The Perfect Fit for a Cursed Blade

"Well, look at that... You're one of the Masked Clan, aren't you?"

"..."

The Masked Clan was treated as the absolute bottom of the barrel in this world. Being looked down upon was practically a given. I had considered disguising myself as another race, but nothing was as convenient or offered as perfect a cover as slipping on a simple white mask. A little disrespect was a small price to pay.

The massive blacksmith let out a dry chuckle, his eyes narrowing with disdain. He gestured with his chin toward a corner of the shop. "If it's swords you're looking for, we've got plenty over there. But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠does a Masked Clan weakling even have the coin for weapons like that?"

Despite the provocative question, I simply stared back at him in silence. A heavy quiet settled over the forge. Only the crackle and pop of firewood burning in the massive furnace filled the silence between us.

Seeing that I wasn't intimidated in the slightest—standing as unyielding as a boulder—the Rhinoceros Blacksmith scratched the back of his head, looking slightly embarrassed, and let out a deep sigh. "...Hmph. You've got some spine, kid. Fine, I get it. It's not like there's a law saying the Masked Clan has to wave thin toothpicks around for the rest of their lives."

He set down the heavy iron tongs he was holding and gestured roughly toward a corner of the display racks. "Come over here and take a look. I don't know how deep your pockets are, but if you're going to risk your life climbing the Tower, I'd rather send you off with something that won't snap in half. It'll save me the headache."

The place he led me to wasn't the central display showcasing flashy magic swords. Instead, we stopped in front of a dusty, neglected wooden barrel tucked away in a dark corner. The blacksmith reached inside and pulled out an exceptionally large, thick, pitch-black greatsword that didn't even have a proper edge. "How about this?"

"..."

"Mana conductivity? It's a hunk of junk with zero percent conductivity. But I guarantee its durability. It's forged from compressed dark iron mined straight from the Tower. You could bash a boss monster's skull in with this, and it wouldn't even chip."

Thud!

When the blacksmith slammed the greatsword onto the floor, a heavy vibration rippled through the forge, making the entire room tremble. "The downside, as you can see, is that it's ridiculously heavy. Even the beast-kin who bragged about their raw strength threw it aside, complaining it was too hard to swing repeatedly. It's just been gathering dust as dead stock. I don't know if your fragile joints can handle it, but if you want something brutally sturdy, there's nothing better."

I wasn't particularly interested. Rather than a clumsy hunk of iron like that, wasn't there something that could sharply complement my swift, flowing strikes? Ignoring his recommendation, I reached deep into the bottom of the old wooden barrel and quietly pulled out a single katana-style sword.

The sheath was pitch-black, exuding a strangely chilling and razor-sharp aura. The moment my hand wrapped around the hilt, the blacksmith's face went pale, and he let out a shout. But I casually ignored his warning and drew the blade halfway out of its scabbard.

Shring!

A chillingly clear ring sliced through the smoky, heavy air of the forge. Emerging from the dark sheath was a razor-sharp blade tinged with a faint, blood-red hue. It was an incredibly exquisite and lethal weapon, incomparable to the crude greatsword he had just shown me.

"Put that down right now, you lunatic!" the startled blacksmith roared.

Holding the sword steady, I looked at him and asked, "Isn't this for sale?"

"That's not a weapon meant for slaying beasts! It's a cursed demonic sword that devours its own master!"

The blacksmith pointed at the sword in my hand, unable to hide his panic. "That thing is called the Reverse-Blade Hungry Ghost. It's a masterpiece forged by the previous master of this workshop."

"...Then why was it tossed aside in a barrel full of junk?"

At my quiet murmur, the blacksmith beat his chest in sheer frustration. "Ugh, you stubborn brat! Can't you tell just by looking? It's because nobody in their right mind would buy it! The balance is completely ruined—it's a cursed failure! Satisfied?"

"A failure?"

"The elasticity of that blade is absolutely insane. Every time you strike something, double the impact force is reflected right back at the user! A bear beast-kin, who had more raw strength than anyone, got seduced by its sharpness and bought it. He swung it exactly twice before tearing the ligaments in both of his shoulders. He came back crying and returned it! If a frail Masked Clan bastard like you tries to swing that, your arms will be ripped clean off on the very first clash!"

