Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 266: The Descent of the Holy Sword (6)

Pasika froze when he heard her name, and for a heartbeat, all the air seemed to leave his lungs.

The Sun God’s Church was smaller than the Earth Goddess’s Church if one counted raw numbers, yet most people still called it the strongest religious order on the continent, and for one reason only: where other faiths had breadth, the Sun God’s Church had height.

It gathered monsters in human skin. The Chief Inquisitor, the Commander of the Holy Knights, the Pontiff himself, all stood in the highest level of the Transcendent, and even a single fighter at that level could tilt the scales of judgement for an entire institution.

Other churches boasted a few at the same tier, so the difference by itself was not crushing, but Sun God’s Church had something no one else did, and she stood in front of them now.

Once in a thousand years, the Hall of the Gods chose a mortal and laid a hand on that person’s life. That person could meet a god’s gaze and hold a conversation without a veil. She was that person, the Saintess of the Sun God, Helia. She was a Hero, and Ketal felt his chest loosen with honest admiration.

“The Saintess of the Sun God...,” Ketal said, and the joy inside the words could not be hidden. He had seen strength, more than most mortals ever would. The Tower Master existed, yes, but the Tower Master was a lich and thus a thing apart. Among humans, he had not met anyone like this.

“Saintess, it is a pleasure,” he said.

“Aquaz and Seraphina owe you a great debt,” Helia replied in a voice as calm as water held in a bowl. “I came to convey their gratitude, Ketal.”

“We are friends,” Ketal said with a laugh that dispelled solemnity before it could settle. “There is no debt to speak of.”

“Even so, expressing thanks is my duty. And as a servant of a god and a citizen of this continent, I will thank you as well. We have heard what you have done,” Helia said. She studied him with eyes that seemed both gentle and exacting. “You came here to draw the Holy Sword.”

“I am interested,” Ketal said. “I plan to try.”

“I see.” Something unreadable crossed Helia’s face, not displeasure but curiosity with a shadow under it, as if she could not quite understand why someone of his standing would seek the sword at all.

“What about you?” Ketal asked her. “Are you a contender?”

“No,” she said. “I came for other reasons. We are not competitors, so you need not worry.”

The descent of a Holy Sword meant the Hall of the Gods had stirred. The one person who could speak directly with the gods had come to verify what their movement signified. Ketal nodded as if that made perfect sense.

Helia kept her gaze on him for a quiet moment. For months, she had heard a name passed along whisper to whisper and wondered which way to hold it. Ketal was a man outside the oracles, the one the prophecies did not contain. Until now, she had only clues and reports and the weight of decisions that had been pushed forward because of him. This was the first time she had set eyes on the person those reports described.

She had worried and she had weighed, wondering whether Ketal was a road or a cliff, a friend or an enemy. Now, at last, she had her answer, and her lips curved into a small, sincere smile..

“I hope we get along,” she said. “I would like us to keep a good relationship.”

Everything he had done so far had helped their side. She did not know his inner calculus, and she did not need to, not today. There was no reason to push him away.

“I do not know why you desire the Holy Sword,” she added, “ but even if you were to draw it, I believe it would cause no particular trouble in your hands.

Her tone carried an odd music, as if the drawing of the Holy Sword could cause difficulties for some and yet somehow not for him.

She inclined her head in apology. “Forgive me for interrupting. I hope the rest of your day is pleasant.”

She left without a glance at Pasika. For his part, he sat very still and very quiet, the way a boy sits when lightning strikes a field he had thought to run across a moment earlier. Ketal remembered him only then.

“Apologies,” he said. “I didn’t give you my full attention.”

“N-no, it is fine,” Pasika stammered.

His voice had turned soft and thin. His eyes, looking at Ketal, held astonishment tangled up with questions he could not yet ask.

The Saintess of the Sun God had come in person, offered greetings and thanks, and asked to keep good relations, every courtesy observed. That was enough to turn the air strange.

