The One Who Farted Draws the Holy Sword
“What the hell is going on?”
“Cough, cough! Run!”
A gray mist blending holy power and demonic energy began spreading in all directions. The central square at midday, packed with people. The mist enveloped it, blocking out the sunlight. People right in front vanished from sight, leaving only distant screams and murmurs amid the growing chaos.
The demonic energy, diluted by the overwhelmingly potent holy power, wasn’t all that threatening. But one in ten—children, the elderly, the sick, the frail—were there. Those who inhaled the mist vomited blood. Even the unharmed fell into terror at the sight.
In the chaos, the crowd shoved, trampled, and fled.
“What is the meaning of this?”
At the epicenter of the mist stood the Lunar Saint, calm as ice even now. Her emotionless face turned toward the Hero’s waist.
The ritual garb’s spells shattered under the repulsion of holy power and demonic energy. Once the halo of light faded, revealing the true form within, there stood an ordinary, fragile human molded from flesh and blood.
“That sword. I’d heard the Hero was keeping it, but I never imagined you’d bring it out to a place like this.”
The pure white ritual robes made the sleek black blade stand out even more.
Haha. Getting such intense stares from a beauty’s making me blush a bit.
[First time seeing me up close, huh? You’ve heard plenty from your bro.]
“Even for the Hero, to commit such an outrage during a sacred ritual.”
But the Saint soon looked away from me.
Hmm, not even provocation shakes her. She really is cold and two-faced, just like the god she serves.
“I’ll retrieve it.”
She shook out her hand lightly, and light flowed from her shoulder down her arm to her palm. It froze into a barbed whip.
She swung it—crack. The air tore with a sonic boom, clearing the mist in an instant. A strike so swift no mere martial artist would dare face it.
Then their figures emerged. The whip reaching for me had wrapped around the Hero’s pale forearm instead. A single drop of blood dripped from its barbs.
“Why does a servant of god protect one beholden to evil?”
[Stop!]
The Saint’s expression twisted, and the holy sword spat a scream-like psychic wave. Only then did her gaze shift to it—as if she’d been deliberately ignoring it until now.
[You have no right to punish the Hero!]
The holy sword’s cry was sharp, laced with dignity. The Saint hesitated, and flames erupted from the Hero’s arm, melting the whip entirely.
“Even if I am not a mere sheep but the billy goat leading the flock, how dare I butt horns at the shepherd? I merely attacked the wolf threatening the herd.”
[Enough wordplay! Even if it’s a wolf, the Hero is the one who let it inside the fence!]
“Then must I stand by while that wolf tears the sheep apart?”
Religious metaphors aside, the true intent was clear enough.
Sigh, zealots gonna zealot.
Of course, even for a rogue life like mine, I wasn’t clueless enough to butt in here. Not my fault this time, but I didn’t want the splash damage.
That’s right! If anyone’s the aggrieved victim here, it’s me.
[Judgment belongs not to beasts, but to the shepherd who guides them.]
Translation: Don’t overstep and shut up.
Whoa, even for fellow worshippers of the same god, that’s harsh.
“……Understood.”
But the holy sword’s authority was the Hero’s. Even as a representative Saint of one church, she couldn’t defy the Hero backed by all three gods.
As the Lunar Saint stepped back, paladins watching from afar finally approached. The church forces swiftly contained the chaos.
Yet when the mist cleared, an eerie silence replaced the frenzy—one far more ominous. All eyes turned to the Hero, stripped of her halo.
“Is that wench really the Hero? What was that ominous aura just now……”
“Are you doubting the temple?”
“But it was clearly far from holy, that black mist.”
“Well……”
Worse, not just commoners but the power brokers gathered for the announcement began to waver. Titans whose every step shook the world balance.
Eh, they all bleed the same when beheaded.
The Hero was already on thin ice with the Vatican. If her image soured among other factions too, even her exemption from earthly authority wouldn’t ease the massive headaches in her path.
Freedom from interference and deserving respect are two different things.
[Hear me! All who bow beneath the sun!]
Only one way to quell this disaster: someone with authority equal to—or greater than—the Hero mediating.
“Wh-what?”
“That voice……”
[I am the holy sword Aries. Today, I speak the Hero’s oracle to the world in her stead!]
The holy sword’s psychic wave lacked my volume but covered the square, infused with raw emotion mine never had. The air softened just from her tone.
Doubts weren’t fully erased, but the mood shifted to “let’s hear her out.”
[The Hero foresaw it. A colossal calamity will soon strike this continent—not the Demon King, but despair by another name!]
This was the holy sword’s true power. Not traits or skills, but raw persuasiveness—making you believe even absurd claims.
Not all cult leaders are eloquent or logical; most aren’t. Yet they sway masses through some innate force.
[And the Hero foresaw this: all calamity begins with a single demonic sword.]
“The Hero has prophetic powers?”