It was a chilling warning. But as I listened to his explanation, a deep curiosity and a sense of certainty began to bloom in my mind. A crazy recoil that amplified and reflected the impact with every strike. For an ordinary swordsman, it would ruin their form and shatter their ligaments. But for my Consecutive Slashes mechanism—which didn't suppress the recoil but instead harnessed it as momentum for the next strike—it was a match made in heaven. A perfect synergy.

And what about the torn muscles and ligaments from the recoil? In the face of my body's rapid regeneration, which stitched together ruptured muscle fibers in real-time and pumped them up to be even tougher with every skill activation, that damage was nothing more than a premium nutrient to accelerate my growth.

To anyone else, it's a cursed failure. But to me, its specs are like a custom-tailored suit.

Smiling beneath my mask, I slid the sword back into its sheath with a satisfying *click*. "I'll take this one. How much?"

"Are you listening to a single word I'm saying?! I told you, it's a demonic sword! Your arms are going to fly off, you stubborn fool!"

"...I'll handle it myself."

At my shameless reply, the blacksmith gasped and clutched the back of his neck. "You certainly talk a big game." He let out a scoff of disbelief and gestured with his chin toward the back door of the forge. "I've seen plenty of big-mouthed newbies in my time. Don't just talk about your joints—prove it."

"Prove it?"

"Out in the backyard, I've got a dummy made of thousand-year steel that I use for testing weapons. Take that demonic sword and strike it exactly three times. Three consecutive, clean swings. If your limbs are still attached and intact afterward, I'll slash the price of this sword from its original 8,000 Credits down to half-price: 4,000 Credits."

It was a deal with absolutely no downsides. In fact, it gave me a perfect punching bag to test the limits of my skill and the weapon's recoil. There was no reason to refuse. Nodding readily, I headed to the backyard with the sword in hand.

Just as the blacksmith had said, a massive steel pillar stood there, looking far more brutally solid than the bones of any ordinary monster. "Go ahead, start. I'll get the stretcher ready," the blacksmith said, standing askew with his arms crossed.

Instead of replying, I took a deep breath and adjusted my grip on the hilt of the Reverse-Blade Hungry Ghost. I activated my skill. Mana surged through my veins, and the muscles across my entire body began to pump up explosively.

Boom!

The first strike. The moment my horizontal slash collided with the steel dummy, an ear-splitting crack echoed, and a monstrous recoil surged violently back up through my wrists.

...Ugh!

The blacksmith's warning was no exaggeration. If the recoil of a normal sword was a 1, this insane blade shoved a destructive kinetic energy of 10 right back into its wielder. Instantly, a horrific sensation washed over me as the ligaments in my right arm screamed and tore apart.

"See! Drop the sword right now!" the pale-faced blacksmith yelled, starting to rush forward.

Who said anything about stopping?

Swallowing the tearing pain, I didn't try to force control over the wild recoil. Instead, I channeled that ferocious kickback directly into the mechanism of Consecutive Slashes engraved into my body. I forcibly twisted the trajectory of the sword as it tried to bounce backward, converting it into the explosive momentum for a second, vertical slash.

Whoosh!

Powered by the recoil, the second strike unleashed an overwhelming acceleration that was almost impossible to follow with the naked eye.

Crash! Screeech, crack!

The steel dummy, which the blacksmith claimed would never chip, let out a horrific groan as a deep gash was carved into it. At the same time, the muscle fibers in my shoulder and arm stretched past their limits, snapping with a sickening pop. But in that split second, silver mana stitched the wounds shut, packing the gaps with steel-like muscle that was far tougher than before.

Destruction and regeneration. Yes, this monstrous blade could definitely force my body to evolve. Feeling the corners of my mouth stretch into a wide grin behind my mask, I flowed into the next movement without a moment's hesitation.

The third.

I seized the reflected force from the second strike, which was now twice as massive as the first. My fully pumped muscles ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠expanded, threatening to tear the sleeves of my school uniform. A deep, blood-red sword energy flickered along the edge of the blade.

BOOM!

The moment the third strike—a thrust—slammed directly into the center of the steel dummy, the surrounding air exploded, and a violent shockwave swept across the backyard.

"...Y-You're insane."

Once the choking dust settled, the blacksmith, who had been standing with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face, was frozen in place like a stone statue, his jaw practically touching the ground. The top half of the thick, thousand-year steel dummy—supposedly impervious to damage—had been sliced clean off like spoiled tofu and was now rolling on the ground.

I lightly rolled my shoulder—which was completely fine, and in fact, pumped up far denser than before—and sheathed the demonic sword. "As promised, I'll take it for 4,000 Credits."

