The stomping and scraping of the site workers that preceded the sun's setting by a little did not divert the Chief Reclaimer's attention, and he only raised a hand in response to the evening farewells. "Goodnight, Chief. Don't stay up too long, Chief." They knew the inevitability of his staying up too long, but wanted to say something. There were worse bosses in their field.
He worked long after the sun set with a single lantern in its place, dusting every speck of dirt and debris off the ancient relics that made the Old Pile worth excavating by the state while night and silence surrounded him.
"Your eyesight won't thank you for these late nights." The silence ended, and the Chief Reclaimer stood and turned around.
"Oh, ah, who . . . may I help you?" He saw a man, or so he supposed, but what he perceived was the edge of a blade, shining scarlet in the dark. "That's . . ."
"It is. You may help me by not moving. I was paid to do this." Halfway through those words, the Chief Reclaimer ran and the other followed. Both stumbled, the latter from unfamiliarity and the latter from stiffness and terror of that blade which belonged to the sword which cleaved might from main, forged by goblins in ages past. He knew of it as any scholar would and feared it.
He stumbled more and longer between the two, unequal to the chase. At last he collapsed and twisted, holding up an arm despite knowing nothing could stop the Sword of Exhaustion. It swung, and that was the end.
The Chief Reclaimer awoke the next day in his bed in town, late for work and feeling better than he had in years. He might have felt better yet had he been given a chance to examine that strange man's relic, but nothing could be done about that.
Finis
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