“That thing at her waist—definitely a demonic sword, right?”
Combined with her own authority, it became divine bullshit: she could claim goblin hide tougher than troll and you’d buy it.
Religion’s scary. Especially here, where gods exist and followers wield their power freely.
[Thus, the Hero chose to bear all trials herself! Like the Battle Saintess who once carried a warhammer of demon skulls, the Hero walks a path of hellfire by her own will!]
Even I, a master bullshit artist at grandmaster level, tilted my head like grr? at her terrifying conviction.
Scary, holy sword……!
But her sway worked only on normals. Not on insiders immune to charisma.
“Is that true?!”
From a floating VIP box held by holy and magical power—not the crowd—a shout rang out.
A young man stood. Ah, knew he felt off!
Only showboats strut before the holy sword have golden hair and golden eyes. Famous symbols.
The empire, far from Hire territory. Blondes are common, but golden eyes pass only in one lineage: the imperial family.
And House Destania ruled less by throne than prophecy—the world’s sole certified seers.
Trait: Golden Ratio Observation (S-)
I quickly scanned the youth’s status window. Name, condition—irrelevant. I sought one trait.
Crazy, high rank too.
[Holy sword, he’s a real prophet. A damn good one.]
Popcorn-munching fits this drama, but screw-ups could drag me onstage, so I aided my co-star.
The psychic whisper to her alone made the holy sword flinch briefly.
But she broadcast steadily: [Indeed.]
“Weird. Another prophet besides ‘us’ still kicking?”
The youth muttered softly, but our senses caught it fine.
Guy’s baiting us on purpose.
“Those eyes confirm it…… Understood.”
He muttered, then raised his voice for all to hear.
His nod made the Hero a prophet.
Why so quick to validate? Their kind’s shady; don’t wanna tangle.
My mind swirled when—
[Rather, I demand the Lunar Saint be questioned. This announcement wasn’t meant to deviate so.]
No, not you too, please.
With countless citizens and VIPs watching, words couldn’t be unsaid. Why pick a fight with the Vatican as a sword, not even the Hero?!
[Explain why you altered the rite unilaterally.]
*
Crash! Shards from an empty bottle flew wildly. One nearly grazed his eye, but the drunk young knight didn’t blink.
His once-noble, tidy room was a wreck. Half-eaten food and empties littered everywhere.
“Damn it, damn it.”
Cursing, raging, sobbing, laughing—like a madman. The young knight soon lifted bleary eyes to the window.
High in the castle, the view stretched far—to the noisy central square.
There she was. A girl, dark sword at her waist.
Distance was vast, but his honed knightly senses caught it easily.
“Jacob……”
The young knight’s name was Robin. A self-made man from peasant orphan stock.
Childhood: begging bread, pickpocketing. Then apprenticed to a blacksmith by chance.
Boyhood: tending the old smith, until discovering his sword talent.
“Even if our parents differed, I saw you as a brother.”
Days aiding the forge, nights swinging steel on scant sleep. Caught the eye of a retired neighbor knight; became squire, learned proper swordplay.
Through every hardship, a shadow-friend helped: took the beating when caught stealing bread; comforted after smith scoldings for exhaustion; sparred for their blade-less mentor.
When Robin knighted, his friend became a mercenary.
As the friend headed to war, sword at hip, Robin grabbed him: ‘Join as my squire? Pitying me?’ ‘Jacob, you know that’s not—’ ‘Don’t need it. I’m not that useless.’
On the same battlefield, the friend saved his life.
Yeah, I was the drag; he’s the talented one.
Even as merc bunking in stables, he’d rise big. I’d help make it so—Robin once thought.
“Damn demonic sword, damn Hero, damn world.”
Mumbling whatever, he groped for a bottle. None left; drained them all again.
His shining friend died one day. Accused of stealing the Hero’s item, enthralled by the demonic sword, slaughtering civilians on the street.
“Pfft…… Ridiculous.”
Jacob would never. Using knightly pull, Robin learned from soldiers: the street killer was the Hero, not his friend.
But by his liege’s command, the Hero “saved” the city, got a fine sword; his friend executed summarily, body unclaimed.
“Don’t you feel wronged?”
“What.”
Suddenly, his booze-fogged senses sharpened.
Lifting his head, no longer a despairing drunk but a young, trained knight stared back. Someone else in the locked room—no servants, no entry marks.
As if always there, the intruder stood naturally.
“Who are you!”
Robin backed up, grabbing and aiming the nearest thing—a half-shattered bottle. Knightly poise shone through.
“No need for alarm. We share a goal; here to offer small aid.”
“Reveal yourself.”
The black-robed figure bowed mockingly, clownishly. Hood flipped, revealing a clown mask with eight eyes.
“Blessings writ under night’s mystery lose meaning in earthly light. So, through fools’ mouths:”
The shell-carved mask’s lips curved into a grin.
[We are the Dark Cult.]