However, it did not end there. A man in a mage’s robe cleared his throat and approached, carrying his power like a humming wire. He did not try to hide the pressure that walked ahead of him. Ketal felt the prickle along his skin and recognized it for what it was. This man, too, stood among the Heroes.

“Good to meet you,” the mage said. “I have heard the talk, and I wanted to confirm. Are you Ketal?”

“I am,” Ketal said. “And you are?”

“My name is Elian,” the man said. “First disciple of the Tower Master.”

Pasika’s breath caught again. The Tower Master was the master of the Mage Tower, and he was a creature who had survived for centuries and sat on the highest peak of power. Every apprentice mage on the continent dreamed of being accepted into that shadow, and for centuries, the Tower Master had refused them all.

Geniuses had begged for a place. Some had become Transcendent in their twenties, and others had stood just shy of being a Hero. Yet, the Tower Master turned them away with a sentence that cracked like a hand across a cheek.

“You lack talent.”

No one had managed a rebuttal. The world had learned to say that the Tower Master would take no disciples. Then, one day, without warning or explanation, he had chosen a student with his own hand. That student was Elian, and in twenty short years, he had reached the Hero’s summit, answering every doubt with achievement. He was the continent’s miracle, the proof that the Tower Master’s eye had not dulled.

Meanwhile, Ketal felt elation rush up so quickly that he almost laughed aloud. He had met two new Heroes in a single day. If he had been alone, he would have shouted simply to let the joy out. He held it down with effort and showed a smile instead.

“Did you come to draw the Holy Sword as well?” he asked Elian.

“I am curious about it, but I did not come to pull it. I came to analyze its structure,” Elian said. His eyes narrowed, assessing the man across from him. “So you are Ketal. My master has spoken of you often.”

“Has he?” Ketal said with an amiable tilt of his head.

Elian looked more closely. According to the Tower Master, Ketal was a violent beast that might leap without warning, something that belonged in a cage of very thick bars. The man in front of him did not match the image. He did not look especially threatening. He looked like an ordinary person who happened to carry great weight lightly.

Is he hiding something? Elian thought. The thought did not bring fear; it brought interest.

“If you have time later,” Elian said evenly, “I would like to speak at length. If you are willing, a match would be even better.”

“I would like that very much!” Ketal said at once, nodding as if Elian had offered him a festival. To cross hands with a Hero mage was the sort of chance he had been hoping for since he set foot in the holy land.

Elian seemed, for a heartbeat, almost surprised by the immediate acceptance. He smoothed his expression and inclined his head. “Thank you. I have matters to attend to now. When time allows, I will send word. I look forward to it.”

“As do I,” Ketal said, and they shook hands.

Pasika felt like his mind might slide sideways out of his skull. The Tower Master’s first disciple had asked politely for a duel and said he looked forward to it. The world had tilted under his chair.

Who am I talking to right now, Pasika wondered.

Fear and awe braided themselves together, and he could not tell them apart. Ketal turned back with an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me. It keeps getting delayed. What were you about to say?” Ketal asked him.

Pasika’s mouth opened, but did not find words. He stood there for a breath, then two. When the world came back into focus, he grabbed whatever sentence lay nearest.

“Let’s just get along,” he blurted. “We met here, so that makes us friends. At least, that is how I would like it.”

Ketal laughed and clapped him on the shoulder with a friendliness that made the prince flinch half in surprise and half in relief. “Of course, we are friends. I look forward to it.”

Pasika nearly folded in on himself under the weight of the moment and his own scrambled pride.

***

While Pasika tried to steer his thoughts out of a skid, inside the holy land, the Saint of Elia and Commander Cretein conferred. The follower spoke in the measured tone of habit.

“The Tower Master’s first disciple has arrived. So has the Saintess of the Sun God. The King of the North Sea said he would attend as well, did he not?” the Saint asked him.

“A message came a few hours ago,” Cretein answered. “He said an internal matter arose. He will not be able to come. He sends his apologies.”

“A problem among the barbarians then,” the Saint murmured, sighing in a way that suggested disappointment rather than surprise.

