot be our legendary hero. The lone swordsman who stalks the night as nothing but a shadow.' Rest easy, good friend, and know that you are speaking to the one and only Owain Dark. Know the immense honor it is that I have chosen you, Laurent, with your vast knowledge of mystical arts and ancient history, to aid me in locating that most magical key that shall strike down the tyrannical Grima!"

"Hmm…I'm almost inclined to be flattered. However, I know better than to put faith in your fantastical ideas. Do tell, what is this 'magical key' you speak of?" inquired the scholarly young man.

"Oh-ho! Yes, I must say, it is quite a fantastic idea!" concurred our hero.

"That's no what I—"

"This most amazing weapon hat shall strike down Grima is none other than the demon sword, Mystletainn! For years I've wandered in search of the elusive blade, searching far and wide. For I know it is destined to rest in my palm, alone. Guide me, friend, to where it may be hidden."

At this decree the magician's mouth turned downwards ever so slightly, his lips pursed together with a heavy exhale. "Owain…in spite of all my studies and the numerous resources housed in this library, I can assure you that the legendary blade called 'Mystletainn' is likely nothing more than a myth. I doubt it actually exists."

"Always the nay-sayer, aren't you? Surely you're familiar with some of the history of that great war-god like hero, the last wielder of the great Mystletainn. Mystletainn's existence, much like Falchion's, is uncontestable. But unlike Falchion, which has been faithfully passed down through generations of Exalts, Mystletainn's ownership has leaped through different families and disappeared." the sandy-haired hero countered.

"Precisely. If legends are to be believed, the blade's last owner was he...or whoever he passed the blade to. It fades into the pages of history, and that was centuries ago. Only the gods could know where that relic is now."

There was a stillness in the room before our enigmatic hero drew in a rapid breath.

"The gods! That's it! But of course...Naga is the ancient archenemy of the Fell Dragon. Who else could possibly know the location of that great blade? Laurent, this is a marvelous breakthrough! We must gather the troops and set off in search of her posthaste!"