Drip. Drip. Drip.

The rhythmic fall of water marked time's passage as steadily as an hourglass. Faint, fetid smells of mildew and illness marred the otherwise opulent chamber, adorned as it was with fine silks and shining gold. This was a place far from the familiar comforts of Napoli, or even the bustling market streets of Florence. But both of those cities were war-ridden fleapits now, fit only to grace the canvases of artists painting scenes of death and finality.

Lying back against the pillows, listening as his own breath became phlegmatic and shallow, the Merchant of Death laughed. All the painters were wrong, and their visions comically misguided. Mortality arrived not astride a warhorse, proud and seeking to conquer. Nor was it a dancing corpse, cavorting madly as the eternal song of memento mori rang out into the air. No, it was a broken, starving wretch stumbling up to the bedside, pleading with a voice cracked from eons of age.

Give in to me, Vercci…give in…

Yet he never would have become the Merchant of Death had he been so weak and complacent. Illness had dogged his steps from childhood, biting at his heels like a starving cur. But from each bout of convalescence he'd emerged like the proverbial firebird from his sickbed, a renewed desire to exercise his will upon the world sharpening both wit and tongue. His rise had been storied, the stuff of legends. The weaponry he'd sold was second-to-none, his eye for a ready blade unrivaled by other arms merchants. Even his brother Enrico's knowledge of the family trade paled in comparison to his own – but then, that poor ignoramus was never bold enough to truly grasp the business. Not like Vercci had.

Pride swelled within him as he recalled those countless hours of study, how he'd spent his younger days eagerly poring over dusty books and appraising gilded, exotic weapons like his father before him. He'd proven himself time and time again to be a worthy heir to their line of work, and at the peak of his career he could almost glimpse the dynasty he was sure to leave behind…the legacy that would stand as his finest memorial, hewn by his own hands.

Those fond remembrances were cut short by another fit of coughing. Fresh blood and spittle stained the sheets as his chest heaved, the violence of each exhale leaving him lightheaded and dazed. At last, the spell subsided, and with a weakened gasp he tried to raise himself. Oh, he sensed it more clearly with every moment that sputtered and died in this godforsaken chamber. Gritting his teeth, he willed his struggling body to rally the remainder of its strength and withstand the latest onslaught, if only for a while longer.

"N-not finished yet…" He hated the way his voice creaked, yet at this point he was fortunate to be able to say anything at all. "I must…Voldo! Voldo!"

As a bolt of pain wracked his chest and widened his eyes, he called desperately for his most trusted servant. Voldo…he was the only one left now, the last, loyal being remaining by his side. Craven Enrico had betrayed him, fleeing to the hills like a fool and letting his ancestral riches fall into the hands of the rabble. If anyone deserved a miserable death, it was his brother. Had he been here on the island, his remains would have ended up in that mass grave in the sands like all the rest. But it was best to forget him. The proverbial candle burned ever lower, and there wasn't a moment left to waste.

A weak, twisted excitement rose up within the merchant's heart as he heard the footfalls of his right-hand man, that steadfast guardian of both his body and his coffers, coming ever closer.

"Oh, Voldo…sweet Voldo…" His voice was barely a whisper as he reached for the leather-garbed young man approaching his bedside. Strange as that attire might have seemed to an outsider, Vercci knew well its significance. He'd been the one to have it commissioned, after all. Even now he felt a warm satisfaction as he regarded the bizarre outfit, with its many straps and buckles. Its every stitch signified his total ownership of the man who wore it. Precious Voldo was so much more than a mere attendant – he was his dearest treasure, the most prized possession in House Vercci, and deserved to be adorned as such.

He watched as the taller man sunk to his knees, and he caressed his soft locks with a loving hand.

"We two are the very last souls on this island, as I decreed it should be. But Voldo, I fear you will soon be alone." he said.

"Why would you even breathe such a thing, Master? Y-you…you will live. You have to!" insisted Voldo. "This is the clearest you've spoken in days; the whole of last week you were delirious. I'm sure you'll be getting better soon! Yes, recovering to your former health."

But the Merchant of Death shook his head, choking out a bitter laugh. His right-hand's words were delusional at best, pure madness at worst. "Dearest servant of mine…I'm afraid your loyalty blinds you to the truth. The final curtain will soon be drawn over my life. As my successor, you must carry onward without me. That was always to be your fate."

