The sword was originally unmarked.

　Officially, it is more correct to say that it has changed its name many times. It changed its name and appearance depending on the person who held it, fulfilled its role, and then lost its name again. That is why it is currently unmarked.

　It has passed through the hands of many heroes and has had many inscriptions on its body. Sometimes it was called glory itself, sometimes it was called the sword of victory.

　It was as if it was a divine destiny for the sword to touch the hands of a hero. And when the hero had fulfilled his role. Some rise to power, some become champions of the continent, and the sword is lost to others. It fell asleep, waiting to be brought to its next owner.

　Now, the sword is opening its heavy eyes. But the strange thing is that the inscription that always seems to come down from the heavens, as it should, is not engraved on my body now.

　On the contrary, the sword, which should have been woven with magical power in ancient times, is now even embedded in its owner's body. This is the first time that something like this has happened to a sword that has gone through many years of history and changes.

　---- I hope ----

　I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but it's a good idea. As if the heavy eyelids were finally beginning to work, even though they did not exist in the iron body, the sword heated up inside the body of the one who had half-assimilated it.

　However, this body has not been inscribed yet. Without the inscription, the sword is just a blunt object. The body has awakened, but no matter how long it waits, the gods will not take the pen in their hands and the world will not bless it.

　The sword shows a slight vibration. Could it be that this person who is embedded in it now is not the one who should be its owner? This was also a new experience for the sword. A person who does not have the qualities that should not be taken in hand cannot come to this body, even if it twists fate. In addition, although I don't understand it well, this person has swallowed himself into his body and has even achieved semi-assimilation.

　Then this body must be the owner. Besides, for the sword, all those who have taken hold of him have been heroes in any form. Paradoxically, this one who now possesses himself is the hero.

　However, no inscription will be made. Then engrave an inscription worthy of its owner. It is impossible to do so, but it is not impossible in the current state of semi-assimilation.

　As the sword begins to pulse, it gathers information from the whole body, from blood to flesh, as if the whole body were its own. What kind of person, what kind of life, what kind of path he has chosen, and what kind of name he deserves.

　If, after all that, you still think that this person is not worthy of being the bearer, then you can go back to sleep. That's all there is to it.

　It was a moment. Of course it was. The sword was now his blood flowing, his flesh and bone supporting his body.

　His name is Lugis. He was not born or bred. His talents are far below those of the gifted. Qualities that do not make a hero. Not strong. He is not good.

　So what the sword couldn't help but notice was his spirit. I don't know how to describe it. It's too complex to be described as resigned.

　Once he gave up, let go of everything, surrendered. You admit you're mediocre, you're unreachable.

　There's nothing wrong with ordinary people living that way. There's nothing wrong with an ordinary person living that way. That's a happy way to live. Reaching out only brings backlash from fate.

　But again, reach out, he says. Even if his flesh and blood are torn, even if fate kicks him in the foot, it is no reason for him not to reach for the ideal.

　What's worse, he can't even live dexterously. He could have lived much better if he kicked someone in the balls, but he refused to do so and threw himself into the sea of death.

　A clumsy, stupid man, he is. He is a clumsy and stupid man. Everyone will cover their eyes and everyone will dismiss it as a foolish way to live.

　Yeah, but it's great. His body could hardly be called heroic. But the spirit, the spirit of stopping the breath of resignation, of breaking through the roadlessness, is worthy of its owner.

　That is why I will inscribe my name on it. The sword finally takes shape. I will knead the magic again, and give it a form worthy of its owner.

　The owner, who is ordinary but has given up and wants to reach for the head of a hero, then my inscription is ----.

　It was not meant to be.

　It was a scene outside of my intention.

　His left wrist was snapped, his two knives were lost, and he no longer had any weapons in his hands. I had no weapon in my hand. My poorly prepared plan had been defeated by the genius's cleverness, and I had no legs to retreat, only to wait for Held Stanley's white blade to crack my skull open. That was all that was supposed to happen.

