Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 270: Drawing the Holy Sword (4)

At last, the Holy Sword understood that Ketal was forcing it up, dragging it out of the earth by strength alone.

“Good heavens...,” the sword murmured.

No one was supposed to draw it unless chosen. That had been the rule the Hall of the Gods set when they sent the Holy Sword down to the Mortal Realm. A decree issued by gathered gods should have been unbreakable. Yet here it was, splintering in the hands of a single man.

The floor rumbled like a held breath. Ketal bore down and gave everything he had. He planted his feet firmly, and his arms began to swell with strain. Veins burst and bled while muscle fibers tore apart and reknit in the same instant, Myst threading through them like white-hot wire. Yet even as his body writhed under the pressure, he did not stop.

“Look at your arms! That’s grotesque! Stop! Please stop!” the Holy Sword cried.

Ketal ignored it. He had fought when all four limbs were on the verge of coming off, fought past damage that no modern medicine could have repaired. For him, this much was not excessive.

The blade slowly revealed more of itself, rising a finger at a time from the earth. Ketal answered by tightening his grip and heaving harder. At last, the sword reached its limit and began to give.

A brittle sound snapped through the chamber.

With a deafening report, the blade failed, splitting under the strain. The severed length thudded into Ketal’s palm. For a heartbeat, he only stared, eyes widening.

“Huh. I didn’t think it would actually break.”

“Ah... AHHH!” A shuddering moan slipped from the sword. The moan rose into a scream.

Power erupted. The godly force sealed inside the blade tore free through the broken steel and flooded the room. It swelled until it filled every corner.

For a breath, it spun without aim, then fixed on a purpose. It rushed Ketal like a tide.

Edges took shape out of the storm. Shards of cutting light circled him, each carrying the intent to reject, to erase the intruder from the world.

“Wait, stop—stop!” the Holy Sword yelped, trying to pull the power back under command. It was too late. The surge had slipped its leash. The radiance swallowed Ketal whole, and his figure disappeared inside the glare.

This was heaven’s will given form. Even the strongest would not walk out unscathed. However, it did not phase Ketal.

“What?” the Holy Sword stammered.

Still held in Ketal’s hand, the Holy Sword watched, stunned. The violent aura encasing him began to thin. It did not fade because it burned out; it was being drawn in, pulled as if by some narrow mouth. The pull came from Ketal’s pocket.

“What now?” Ketal muttered, glancing down.

He patted the pocket, then reached inside and felt the truth. The fragment of the god lay there—a fragment he had taken in the battle with Ferderica. Until this moment, it had been a blank vessel, an empty cup with nothing inside. Now the released power flowed to it, just as iron flows to a magnet.

“A fragment of the god?” the Holy Sword exclaimed. “Why do you have that?”

“I had an opportunity,” Ketal said.

The storm fought to stop itself, flaring and bucking, but it could not escape. Ribbon by ribbon, it streamed into the fragment. The room brightened, then dimmed, then dimmed further as the shard drank. When the last thread vanished, the chamber fell still.

All of it had gone into the shard. Not a trace of power remained in the air. The fragment rested heavily in Ketal’s palm, full in a way that allowed no doubt.

“I...I don’t understand. What is this?” the sword stammered.

Ketal studied the shard for a moment longer, then tucked it back into his pocket. He would investigate later; this was not the time.

“Well, I drew it—no, not quite,” he said, looking back at the sword.

The blade lay in two states at once: the shorter length still fixed to the hilt in his hand, the long portion half-freed and still buried in the floor.

The heat in him retreated, and embarrassment took its place. However much the sword’s words had struck his nerve, losing his temper over a few lines and pulling with blind fury was not how he wanted to see himself. That was how barbarians behaved, the kind he despised.

“I’m sorry,” Ketal said, voice lower. “You hit a nerve, but that doesn’t excuse it. I lost my composure. That was not adult of me.”

