The hum of energy rang out.
At the center of the patriarchs who had first announced the start of the Sword Selection Ceremony, a blue portal bloomed into existence.
"Is it over already?"
"Phew, everyone worked hard."
Those who had been waiting for the children each muttered a few words, their eyes fixed with anticipation on the portal, eager to see the results of this year's ceremony.
And then—
Bzzz, thud.
The first to emerge from the portal was Seron Laingraim, the youngest son of Oswell.
"Seron!"
Seeing his child return with a proud bearing, Oswell welcomed him with a bright smile, his eyes gleaming.
The sword clutched in Seron's hand was striking: its crimson blade burned as though aflame.
"That sword… could it be the Flame-Cleansing Sword (Hwacheongum, 火淸劍)?"
At someone's astonished cry, a commotion spread as several others began to chatter in a rush.
"The Flame-Cleansing Sword? Isn't that the divine blade used by the third patriarch?"
"How in the world did he manage to get hold of such a legendary sword?"
What Seron carried was none other than the sword of the third patriarch of the Laingraim clan, the Sword Saint Petron.
To draw that sword, one had to first pass Petron's trial.
The fact that it now rested in Seron's hand meant only one thing—
"Then… does that mean he actually passed the Sword Saint's trial? That boy?"
All eyes widened in shock, fixed upon Seron.
Oswell's shoulders swelled with pride, though he restrained himself, keeping his tone stern as he spoke.
"Those who have finished the ceremony, come this way and wait!"
"…Yes."
Though he had stood tall and confident, Seron now bowed respectfully and moved as instructed.
Moments later, light once again flared from the portal as another child stepped out.
"Who's that one?"
"That's Meirin—Heinz's daughter."
"Ah, the girl they say is rather well-known among the branch family."
"Hm, but what is that sword she's holding?"
In Meirin's grasp was a blade of pure white, with the black mark of a dragon engraved at its center.
Then—
"That's the Black Dragon Sword."
"What? That insane cursed sword?"
Those who had been shocked by the Flame-Cleansing Sword were once again struck speechless by the appearance of the Black Dragon Sword.
Though the weapon could not quite match the Flame-Cleansing Sword in stature, its fame was just as great—though in a very different way.
For the Black Dragon Sword was infamous.
The cursed demonic blade that devours its master.
Everyone who had ever drawn it met a tragic fate. One would fall under the sword's thrall, dance in endless sword-forms without rest, and when the dance was over, collapse vomiting blood—dead.
No one knew when or how the Black Dragon Sword had come to be sealed in the Laingraim Sword Selection. But one thing was certain: drawing that blade was hardly a good omen.
Even Heinz, present at the ceremony, grew visibly grim as he recognized the curse bound to his daughter's sword.
"What in the world is going on with this year's ceremony?"
"That's what I want to know. Never before have two such legendary swords appeared at once."
"Could it be this generation is truly extraordinary?"
The hall of patriarchs, which had erupted with noise at Seron and Meirin's emergence, gradually quieted as more children stepped out of the portal.
Most bore ordinary swords, or at best, slightly finer weapons than usual. Nothing else appeared to rival the shock of the Flame-Cleansing Sword or the Black Dragon Sword.
Then—
"Andrei!"
The boy who had been soundly beaten by Ruin emerged from the portal.
In his hand was a weapon that drew no small amount of attention: a very short dagger.
"A dagger?"
"Philip's son drew… that?"
The gathered patriarchs exchanged puzzled looks, whispering amongst themselves.
But—
"Hm."
The Northern Sword Duke, Daemon, who had been silently observing, gave the faintest reaction—so subtle that almost no one noticed.
Beside him, Joel muttered in a thoughtful tone.
"So that sword has chosen him."
"Indeed. This generation is… different."
Daemon's eyes sank deep as he stared at Andrei, before murmuring softly.
Then all eyes turned toward him.
"Is that everyone, then?" Daemon asked his second son, Oswell.
"No, Father. One still remains."
At those words, the entire gathering instantly knew who it was.
"Ruin Laingraim?"
"Cabel's son hasn't come out yet?"
Most smirked with ridicule.
Surely the boy had either failed to draw any sword at all, or else was still struggling, unable to pass a trial.
"How much time remains?"
"About ten minutes."
"…I see."
If Ruin did not appear within ten minutes, the ceremony would be considered a failure.
Such a failure was rare in Laingraim history. If it happened, the consequences would be severe—and not in a good way.