　Suddenly, well, let's just say suddenly. Until a sword appeared in my right hand, as if it had swallowed up the surrounding space and was born. Are you saying that my wish pierced the heavens? No, that's too ridiculous.

　The sword that was born in my hand was breathtakingly beautiful. A silver blade with a line of dark purple. The purple was a shade more reminiscent of lightning than of venom.

　I didn't have time to ask myself why. Herdt's eyes were just as astonished as mine, but he still swung down. You can either deflect it, or you can intercept it, knowing that it's impossible.

　If you can deflect the sword, you can create a moment of time. But before you can make a follow-up swing, his second swing will probably be faster. After a moment of prolonged life, a clear death awaits. But if that's the case, what do we do? You want me to intercept his blade? Head-on.



　Strange. It's a strange feeling. It wasn't supposed to be possible. The choice to intercept Heldt's blow and aim for his neck. There was no way this me could cut through his stiff sword.

　But there was one clear trajectory that I could see in his eyes. Yeah, okay, fine. Better than dying for a moment to prolong my life. Much better. And that's fine with me. The arm, once folded, swung its blade in a manner similar to a back fist. It was, of course, intended to intercept the white blade.

　The white blade is swept away, slicing through space with great speed. You can't win. You can't win. But in this moment, it can only be won. My will, which is no one else's, has chosen to confront the white blade head-on.

　The white blade approaches from the sky, and the blade with purple in it roars through the air to intercept the white blade from the ground.

　--This is a family heirloom. This is a family heirloom. In the lore, it has been called a mystery and a miracle.

　For some reason, Kalia's words that I had heard before were muttered again in my brain.

　I couldn't believe my own eyes.

　At the moment when the two blades were supposed to join and carve each other with impact. The sword in his hand, with all its momentum, sliced through Heldt's two-handed sword, as if it could not even resist. That's impossible. A two-handed sword like that was originally intended to be used to beat the opponent to death. It is impossible that such a two-handed sword was originally intended to be used to strike and kill the opponent, but instead of being broken or bent, it is cut in two.

　The blow that crawled on the ground and thrust up into the sky turned into a great Gakusu that had nothing left to protect.

　It was only for a moment that I saw it. Was it a misjudgment? I felt that the cheek of him who received the blow had a slight smile on it.

　--The blow ended not in Heldt's neck, but in the left eyeball of his golden eye.

　Blood spurted out all around him, and his hand felt strangely soft, different from just cutting through flesh. There was a strange softness to the touch. It was hard to tell now if it was because of Heldt's innate talent that the blade had settled on his eyes instead of his neck, or if the trajectory had been shifted by the stiff sword.

　However, in my hand, the feeling that I had cut down the hero, Heldt Stanley, was still there with a numbness.

　The moment I realized it, my brain shook, and my body, as if I had just remembered it, sent intense pain and fatigue to my fingertips. I gritted my teeth and avoided falling down.

　The loud voices of both the heralds and the guards rang in my ears.

"The gods have given us a destiny!　Raise the anchor!　All hands, charge!

　Is that the saint Mattia? She looks like she's about to die, but she's in good spirits.

　Even Heldt can't move quickly with that kind of blood loss. I can see him leaning on his shoulder against a soldier of the Guard. And I can't move anymore either.

　Oh, for God's sake, don't die. I couldn't understand whether the murmur was directed at my body or at my enemy. Whatever it was, it didn't matter because I had a rare contentment in my heart.

　--At that moment, a blue light flashed in the corner of my eye. The color of a Guardsman's saber.

　It was as if he had been waiting for this moment. It was as if it had been waiting for this moment. It was aiming for my bosom, where I could no longer even stand.

　Ah, it's you. Well, you're good at that. I sympathize with your persistence. Looks like you and I are kindred spirits, lizard.

　His reptilian eyes were bloodshot as he took aim at me.