The abrupt shift startled the Holy Sword. A moment ago, he had looked like madness given flesh, and now he stood there with a rueful face and apologized. The contrast felt stranger than the breaking steel.

“N-no, it’s fine,” the sword said quickly. “Truly. I was terrified. I’m just...glad it ended here.”

“I appreciate you saying so. In any case, are you all right? You broke.”

“Yes. My self, the will you are speaking with, is housed in the grip, not the blade. The blade carries the Holy Sword’s power. Looking at it that way, we are fortunate. If the hilt had snapped, I would have ceased to exist.”

“That is a relief. But...what now?”

He had forced the draw in anger and split the weapon. The power inside had burst free and tried to devour him. Then the fragment of Ferderica he happened to carry had swallowed all of it instead. None of that was part of any plan.

“Er...good question,” the sword murmured, sounding dazed.

Ketal thought for a moment and decided. “We go outside. The followers of the God of the Sword will have an answer.”

He lifted the hilt, pulled the door open, and stepped through.

On the other side, Cretein and a number of Elia’s worshippers lay sprawled on the floor with their foreheads pressed down as if the ground had bucked them off their feet.

“Hm? What are you all doing?” Ketal asked them.

“Ketal?” Cretein raised his head and gaped at him. “The ground was... lifting. The entire holy land was... What in the world were you doing in there?”

His eyes fell to the hilt in Ketal’s hand. He saw the jagged edge of silver and went still.

“D-don’t tell me... Did you draw the Holy Sword?” Cretein asked him, dumbfounded.

“That would be one way to say it,” Ketal replied, and he held it up.

The room stared at the broken blade.

Cretein fell silent as his mouth fell open.

“W-wait,” Cretein stammered. For a sickening second, he searched for another explanation, something that would let him deny what his eyes told him. Perhaps it was a hallucination or a trick of the light, anything that might render it false. However, Ketal’s next words forced him back into the present.

“The blade snapped while I was drawing it. Do you have a way to fix this?” Ketal said.

Cretein’s expression crumpled.

***

All across the holy land, visitors whispered in confusion. The passage to the sword’s chamber had been closed without warning.

They had been told the trials would proceed in order, one by one. They had rejoiced to hear that they would have a chance. However, not even an hour later, the way shut.

“What happened?”

“Maybe the sword chose someone?”

“No, they always announce it,” another said. “There would be a celebration.”

However, the followers of Elia stood oddly quiet. There were no trumpets, no triumph, and no chorus of voices crying the birth of a new Champion.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some claimed that a demon had seized the chamber. Others swore a thief had drawn the sword and fled with it. Still others whispered that a cult had sabotaged the trial itself. In the end, no one could say for certain what had truly happened.

“G-greetings,” a man said with a soft, round face as he entered the hall and bowed. “I am Penlero, Saint of Elia.”

Penlero had the habit of smiling with his eyes and making a room feel gentler just by standing in it. Today, there was no gentleness left to lend. His face was pale, his expression stunned. He stared at the object in Ketal’s hand as if hoping it would transform into something else if he wished hard enough.

“Is that...truly the Holy Sword?” he managed.

In Ketal’s grasp lay a silver blade, broken with its hilt intact and its edge sheared, sharp with a new and unnatural wrongness to its shape. It was difficult to believe, and Penlero did not want to.

“It is,” Ketal said. “It was set in the center of the chamber.”

“I... I...” Penlero swayed and had to steady himself against a chair. When the dizziness passed, he forced the words out through a shaking throat. “Is the sword telling you something?”

Ketal tilted the hilt so the saint could see. “It is saying that no matter how badly broke it is still the Holy Sword. A so-called Saint should recognize its greatness.”

“I see...” Penlero pressed his hands against his face, the weight of truth sinking in, and after a moment, he lowered his fingers and looked up.

“Can you not hear it?” Ketal asked him.

“No. The Holy Sword’s voice is only heard by the chosen,” Penlero said.

