A Roster of Absolute Trash

A prince's failure is never truly a failure. At least, that is how it usually goes for the high and mighty in human society.

The prince failed to draw the Holy Sword? No. The Holy Sword was merely demonstrating that the time was not yet ripe. The prince pulled until his palms were raw and blistered? No. The Holy Sword was simply presenting a more profound trial.

The High Priest was a truly magnificent human being. His talent for putting a positive spin on a disastrous situation was easily on par with a legendary Hero.

"The Holy Sword still wishes to remain silent!" he cried, spreading his arms wide. The nobles and knights gathered in the Sacred Plaza nodded in solemn agreement.

A few even looked relieved. After all, if the prince hadn't failed, then they hadn't technically witnessed a failure either.

Feeling the vibrations of their footsteps, I thought to myself, No, it was definitely a failure.

The Holy Sword Lumen was still wedged firmly inside my body. A grand, majestic, divine rental item. Just moments ago, a prince had tried to use it as a certificate of royal authority.

If I hadn't stopped him, the Holy Sword would have cleaved through the royal council chamber long before it ever touched the Demon King. To be precise, it would have started with the necks of the opposition nobles sitting in that chamber.

Goddess Elia asked softly, "Pedestal."

Yes?

"Are you perhaps being a bit too strict?"

I remained silent for a moment. The goddess still believed in humanity. That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was both the greatest strength and the greatest weakness of being a deity—she had absolutely no sense of ground reality.

Goddess.

"Yes?"

A human who plans to draft a hit list for his older brother's funeral the very second he draws the Holy Sword deserves to be judged a little strictly.

The goddess did not reply.

Out in the Sacred Plaza, the next candidate stepped forward. Since the prince had failed first, the next in line was a knight. The Vice-Captain of the Royal Knights, Sir Leovan. He was tall, his armor gleamed, and his gaze was unwavering.

The crowd began to murmur once more.

"If it's Sir Leovan, it's highly possible."

"I heard he slew Black Beasts on the northern front."

"Perhaps the Holy Sword is looking for a true warrior."

A knight this time, then. Honor. Loyalty. Swordsmanship. Sweat. A beard. It was a demographic that actually passed the test quite often.

Sir Leovan stood before me. He removed his helmet and knelt.

"O Holy Sword," he said, his voice low and heavy. "I have dedicated my life to the kingdom. If I am one worthy to slay the Demon King, I pray you grant me your permission."

Those were decent words. Unlike Kael, who viewed the Holy Sword as a mere ornament for the throne, this knight genuinely intended to carry it onto a real battlefield. I felt a tiny sliver of anticipation. Just a tiny bit.

Sir Leovan grasped the hilt of the Holy Sword. In that instant, his inner thoughts flowed into me. The snow of the north. The blood of Black Beasts. Fallen soldiers. Burning villages. And Kael Arken.

He hated the Demon King. That much was genuine. But the first thing he wanted to cleave after drawing the Holy Sword wasn't the Demon King. It was the prince.

He had his reasons. He suspected Kael of standing by and letting his older brother die, and he believed the kingdom must not be left in the hands of such a man. Loyalty. A sense of justice. Anger. They were all real.

The problem lay in what came after. Slaying the prince. Purging the palace. The knights "temporarily" taking control of the state. That "temporary" period dragging on and on. A future where he claimed he didn't want power, yet refused to ever let it go.

I wanted to sigh. I couldn't, because I was a stone.

It's just a coup d'état with a "justice" label slapped on it.

Sir Leovan pulled the Holy Sword. It didn't budge. He pulled again. It didn't budge. On his third attempt, the muscles in his forearms bulged with strain. Still, it didn't budge.

Sir Leovan let go of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the hilt. His expression didn't waver. In that regard, he was better than the prince. He bowed his head quietly.

"My vessel was lacking."

No. The vessel was there. It was just that what was inside was a bit dangerous.

The goddess said softly, "He is not a bad person."

Yes.

"Then why won't it work?"

He's going to slay the prince before he ever touches the Demon King.

"...That would indeed be troublesome."

Yes. It's not just regular troublesome.

The next candidate came from the Temple. Pure white priestly robes. Gold embroidery. A gentle, poised stride. The High Priest's direct disciple, Theorn. He was young, exceptionally handsome, and had a gentle gaze. As he stood before the Holy Sword, the priests' faces brightened.

"He is the Temple's pure candidate," the High Priest announced. "One who has dedicated his entire life to serving the Goddess."

Theorn clasped his hands ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠together. "Goddess Elia. If I, as your humble servant, may bring light to this world, please grant me this sword."

The goddess seemed slightly touched. "He speaks so beautifully."

Only his words.

Theorn grabbed the Holy Sword. Instantly, I saw it. The sanctuary. The scent of incense. The kneeling populace. A shining altar. And a statue erected right in the center of that altar. A statue of Theorn.

Beneath the statue, an inscription was carved:

I paused. His Holiness? Even his master was still only the High Priest. I saw more. He would kill the Demon King. If he could, he would sincerely try to kill him.

But after killing the Demon King, before returning the Holy Sword to the pedestal, he planned to take the Holy Sword and go on a grand tour of the entire continent. Under the guise of a "pilgrimage." In reality, it was just a massive fan-meeting tour.

