The Sword That Finds Its Master

There's a saying that demonic swords conceal their true nature and seek out their masters themselves. The Mythic-grade demonic sword before my eyes seemed to be doing exactly that.

I checked the price again.

Five hundred thousand points. Factoring in the current exchange rate, that came to a little over five million won.

An enormous sum from where I was standing—but what hung on the other side of that number was even bigger. A Mythic-grade weapon was the kind of equipment even the highest-ranked hunters might never lay eyes on once in their entire lives. Its raw performance was outstanding, and it came loaded with weapon skills that could turn the tide of any fight.

But this wasn't just Mythic. It was a demonic sword besides. The trait I possessed pulled up more detailed information about the blade.

Curses this severe looked like something even a top-ranker couldn't handle. Who in their right mind had thought it was a good idea to sell this thing to hunters on the 1st Floor?

A normal person wouldn't have given it a second glance. But I had just awakened a trait called Scabbard. I read the description again.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

A talent for storing and managing swords in safety.

Maybe this trait could suppress the curses. I knew it was a gamble. But if I couldn't get a sword by tomorrow, I couldn't run dungeons, my grades would hit rock bottom, and I'd still owe the guild the penalty fee. I'd be drowning in debt and getting kicked out of my room before long.

Let's do this.

I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and opened several loan apps. I didn't even have living expenses, so scraping together five million won meant selling my soul.

A defining feature of the Tower's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠1st Floor: apply for a loan, and the money comes through with terrifying speed.

I immediately converted the loaned money into Tower Shop points. Then, without a shred of hesitation, I hit the purchase button on the listing sitting on my screen: Cursed Blood Iron Scrap.

At that moment, a nauseating blood-red mist began to pour from empty air. The atmosphere in the room froze over in an instant. The mist whirled, and a single sword dropped onto the floor with a dull thunk.

A brilliantly dazzling golden hilt. A blade that gleamed a pale, leaden white. The rusted scrap of iron from the shop image was nowhere to be seen.

I didn't even have time to marvel at that overwhelming beauty.

"Ugh—ghk…"

A tinnitus like the air itself tearing apart ripped through the room, and a horrific stench of blood stabbed into my nose. Pain slammed through my skull as if tens of thousands of vengeful spirits were screaming directly into my ears.

Mythic-grade weapons pack tremendous power, but they're just as dangerous. If a low-rank hunter dares to claim one, an accident is guaranteed—not even because of some special curse, but because the vessel simply isn't large enough to contain it. That's true of a perfectly ordinary Mythic item. This one was classified as a demonic sword on top of that.

To take a demonic sword of this caliber into your hands was to invite your own destruction. Tyrfing was revealing its true nature, trying to swallow me whole.

In the instant that primal terror hit—

The murderous will of the demonic sword that had been ripping through my mind washed away as if it had never existed. Instead, a new notification surfaced on the status window.

A long, whispering rush of air. The dark crimson mist pouring from the blade began to seep into my body. A warm energy traveled through my veins, and the pain in my swollen right arm vanished in an instant—broken bones knitting back together, torn muscle regenerating. A miracle.

Then a fresh cluster of status messages stacked up in front of my eyes.

"That's insane."

I clenched and unclenched my restored right arm, marveling. I couldn't draw out the demonic sword's full power, but just keeping it nearby and absorbing the miasma it leaked would produce permanent stat growth.

I can grow without even swinging the thing?

A stroke of fortune so absurd it defied belief.

If I train steadily like this, I can expand the grade of the vessel itself.

For now, I couldn't properly draw on the sword's power, and some of the curses still had a hold on me—because the size, or rather the caliber, of my vessel wasn't enough. But if I spent time growing my stats, that problem was solvable too.

I was still buzzing with plans for the future when another alert arrived.

Repair?

Come to think of it, I had stored my old weapon in my inventory—the World of the Sword—before. It had definitely snapped while I was fighting the hobgoblin.

A metallic whisper of steel. The sword I drew back out had been restored to perfect condition. More than that—it gleamed as if it were brand new. The broken edge had been honed razor-sharp.

