"HAHAHAHAHA… I finally have a master after a long time."
Ray flinched, nearly dropping the sword as the voice erupted inside his skull—not heard, but felt. Like thunder made of thought, a presence booming in the marrow of his bones.
What the hell…?
"Oi, don't just stand there like some dazed mortal staring at fire for the first time. You're holding a legend, not a glorified butter knife."
Ray blinked, confused and unnerved. His eyes darted around the hospital room, as if someone might step out from the shadows and admit this was all an elaborate prank.
"W-who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Are you the one messing with my fate?"
"I don't know what you mean by 'messing,' but had I been at full power, your fate would've been blessed just by touching me. I am the God Slayer Sword, Aetheris. Feared by pantheons and whispered about in the dark corners of time! HAHAHAHA!"
Sword…?
Ray looked down, disbelief clouding his features. "You… you can talk?"
"Of course I can talk!" the voice snapped, tone dripping with offense. "Do you think blades that end gods come mute and humble? I'm not some third-rate elemental stick. I'm the Blade of the Forgotten God. I ended divinity with a swing. And now I'm bound to you. Fate truly has a twisted sense of humor."
Ray held the sword a little farther from his face, as if expecting it to bite him. "God-Slayer, huh?" he muttered under his breath. "More like Ego-Slayer."
"Watch your tongue, brat," the sword growled, and Ray could feel a subtle vibration travel through the blade, like an animal baring its fangs from deep slumber.
"I've sundered stars, drawn the blood of divine beings, watched empires crumble beneath my edge—and now I lie in the hands of a wide-eyed, clueless mortal who doesn't even know which end of the sword to point."
Ray exhaled slowly, leaning back against the headboard. "Great. I finally get a talking sword, and it turns out to be a narcissistic god-hating antique."
"I awoke, child. Not for you, but because of your blood. You lit the spark. Don't mistake that for worth."
Then, unexpectedly, the tone of the voice shifted. The arrogance faded just slightly, replaced by a strange emptiness—a pause that felt like the breath before a storm.
"Strange… I cannot recall my previous master."
Ray blinked. "You forgot?"
"I don't forget," the sword answered coldly, but the edges of its voice wavered, just slightly. "Something's been locked. Sealed. The core of who I am—my memories—they're buried behind walls I cannot breach."
Ray stared at the glowing veins along the blade, feeling the slow throb of something ancient, something incomplete.
"Why?" he asked, voice soft.
"Because you're weak," the sword snapped. "Your soul is fragile. Your strength, pitiful. The seal reacts to the wielder's growth. As you rise, the lock loosens. The stronger you become, the more of me you'll awaken."
Ray scowled. "So you're telling me I'm stuck with a snarky sword that insults me until I get a power-up?"
"You're lucky," the blade growled. "In ages past, I'd have incinerated unworthy wielders before they even touched my hilt. You? You get to live. For now."
A cold silence settled over the room. Then, more softly, the sword added, "The deeper you go, the more you'll begin to see. Fragments. Echoes. Pieces of who I was, and what I've forgotten. Names long buried. Faces faded with time."
It paused, the air thick with something unsaid.
"You want answers? Then survive. Grow. Not to claim power—but to uncover it. Not to wield what was, but to remember why it mattered."
Ray's grip on the hilt tightened. The crimson and emerald lines across the blade pulsed faintly, like veins stirred by breath.
"And if I can't?"
A low chuckle echoed in his mind.
"Then die quickly. I have no interest in dragging a failure through the mud."
When Ray was busy communicating with his new talking sword, somewhere else at the same time, another individual was quietly watching his own sword.
***
Finally… it's here.
Ash thought as he looked at the rectangular box in his hands, the smooth, polished casing carrying the weight of a long-awaited weapon.
Before leaving the blacksmith's shop, he had specifically asked Garry for it to be delivered to the academy, but he had given him no address, no name, just a date and time when to deliver it, with instructions to hand it to the receptionist.
Even then, he hadn't fetched it himself. Instead, he paid someone to collect it for him, keeping his identity buried beneath layers of caution.
He had no choice.
After all, Garry had seen him—no, not his face, but his form. The shadows that clung to him like a second skin, the hood pulled low enough to blot out every feature.
It was a damn hassle... If I'd known things would turn out like this… I would've delayed forging the sword entirely.
