The murmurs swept through the camp like a plague. Most of the soldiers looked at Reine and Argol with blatant skepticism. To them, these two looked like children playing dress-up in blood-stained leather. They didn't believe the rumors that these runts had forced a Paekl Master to retreat.
Reine didn't care. He was used to the insults. In fact, he had heard that one grumpy veteran in the third row curse his lineage fourteen times in previous loops. He walked toward the stage with a calm, predatory gait. Behind him, Argol looked like he wanted to dissolve into the mud, his face bright red as he tried to avoid eye contact with the hundreds of staring veterans.
"SILENCE!" Elena roared.
The authority in her voice was absolute. The crowd went dead quiet. Not even the crickets dared to make a sound.
"Argol! Step forward!" Elena yelled, her eyes tracking the boy. Argol scrambled onto the stage, trembling. "Argol, you were one of the main reasons we held the Gate today. As Commander, I thank you. And therefore, I present a gift that matches your performance."
The crowd gasped. "A gift?" one soldier whispered before a glare from Elena shut him up.
Elena pulled out a small, intricate wooden box. "Argol Orlon, this is the Aether-Glass Navigator. It's a magical cartography device that maps mana flows in real-time. It shall be a significant help for our future movements."
Argol's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He took the device with shaking hands, nearly fainting from the shock. "Th-thank you, Ma'am! I shall cherish it!" He bowed so low his forehead nearly hit the wood, then marched off the stage, clutching the expensive device like a holy relic.
"REINE VANGALF! COME FORWARD!"
Reine exhaled and climbed the stairs. Elena gave him a long, drunken glare as the wind picked up, making the campfires roar brighter. The soldiers stayed quiet this time—most had seen him carve through the Paekl infantry—except for one grumpy veteran.
The old man was turning purple with rage, but the "Dad" veteran who had pitied Reine in the early loops was behind him, physically covering the old man's mouth.
"Don't ruin the moment!" the "Dad" veteran hissed, tears of pride in his eyes. He looked like a father watching his son win a gold medal, even as the man in his arms struggled to scream insults.
"Reine Vangalf," Elena announced, "from this moment onwards, you are promoted to Intermediate Rank!"
A collective gasp went up. Promotion on the field was rare. The veteran in the back almost went berserk, but his mouth was still firmly clamped shut.
"As for your second gift..." Elena reached for a long object wrapped in red cloth, bound with parchment covered in ancient, jagged script. "This sword is the one."
The crowd erupted. "Is that... the Aurelian?" "The Sword of the Chosen?" "He doesn't deserve it! He got lucky!" "HE DOESN'T DESERVE IT!" the crowd began to chant.
"SHUT UP!" Elena screamed, pointing a finger at the loudest protester. "I saw you fleeing the battle while this 'weakling' went head-to-head with a Master! Anyone else want to tell me about 'deserving' something?"
The silence returned, heavy and bitter. Elena turned to Reine, but stopped. Reine was standing there with a smile like an evil maniac. He looked terrifying, his eyes glowing with a dark, twisted satisfaction. Elena actually flinched back, wondering for a second if she had defended the wrong person.
"Take it," she sighed, handing him the blade. "I won it myself years ago, but I could never make it obey me. Her name is Aurelian. See if you fare better."
Reine took the sword. The hilt felt cold. As he began to draw the blade, the temperature plummeted. A brilliant, holy white-and-gold aura erupted from the steel, blinding the front row. The crowd froze. Is he actually the Chosen One?
Then, the light suddenly died. The temperature went back to normal. The sword went dull. Reine tried to pull it the rest of the way, but it wouldn't budge. It was like the sword had "tasted" his soul and decided it didn't like the flavor.
"The sword rejected him!" a soldier yelled, and the camp burst into mocking laughter. Argol covered his face with his hands, dying of embarrassment. How is he a Vortex Specialist? He can't even unsheathe his own weapon!
"Maybe it's not for you—" Elena started.
"No," Reine growled, his expression turning into one of pure, stubborn fury. "I want this sword."
"Sure," Elena sighed, "but don't come crying to me when it won't cut bread."
Reine didn't cry. He gripped the hilt and the scabbard with a white-knuckled hold. He wasn't trying to "commune" with the blade; he was fighting it. It was a literal arm-wrestle between a man and a piece of sentient metal.
"I don't care if I'm not the Chosen One," Reine growled, his voice vibrating with the 'Grit' of a man who had died fourteen times. "I'm the one who owns you now. I am the Master. You do what I say. You'll cut what I tell you to cut."
With a sickening, metallic screech, Reine forced the blade out. He didn't draw it gracefully; he mugged it. The holy aura tried to flicker, but Reine's dark, oppressive intent crushed it. The blade turned a dull, resentful grey—powerless, but submitted.
Reine stood on the stage, holding the "Holy" sword like a club, looking down at the army that hated him. He had broken the loop, and now he had broken the legend.