"Ha, haha..." Staring blankly at the shattered remnants of the thousand-year steel rolling on the ground, the blacksmith let out a hollow laugh like a man who had lost his mind. He wiped his rough, massive hand over his bearded face and muttered, "There was... a fucking monster like this among the Masked Clan? Goddammit, have I been blind my entire life?"

The blacksmith's gaze drifted back to me. The disdain from earlier was entirely gone, replaced by the deep reverence of a craftsman who had just witnessed true genius. "You... you're really something else. You didn't even try to suppress that insane recoil with raw strength. You just let it flow and used it to strike twice more? Are your joints made of orichalcum or something?"

Rather than explaining the intricate mechanics of my skill, I simply gave a casual shrug. The blacksmith shook his head in disbelief and took a few strides toward me. "Four thousand Credits? To hell with that. No. Just give me two thousand, and it's yours."

"...You just cut the price in half, and now you're halving it again?"

"There's no one else in this Academy who can swing that cursed hunk of iron anyway. Instead of letting it rot in my warehouse until the day I die, it's better for the weapon itself to find a crazy master who actually suits it."

He let out a hearty laugh and crossed his thick arms.

Oh, luck is on my side today.

I had sold the boss core for a premium, and now I had scored an 8,000-Credit sword... even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠if it was a cursed one. Still, getting a weapon like this for dirt cheap was an absolute win.

"Besides, it's been a while since I've seen such a spectacular show. I'm in a good mood. Here, I'll throw this in as a bonus. If you keep swinging that crazy sword with bare hands, you'll peel the skin right off your palms."

The blacksmith rummaged through a drawer at his workbench and tossed something with a deep crimson hue toward me. I reached out and caught it easily. It was a sheath. But it exuded an entirely different atmosphere from a normal scabbard. Blood-red patterns were etched over pitch-black leather, and most notably, the mouth of the sheath featured mechanical gears and a special latch mechanism to adjust pressure.

"That... is the Special Sheath made specifically for the Reverse-Blade Hungry Ghost. I used to kick myself for making something so useless... but I guess its day has finally come," the blacksmith said with a grin.

"That crazy chain of attacks you just showed me—if you want to use it in real combat, the acceleration of your very first draw is more important than anything. That sheath will grip the blade tightly until the exact moment you draw it, allowing tension to accumulate inside to its absolute limit."

"Accumulating tension?"

"Yeah. And the moment you flick the latch with your thumb and draw the blade, that suppressed tension will explode. It'll let you unleash a strike three times faster and heavier than a normal slash. If you can successfully pull off a quick-draw with that ridiculous sword... most monster heads will explode in a single blow."

The moment I heard his explanation, I intuitively realized the true value of this item. An explosive burst of acceleration at the exact moment of drawing the sword. It was a gimmick designed for quick-draw techniques. If I could use that overwhelming initial draw as the first momentum for my Consecutive Slashes, the subsequent strikes wouldn't even need a warm-up. They would unleash maximum speed and destructive power right from the start.

Click.

I immediately slid the Reverse-Blade Hungry Ghost into the Special Sheath. A heavy, satisfying click resonated as the gears at the opening locked together, gripping the blade tightly—a sensation that sent a thrill straight to my fingertips. As I secured it to my waist, the balance adjusted so perfectly that I felt an immediate urge to release the latch and slice something open.

"Isn't this a bit too generous for a freebie?"

"Shut up. I just don't want to see a monster like you walking around carrying a cursed blade naked. Just don't go dying on me, and keep climbing that Tower."

The Rhinoceros Blacksmith picked up his massive hammer again, grunting gruffly to hide his embarrassment. I chuckled and opened my holographic system window, cleanly transferring 2,000 Credits.

My wallet was still comfortably thick with over 10,000 Credits, and my waist was now adorned with a terrifying demonic sword and a quick-draw sheath that would make my skills shine even brighter. There was no reason to waste any more time. I gave a brief wave to the massive blacksmith and opened the door of the forge without hesitation.

"Take care. I'll be back for repairs if it breaks."

"That ridiculous hunk of iron brings bad luck, so don't you dare come back!"

Leaving the hearty shout and the sweltering heat of the forge behind, I stepped out into the street. The cool air brushed pleasantly against my cheeks.

Now, the preparations are complete.

Once I used my remaining funds to grab a few basic consumables for the Tower raid, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it would be time to ascend to the next stage: the third floor.