Theron looked at the sword as though he hardly recognized it. With one thought, it could become a blade of steam and mist, embodying water, changing its shape, and adapting to an attack or defense with a push of his intention. With another thought, he could make it as heavy as a boulder falling from the skies.
Its material didn't seem to have changed at all, and yet it felt sharper and more substantial than ever before, making Theron wonder if it could even cut Ironvale's black sword.
Taking a breath, Theron stood to his feet. Taking his father's sheath, he slipped the sword in with a seamless ease.
With this blade… he was certain.
He could kill a Gold Mancer.
There was an indifferent coolness to Theron's eyes as he had this thought, as though it was only natural, as though Gold Mancy wasn't the main goal for practically every cultivator on the continent.