"M-Master, it isn't fair!" The young man threw himself upon the bedclothes, weeping openly.

"Come now, dry your eyes!" said Vercci, gripping Voldo's hair and forcing him to raise his head. It took much of his waning vigor to do so, but the Merchant of Death held iron determination even at the last. Cupping the young man's cheek with his other hand as he spoke, Vercci's thinning voice was gentle, syrupy, as if he were speaking to a favorite hound.

"This is no time to weaken. You must guard my riches when I am gone, with your very life if there's no other choice. And if you should detect the merest trace of that sword, Soul Edge...then and only then will you be permitted to leave your post and find it. These are my last orders to you, Voldo. Do not disappoint me."

"I would never dream of that, Master." Voldo replied, his eyes still brimming over with tears. Upon seeing Vercci's disapproval, he hastily wiped away the moisture as best as he was able. "You could…you can trust me always! I swear it."

Vercci couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed that even after all his training, his right-hand was still so emotionally vulnerable. Those sessions in dark, private chambers hadn't made a stiff-lipped merchant-to-be out of him, even slightly. He was quite the actor in the piazze, yet his true nature always slipped out behind closed doors.

But perhaps such sappy displays were to be expected at times like these. Deep within his own memories, Vercci easily recalled his own tense and melancholy visits to the dying. He hadn't been a man to shed tears or make dramatic displays of mourning. Such things were best left to Enrico. Yet even the Merchant of Death's stony heart had cracked at each witnessed departure. How could it not? Death was the great unknown. The wisest philosophers in Italy hadn't yet plumbed its secrets, and Vercci's intuition told him that they never would. There were some mysteries in life that even the boldest explorers had to plunge into alone, never to return to tell their fellows left behind about what they'd glimpsed beyond.

It would shortly be his turn to make that solitary journey, leaving behind the only world he had ever known. In spite of his attempts to rise above the sea of complacency and mediocrity that had damned his countrymen to petty bickering and honor squabbles, at the last, death would claim him as well. Ironic that his illness should choose this time to strike its final blow, just when he was fleeing yet more of the peninsula's foolishness in the wake of his own greatest loss.

All of his work seemed fruitless, banal as a peasant's existence. Was this inglorious end his deserts? Would he be deprived of the grandeur he'd earned for all his labors? Would the sharp wit and clever tongue that had served him so well be snuffed out like candles, to remain unlit forevermore?

The unsatisfied merchant set his teeth, ignoring the sensation in his chest that felt like the hand of Death groping about for his heart. If he was to be cast into the darkness, then so too would someone else. His eyes fell upon the man still gazing at him with sorrowful adoration, and he grinned as he reached for a dagger from the bedside table. Though his hand trembled so, he still managed to keep the ornate golden handle tight in his grip.

"Come here, dear Voldo…" he said, his tone treacle-sweet, "Master has one last present for you…"

Perhaps dying had dimmed what little capacity for surprise that he had left. It didn't shock him in the slightest that the young man simply allowed his sight to be sliced away, offering not a single motion of defense against the cruel, cutting blade. But on further thought, it only made sense. Voldo had been trained to never question a single action of his master's, even the most sadistic. That wouldn't change, even as death had finally arrived for the older man. At the bedside, Voldo's ears remained loyally keen to hear Vercci's final words. The bodyguard himself knelt straight and silent, despite the searing pain and the bloody tears trickling down his cheeks beneath the fresh, bandaging blindfold.

Vercci dropped the gory dagger upon the bedclothes as the last throes of mortality wracked his body. No longer prideful enough to resist the impulse as his hour drew nigh, the Merchant of Death feebly clutched at Voldo's hand. A brighter light than he'd ever glimpsed before pierced his vision, drowning out all else in the room. His blue eyes began to glaze over, in awe of a glow that shone a more vibrant, brighter gold than any of his hoarded treasures.

"V-Voldo…" he gasped. "I'm…counting on you to take care of everything."

A strange greed overtaking him, he grasped out blindly for the light before him, as if he could ever close his mortal fingers around such ethereal treasure. Yet his desperate quest was doomed before it even started.

He fell back onto the pillows, his body seized with shivers as the last of his will left him. With one final shudder, the Merchant of Death surrendered to the Fates and the scythe that harvested all men.

But perhaps, just perhaps, this wasn't his final bow on the stage of history…