Master of the Magic Sword -1-

The magic sword before me was one that had never appeared in the novel. A demonic blade radiating enough darkness to warp space itself had never been mentioned or even hinted at in the story. "Too many variables..." Tyrving trembled as if echoing my unease, its blade quivering inside the scabbard as though terrified of the sword ahead.

"Gulp..."

The double-edged magic sword had an unremarkable appearance. It lacked the ornate decorations that would make it stand out among other blades, nor was it oversized—simply a sword of appropriate size. Its blade gleamed a murky black, scattering faint red energy whenever light touched it, like a river flowing in eerie silence. The aura it exuded was so chilling that calling it a curse rather than a sword felt more accurate. I let out a hollow laugh. What kind of monstrosity was this?

Despite its plain exterior, the sword's presence was vicious beyond measure—vicious enough to distort the very space around it.

On a whim, I turned to Shuen and asked if she felt any temptation. "Shuen."

"Why are you calling me, commoner?"

"How does that sword look to you?"

"It looks like a magic sword."

"Not that. I mean, does it feel like touching it would be disastrous? Or do you feel drawn to it?"

"Hoooom."

After a moment of thought, Shuen gave a short nod. "No. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It feels scary."

"I see."

"One thing's for sure—I don't think I could wield it."

"Why do you think that?"

"Just a hunch. It feels like it has some incredibly evil thoughts dwelling inside... If I tried to hold it, I'd probably go insane."

"Then what if I held it?"

"..."

Shuen simply shook her head without answering, as if warning me not to entertain such dangerous ideas.

To me, a sword was merely a tool. As long as it cut well, fine; if not, my skill could make up the difference. That was my craftsman's pride. Of course, having Tyrving—the ultimate piece of equipment—meant I rarely felt greed for other blades. Even without it, my strength wouldn't suffer much. I had never been particularly covetous when it came to swords.

But the blade before me possessed power beyond imagination. Enough to stir genuine desire. If Tyrving could be called a "magic sword," then this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one deserved to be called a "demon."

Intuitively, I felt that grasping it lightly would mean losing my very sense of self.

"...This doesn't feel like black magic."

The malevolent thoughts didn't seem rooted in black magic. Activating the resistance hadn't changed anything significant. It felt like something fundamentally different.

"..."

If I were thinking only of my own safety, the right choice would be to turn away without even looking at that sword. Its power was far too overwhelming to handle. But what if it fell into the cultists' hands...? "That would be a problem too." The consequences could snowball into something unimaginable. Destroying it wasn't an option either—the magic it suppressed might erupt catastrophically.

There were two options. One was to bury it—pile the rubble over the sword and let it fade into the forgotten pages of history. The other was to take the magic sword myself. It would prevent the cultists from claiming it while simultaneously strengthening my own power. Provided, of course, that I could actually wield it.

The battle between Temperance and Gentleness could end at any moment. If, by some chance, Temperance defeated Elysia and reached for the sword, the aftermath would be beyond imagination. Whether Temperance was chosen by the sword or dominated by it, both outcomes spelled disaster.

That left only one path. I called down to Mikhail and Shuen, who were peering into the pit. "Hey, Mikhail. Shuen."

"Yes?"

"Hm?"

I swallowed dryly. "I'm going down for a bit."

The moment the words left my mouth, protests erupted. Don't go. Don't say such terrifying things. Even a Sword Master found the aura burdensome—what must it feel like to Mikhail and Shuen? If what I sensed was a hundred, they were probably feeling at least twice that. That was why they wore such expressions as they watched me prepare to descend.

Mikhail shook her head firmly. "You can't."

"..."

"I said no."

The Holy Sword was thrashing violently, as if forbidding any contact with the magic sword below. If Tyrving's trembling was fear, then the Holy Sword's was pure rage.

I shook my head with a helpless look. "I'll just take a look and come back."

"Still no. We don't even know what that thing is. What if something goes wrong?"

"It'll work out somehow."

Shuen also shook her head. "You can't go, commoner."

"I thought you'd let me... Why are you against it?"

"Because... it's dangerous! It's a magic sword. Far more powerful than the one you already have."

"...Still better than letting it fall into someone else's hands, isn't it?"

"...That's true, but it's still too risky."

I shook my head lightly and jumped down into the pit. "I'll be right back."

"Ricardo!!!"

"Commoner!!"

I smiled faintly. "I'm just too greedy, that's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all."

When a legendary sword is right in front of you, who could resist? Even Rowen wouldn't be able to hold back. ...Probably.

*

"...Hmm."

Once at the bottom, I waved up at Mikhail and Shuen with a reassuring gesture, signaling that everything was fine so far. Their eyes were filled with worry as they looked down, but—

"If anything happens, say so right away! Shuenjel, Hero of the Holy Sword, will come running!"

"The Holy Sword is... mine."

"Shut it!"

I couldn't help but chuckle at their bickering. Feeling reassured, I began examining the area around the magic sword.

"Alright... let's take a look."

The space where the magic sword rested was smaller than expected. If the Holy Sword's resting place had been a living room, this was more like a bathroom—though still roughly the size of an academy classroom. Compared to the absurdly vast chamber above, it felt compact.

"Hmm... It's too plain to be a sealing site for a magic sword."

The room was empty. Only the sword embedded in the center existed—no display stands, no ornaments, nothing else.

"Hmm..."

The only unusual feature was—

"There's a lot written here."

Strange script covered the floor and walls. Unable to read the ancient language that looked as illegible as my own handwriting, I bent down and brushed away the dust. I could manage some ancient tongues, after all.

"Magic sword..."

"...?"

The conditions were far stricter than I'd anticipated. My life had been nothing but hardship until recently, when the young lady's first steps had brought me a happiness that bordered on excess. I doubted I qualified as "unfortunate" enough to wield it. Besides—

"This is way too demanding."

Was there really anyone in the world this miserable? How could a person be unhappy all the time? Everyone experiences both joy and sorrow. I sighed and shook my head. It seemed taking the magic sword was off the table after all.

Just then—

-Vwooooom.

Tyrving began to resonate. As if it had found its counterpart, it started vibrating violently inside its scabbard before suddenly taking flight.

"...What?"

The sword was abandoning its master.

"No way..."

A disbelieving laugh escaped me. The sight of one magic sword being drawn to another was absurdly comical. Feeling a strange pang of betrayal toward the blade I'd cared for every night, I simply watched as Tyrving flew toward Caliburn.

"..."

-Vwooooom.

The instant Tyrving touched the magic sword's blade—

"...?"

It vanished in a swirl of black smoke.

-Fwoosh.

Having lost my sword in an instant, I shook my head with a sigh. "That one suited me so well..."

So what now? I turned my gaze to the magic sword, my eyes growing cold. There was only one way to quell a swordsman's rage at losing his blade: receiving an even better one in return.

"...I wasn't planning on getting greedy."

I took a deep breath and grasped the magic sword, ready to let go the moment anything felt wrong. I had insurance—Limit Break and Rehabilitation Hand. If my mind was being overtaken, Limit Break. If my body, Rehabilitation Hand. Either way, I could escape without lasting harm. Worst case, I could always destroy the sword.

Giving up without even trying would leave me with regrets.

-Crack.

And so—

"...Huh?"

God had taken my side.