A sword without even a grade just needed to be stored to get repaired?

"Huh."

Until a moment ago, that broken blade had been the reason my future looked pitch-black. It was almost anticlimactic—and it was also proof of how broken this trait was.

From now on, I'll use the boosted stats and keep fighting with this sword.

For ordinary combat, the mass-produced iron sword. Holding the demonic sword for long stretches drained stamina severely and risked curse erosion, so it wasn't suited to the kind of work that meant beating low-rank monsters all day.

That said, I can't just never use the demonic sword itself.

I returned the original iron sword to the World of the Sword, then picked up Tyrfing, which had gone quiet on the floor. A low-pitched ringing sounded for the briefest instant, then cut off. That was probably Mental Immunity at work too.

They say demonic swords choose their masters themselves. Had this one known even that, and made sure I noticed it? The moment it settled in my hand, I felt a sensation that was both cold and heavy.

I should test this one out too.

My arm was healed. I had a new weapon. I decided then and there to head back to the low-rank dungeon and settle the score.

Back in the damp, moss-slick cave. Because I'd failed the previous run, the monster count had ballooned back to its original numbers—but I didn't feel a shred of despair.

My body feels light.

The stat growth was already something I could feel. I cut down monsters with a grade-less iron sword and still wasn't even winded. Deeper into the cave, a familiar cry reached my ears.

"Kieeeeek—!"

The Elite Hobgoblin that had been prowling near the entrance spotted me and raised its iron mace again. The same one that had shattered my weapon and nearly killed me not long ago.

This time was different.

I gave Tyrfing a light swing. The sensation was as smooth as parting empty air.

The next instant, the steel shield the hobgoblin had been so proud of—and the creature's thick torso—split cleanly in two and collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.

A Mythic-grade weapon's defense-ignoring passive. In the face of that, even an elite monster's armor meant nothing.

All that remained were maybe four stragglers. I swept through the dungeon without hesitation, slaughtering the leftover goblins and giant rats, and in no time I'd cleared it and pocketed dozens of E-rank mana stones.

I was catching my breath after leaving the dungeon when the phone in my pocket buzzed.

I let out a hollow laugh after reading it.

His own pocket and the department budget? Shameless as hell, considering he'd been planning to squeeze the students for cash and line his own back pocket the whole time.

Don't even think about a decent grade?

There was no reason left to stay at a university this rotten, under a professor like him.

I listed every E-rank mana stone I'd brought back on the Tower Shop's sell tab. Cheap stones by Tower-wide standards, but they had consistent demand as consumables—which made them a decent way to pull cash fast when you needed it.

Stones I would originally have handed over to the school had just turned into points in my pocket. I took the money and dug through the Tower Shop's consumables section. One goal: something that would accelerate my spec-up.

Ordinarily a niche potion for students researching curses, or people who'd awakened unusual traits. Under normal circumstances, there was nothing good about taking in external demonic energy. But in my case, I could convert the demonic sword's energy into stats, and mental contamination wasn't a concern.

I'll buy these regularly and keep using them.

The moment I got back to my studio, I downed the potion in one go. A nauseating taste slid down my throat, and I felt every blood vessel in my body dilate. I set Tyrfing on the bed, sat cross-legged, and focused my consciousness.

A deep rumble. Riding the pathways the potion had thrown wide open, the enormous miasma pouring from the demonic sword cascaded into me like a waterfall.

Curses and mental contamination all stripped away—pure demonic energy. Inside my body it was refined, transforming into a sweet elixir.

All night long, status window notifications packed my field of view. What would have been a deadly poison that drove a person insane felt, to me, like an experience-point event.

The next morning, I woke to an overwhelming power saturating every inch of my body and finished a shower in excellent spirits. There was no trace left of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the broken arm. Firm muscle had settled in beneath the skin.

Time to head back to school.

I had no intention of reading a professor's mood or going along with injustice anymore. I changed into my cleanest clothes and headed to campus that morning.

I shoved the department office door open.

"H-huh? Who are you?"

I walked in and tossed a single sheet of paper onto the startled TA's desk.

I'd filled it out in advance.