Ketal frowned. He had heard it from the first moment. The sword saved him the trouble of explaining.

“That is not quite accurate,” the Holy Sword said, loud enough for Ketal alone. “Even those not chosen can hear me if they surpass a certain tier. There simply are no such people walking the world right now.”

So that's why I can hear its voice, Ketal thought, and his frown eased. Then another piece slotted in, and his eyes narrowed again.

“Didn’t you say you would shout and rouse the city?” Ketal asked the sword.

“That was a bluff,” the sword said primly.

“Thought so. You are clever.”

“Thank you.”

Penlero’s brows knit as he watched Ketal’s side of a conversation he could not hear. “Are you...speaking with the Holy Sword?”

Ketal nodded. The Saint drew a slow breath and gulped. He did not know the nuance of the rule the sword had just explained; all he knew was that only the chosen heard the voice. He looked at the broken blade, the confusion plain on his face.

“Was it...broken from the beginning?” he asked Ketal faintly.

“No. It broke while I was drawing it. The other half should still be in the chamber,” Ketal said.

“I have heard as much already,” Penlero murmured, then stopped himself with a little shake. “No, forgive me. I mean... I cannot...”

He trailed off, unable to accept what he was seeing. Ketal felt a pinch of guilt.

The Holy Sword was a sacred instrument sent by the gods to help mortals oppose evil. Ketal had not broken it out of malice. He had done his best to draw it, and in the process, the blade had snapped and most of the power inside had blown free. By the logic of events, there was no wrongdoing. By the feel of it, he had still done something that should not be done.

“I do not think I can decide this on my own,” Penlero said at last, voice hoarse. He set his shoulders and managed a formal bow. “I will go speak with my god, Elia.”

A human had no right to render judgment on such a matter; it was better to ask the god who had sent the sword, for that alone was the reasonable course.

Ketal inclined his head. “Do as you see fit.”

“Please, wait at the lodging for a short time,” Penlero said. “I am sorry for the trouble.”

“No. I may be the one who should apologize,” Ketal answered under his breath.

The Saint hurried away to commune with his god. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

Ketal returned to his rooms, laid the sword on the bed, and looked down at it. The blade’s voice had slipped into a long sigh.

“I am sullied,” it murmured. “Drawn by one I did not desire, broken in half, my power scattered until there was almost nothing left. I failed in my duty. No, that is not quite right.”

Its tone sharpened as calm returned.

“On reflection, this may not be all bad. If I remain as I am, I do not have to lose myself. They say not all bad things are purely bad; perhaps that fits here. I think I have learned something.”

“Do all Holy Swords talk as much as you?” Ketal asked it.

“I do not know what the last one was like. I was born already filled with as much knowledge as they could pack into me, so in that sense, I know many things. But with no one to speak to for centuries, locked away in a vault, I grew unbearably lonely.”

“Looking closely, the way you are layered is strange. It is not a simple disguise. It feels twisted, crushed together by force. Odd... I cannot tell which of you is the true one.” The sword’s voice went thoughtful, studying him. It sounded almost delighted by the puzzle. “A person’s wish warping their own essence... Can that truly happen? How curious.”

“You are the first who has told me I am layered, or overlapped,” Ketal said.

“I am the Holy Sword. Like the fairies, I possess the ability to see the essence of things. This is not tied to personal strength, but closer to a unique authority of its own. Yet... that is not all. There is something inside you. It is too small, however, for me to make it out clearly.”

“Quiet,” Ketal said.

“Yes,” the sword replied at once. “I do not know how the gods will respond, but for now, you are my holder, and provoking you benefits no one. Besides, you frighten me.”

“Enough,” he said.

“Yes.”

Silence settled. Ketal studied the broken relic with an unreadable look.

The sacred weapon lay snapped. In the meantime, he wondered what he was supposed to do with this broken thing. He thought for a long moment, weighing his options, and then he opened his mouth to speak.