Ash exhaled sharply through his nose, the thought bitter on his tongue. But regret wouldn't change the situation. Right now, the entire Human Association was distributing and plastering his sketch everywhere—posters of a man with his face drowned in darkness, hood drawn low, ominous and anonymous.
And the name they gave him?
"Unknown."
What the hell kind of garbage name is that?
Ash clicked his tongue. He never even left a name behind. He didn't think it was necessary. He hadn't expected to become a criminal for walking away with a bag of gold.
"Sigh…"
He stored the box in his space ring and kept walking toward the dorms, every step silent, calculated. This wasn't something to show anyone. Not now. Not when the world thought he was the villain.
Should I have killed them all...?
A dangerous thought, flickering for just a second.
But he pushed it down.
Nah… If I went that far, I'd be no different from a demon.
And yet...
Even after saving those bastards—risking everything—they labeled him a criminal. Said he stole an ancient treasure.
The funny thing?
There hadn't even been any "ancient treasure" in that damn reward room. Just a mountain of gold coins gleaming in the stale dungeon light.
He'd taken the money—sure—but he'd left behind all the equipment.
The only thing he actually took, besides the mountain of gold coins, was an extra-large space ring—one so absurdly massive it had the capacity of a football stadium, he took it to store all the gold.
It was a surprise for him as he didn't know there would be such a space ring in the heaps of gold.
Even then he had left the God Slayer sword.
And still, those fools branded me a thief…
Okay, maybe he did take a little too much.
"Ahem… Not that big of a deal," he muttered to himself with a smug grin inwardly.
"But I'm happy with the amount I got."
He couldn't help it.
The cash he swiped from that room was insane. Enough to live a king's life. Honestly, if he did nothing for the rest of his days, he could probably just coast on what he had now.
But Ash wasn't built to stand still.
The world would be doomed if I stopped here…
Lost in thought, Ash kept walking toward his dorm, muttering under his breath, cursing a little here and there, completely ignoring the glances thrown his way.
Because people were looking at him.
A lot of people.
And the reason was simple—his face.
No... his everything.
After undergoing two rounds of body reconstruction, his skin had purged all impurities, turning pristine and pale like untouched porcelain. His charm stat had gone through the roof, and now every inch of him—his lips, his eyes, the tilt of his head, even the rhythm of his steps—oozed charisma.
Every move he made looked elegant without trying. Every glance he didn't mean to give still left people staring.
At first, I thought being handsome would be nice... but who would've thought it'd be so burdensome...
Ignoring the gazes sticking to him like gum on a shoe, Ash kept walking, calm and indifferent, until he reached his room.
The moment the door shut behind him, he locked the windows, pulled the curtains, and let out a small breath. Quiet at last.
He stood in the middle of the room and took out the box from his space ring.
Setting it gently, he opened it—and there it was.
His sword.
Resting within its sheath, pristine white with jagged black markings snaking along its length like scars of ink on snow. It looked... elegant, but dangerous. Regal, but wild.
The hilt matched the sheath—white, clean, with a single black string tied at the pommel, swaying lightly from his breath.
Ash lifted it from the box and slowly ran his fingers along its side.
I would've preferred black... but white is fine too. It matches my hair.
He tilted it in his grip, gauging the length and balance.
Longsword? No... it's a Jian.
Unlike the Western broadswords or curved sabers, the jian was straight and double-edged—an elegant blade forged for precision and control. It wasn't a sword that screamed brute force.
No, the jian whispered through motion, danced in silence, struck like flowing water turned to steel.
He nodded, pleased. Then tried to draw the blade.
It didn't move.
Frowning, he infused mana into the hilt—but still, nothing.
Only when he noticed a small folded note tucked beside the velvet lining of the box did he pause. He picked it up, unfurled it, and read:
***
Hey,
You brat—you did something wild in the city, huh?
Whatever. It's none of my business.
Just letting you know, this sword is a damn masterpiece. I used some exotic materials for this one except the one you provided. The total price is 50,000 gold coins—non-negotiable.
Oh, also… if you want to form a Soul Contract with it, drop some blood on the blade.
Not that I think a gremlin like you can actually pull it off.
If you ever wanna sell it, tell me. I'll buy it back.
– Garry
***
Ash stared at the note, silent.
50,000 gold coins... if it was before, I'd be cursing him into the ground. But now... it's not much.
He snapped his fingers. A faint spark of lightning flickered, and the note turned to ash in an instant.
Then, without hesitation, he pricked his thumb and let a droplet of blood fall onto the sword's sheath.
And waited.
***