I quietly made my judgment.

He loves his own statue more than he loves you, Goddess.

The goddess sighed. "That is a bit sad."

Disqualified.

Theorn couldn't pull the Holy Sword. With a flustered face, he prayed again. "O Goddess, my shortcomings—"

You certainly have plenty of those.

The Holy Sword did not budge.

The High Priest cleared his throat. "The Holy Sword demands a deeper purification."

What a beautiful spin. I wanted to recommend that man as a PR director.

The candidates continued after that. The genius mage of the Magic Tower immediately thought of a thesis title the moment he grabbed the Holy Sword.

He was disqualified based on the thesis title alone.

A famous mercenary calculated the Demon King subjugation reward, the black market price of the Holy Sword, and the Temple's insurance payout all at once. He was looking at the Holy Sword like a loan product. Disqualified.

There was also a noble scion who wore shabby clothes on purpose. "I am a nobody," he said, but inside, he was thinking, This should make me look humble enough, right? Disqualified.

There was even a genuine low-ranking soldier. He looked simple and honest on the outside, and the crowd whispered that perhaps a humble person like him would be chosen.

But the moment he grabbed the Holy Sword, the first thing he pictured was bashing the back of his commanding officer's head. I quietly made my judgment. Just because you are in a low position doesn't mean your desires are humble. Disqualified.

I grew quieter and quieter. The High Priest's speeches grew longer and longer.

"The Holy Sword tests us with its deep silence!"

"The Goddess's will is still hidden behind the clouds!"

"The candidates' challenges are not failures, but the beginning of self-reflection!"

Humans are truly amazing. Usually, when failures pile up, one should feel ashamed, but that High Priest was only building up his vocabulary.

Goddess Elia asked, "Is there really not a single person?"

I felt the plaza. Princes. Knights. Priests. Mages. Mercenaries. Nobles. Soldiers. Those pretending to be humble. Those pretending to be devout. Those pretending to be righteous. Those who claimed to act for the country but actually thought of their own positions first.

Goddess.

"Yes?"

I think humanity is doomed.

"Is it that bad?"

I am a literal stone, and yet I have the most conscience here.

The goddess fell silent again.

That night, the Sacred Plaza emptied. The priests put away the candles, the knights withdrew in silence, and the nobles boarded their carriages, framing the failure as if it had nothing to do with them. I thought Prince Kael had left as well. He hadn't. Late into the night, he returned.

This time, there was no flashy cloak, no attendants, and no cheering crowd. Clad in a black overcoat, Kael stood quietly before me. The moonlight caught his blonde hair. He stared down at the Holy Sword for a long time. Then, he spoke in a low ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voice. "There were too many eyes during the day."

Oh, he's one of those.

"My prayers were disrupted, and the ceremony was chaotic. The Holy Sword itself must not have been in its perfect state."

The self-rationalization had begun.

Kael took off his gloves. His hands were even colder than they had been during the day. He grabbed the Holy Sword. I read his mind again. Shame. Anger. Denial. And doubt. He didn't doubt himself. He doubted the Holy Sword. No, not the Holy Sword. Me. The pedestal. The stone holding the Holy Sword.

He was thinking: The Holy Sword didn't reject me. It's just the stone blocking it.

For the first time, I wanted to laugh. You're close to the truth, but your attitude is garbage.

Kael pulled the Holy Sword. I activated [Seal Sword], locking it even tighter than during the day. He grit his teeth. The Holy Sword didn't budge. A small sound came from Kael's wrist.

*Crack.*

He quickly let go. Pain flashed across his face. But he didn't scream. This man was the type who valued his dignity far more than his own physical pain.

Kael looked down, not at the Holy Sword, but at me. "One does not necessarily need to untangle a knotted thread by hand," he said in a low voice. "If you cut it with a blade, it will unravel anyway."

Under the moonlight, Kael's eyes sank coldly. I remembered those words. This prince would probably try to destroy me one day. Not to draw the Holy Sword, but to eliminate the thing blocking it.

The goddess said quietly, "He is dangerous."

Yes.

"But still, humans have—"

Potential, yes. I cut her off. And that man is using that potential in the worst possible way.

Kael left. The Sacred Plaza fell silent again. The wind blew all night. Flower petals withered. Candle wax hardened. On the hilt of the Holy Sword, a thin layer of sweat, perfume, and blood from various humans remained. They were all traces of the disqualified.

Feeling those traces, I thought. The 37th Sword Era. The candidate list had been glorious. A prince. A knight. A priest. A mage. A mercenary. A noble. A hero. And they were all absolute trash.

Around dawn, footsteps echoed from one side of the plaza. It wasn't the sound of expensive shoes, nor knights' boots, nor a priest's orderly stride. It was the sound of worn-out soles scraping against the stone floor. Someone was grumbling as they approached.

"What's the point of a legendary ceremony?" It was a female voice. Sleepy, tired, and carrying almost zero expectations for the world. "I'm the one who has to clean up the trash anyway."

She dragged her broom into the plaza. I didn't know yet. That that cleaner—that person who wasn't on any candidate list for this century—would be the one to make the Holy Sword move for the first time today.