Cretein smiled without humor and did not argue. In truth, it was often so.

“Not all of them,” he added after a moment. “A barbarian has come to us today, and I am grateful for it.”

“Ketal,” the Saint murmured, and his eyes drew down to slits.

He had read the reports of a holy land saved, a demon confronted and driven back, the elves’ sacred place defended, and even a Demon Lord of Hell, Materia, met and defeated. And at the center of it all was Ketal.

“Where did he come from?” the Saint asked him.

“We do not know,” Cretein said. “If he were from the north, the King of the North Sea would know him. The King did not.”

Those who had crossed paths with Ketal all wanted to know his origin. The fact that he had come out of the White Snowfield was a secret shared by very few. The north held the most barbarians, so the first question had gone to the northern king. Yet, the answer had been an honest shake of the head.

“It is as if he fell from the sky,” the Saint said softly.

“Whatever his origin,” Cretein replied, “he is not a bad man. He has helped us more than once. He is worth befriending.”

“That is a relief at least. Many Heroes are... difficult. It is a constant ache,” the Saint said. After a moment, he continued, “The Empire has done nothing still, I assume.”

“There was no movement,” Cretein said. “ And no statement.”

“What are they doing?” The Saint let out another long breath.

Dark mages were on the move, and a demon that had the strength of a Hero had descended. The Hall of the Gods had answered with the Holy Sword, yet in the midst of it all, the Empire remained silent—neither acting nor speaking to the world—as though something greater than the fate of the world itself held their attention. That stillness carried consequences: when the largest and strongest bloc did nothing, the rest of the continent wavered.

“Enough,” the Saint said at last, shaking his head. The Empire lay beyond his reach. He could only hope it resolved itself before the cost grew too high. He had work he could do. “Have we gathered enough people?”

“Yes,” Cretein said. “All Advanced and above are present.”

“Good. And the dark mages and demons?” the Saint asked him

“With the help of the Saintess of the Sun God, we have woven protections around the site,” Cretein said. “They will not approach.”

“That is good,” the Saint said. He straightened, and the air in the chamber tightened as if in anticipation. “Then open the gate of the Holy Sword.”

***

Pasika left in a hurry, unsure if he had just made a friend or wandered into a storm. Ketal, for his part, felt nothing heavy at all. He had made a new friend, and that was a good thing. The next appointment waited for him, and he went to keep it.

“Forgive the delay,” Ketal said.

“Think nothing of it,” the Guildmaster said, bowing his head.

It was the kind of expression that would have made people rub their eyes in disbelief. This was a man who could command the Mercenary King with a single word, yet here he was, lowering himself with the effortless poise of a trained attendant. And in front of Ketal, that posture didn’t seem strange at all—it felt entirely fitting.

They sat across from each other. Ketal noticed something small perched by the Guildmaster’s shoulder and blinked.

“Oh,” he said, leaning a little. “What is that?”

The thing tucked close to the Guildmaster was a tiny person with wings, no taller than a man’s forearm.

“This is my secretary,” the Guildmaster said. “A fairy.”

“I see,” Ketal said, and his voice trembled just enough to give him away.

That’s a fairy! Ketal exclaimed inwardly.

They were not as common as elves, and precisely because they were rarer, their appearance felt all the more special.

What a day, Ketal thought. Two Heroes and now a fairy. Is it my birthday?

He couldn’t help but stare, captivated. The fairy let out a small sound—not quite a whimper—as her face drained of color. She looked at him as though she had spotted a predator lurking in the tall grass, her breath caught in her throat. In an instant, she darted behind the Guildmaster’s shoulder, trembling so finely that her wings gave a faint, nervous buzz.

Ketal clicked his tongue in mild regret; he had hoped to admire her a while longer. The Guildmaster looked visibly flustered.

“My apologies,” he said. “She is unwell.”

“It’s nothing,” Ketal replied easily.

“Thank you for understanding.” The Guildmaster bowed his head, then straightened, his eyes settling on Ketal as he began to speak.