Meanwhile, Meirin, who had already returned with the Black Dragon Sword, stood staring at the glowing portal, her thoughts elsewhere.
What's taking him so long?
Though she had only met him briefly, and though he was insufferably annoying, Ruin had still helped her.
And when she had promised to repay him, she had meant it.
She hoped he would emerge soon—with any sword at all.
One minute. Five minutes.
At last, as the ten-minute mark approached—
"One minute remains. If Ruin Laingraim does not appear, he will be deemed to have failed the Sword Selection Ceremony."
At Oswell's stern declaration, the patriarchs' faces twisted with delight.
The child of Cabel, disgraced and cast out, failing even to be chosen by a sword?
What a delicious story to spread.
After all, who told him to abandon the clan, wed an enemy woman, and sire a child?
Of course, no one knew if it had truly been Cabel's choice.
"The blood of Kaftalen never finds favor with the sword. It's only natural."
"Ah, right. Didn't that line carry a hereditary curse?"
"Yes—'the Curse of the Sword.' Kaftalen blood cannot wield blades."
The mutterings grew louder.
Grandmaster Preon's eyes darkened as he listened.
Was I mistaken?
He had told his lord, the Northern Sword Duke himself, that this boy was special.
But now—he couldn't even complete the simplest of trials?
No… that can't be.
Though brief, the boy's gaze and bearing had been utterly unlike any ordinary child.
As Preon wrestled with doubt—
"Hm."
Daemon, seated upon the golden throne, let out a low sound.
Oswell prepared to close the ceremony.
"Then let the Sword Selection Cerem—"
Bzzzzzz!
The portal flared violently.
A small boy stumbled out, clearly exhausted.
It was Ruin.
"I'm sorry. Am I too late?"
He bowed his head to the others as he asked.
Oswell, who had been about to declare the end, paused with an uncertain expression.
For in Ruin's hand was—
From hilt to tip, pure black?
No engravings, no markings. Just an utterly plain longsword, its entire form swallowed in black.
He kept us waiting for that?
Annoyance stirred in Oswell's chest as he considered rebuking the boy.
But then—
Thud!
The Northern Sword Duke Daemon, who until now had lounged indifferently on his throne, suddenly rose to his feet.
Boom!
At once, everyone present dropped to one knee.
Daemon said nothing. His gaze bored into Ruin.
At last, he spoke.
"All are present. End the ceremony."
"Yes, my lord!"
Waving a hand, he turned and strode toward his chambers.
No one dared rise until the sound of the great doors closing echoed through the hall.
"Thus, the Sword Selection Ceremony is concluded."
Thanks to Daemon's intervention, Ruin's tardy appearance was accepted as valid, and the ceremony ended.
Boom!
Entering his chamber, Daemon immediately turned to Joel.
"I must visit the Sword Selection once more."
"So suddenly? Why, my lord?"
"…There is something I must confirm."
Without further explanation, Daemon lifted a small crystal orb.
Whummm.
Violet light engulfed him, and his figure vanished entirely.
Preon, caught off guard, turned to Joel.
"W-what just happened?"
"At times, even I cannot fully grasp the lord's thoughts."
Joel smiled softly.
"But all his actions have always borne reason and led to good results. All we must do is wait."
Preon could only nod in silence, chastened by Joel's unshakable faith.
Whummm!
Daemon, now alone, entered the dark depths of the Sword Selection.
His steps carried him swiftly—like the wind, swifter than light—until he arrived at the deepest underground chamber.
There, upon a vast altar, stood a lifelike statue of a man.
A golden helm, a gleaming sword, the aura of a hero.
It was the likeness of Belion Laingraim, the founding patriarch.
"It has been a long time."
Daemon murmured as he gazed at the statue, then turned his eyes lower.
Beneath the effigy lay three slots, each meant to hold a legendary sword.
Now, only two remained.
One glowed with radiant gold.
Another shimmered with a soft violet light.
The last slot was empty.
Hummm.
The sword at Daemon's hip trembled with a low cry. He rested a hand upon it.
"I know. Be still."
Each of these blades was a legendary weapon etched into history.
But Daemon's eyes did not linger on them.
Instead, he strode past, deeper into the shadows behind the altar.
At last, at the very end of the underground path, he came upon a small pedestal.
"Hah… so it is as I feared."
The pedestal was bare.
The black sword that should have rested there was gone.
"That boy took this blade?"
Daemon's eyes fell upon the inscription carved into the stone:
[Belion's eternal companion, the Sword Soul: Black Shadow (Heukyeong, 黑影).]
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T/N:
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