Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 269: Drawing the Holy Sword (3)

Swords carved tangled paths through the air and converged on Ketal. He slipped past some, knocked others aside, and caught the rest on forearms and fingertips that turned at the last instant. His heel kissed stone, and he shot forward, straight at the Holy Sword.

“Where do you think you are going?” the Holy Sword said.

With that single utterance, space itself leaned and pressed. The room did not move, yet the distance changed. The Holy Sword exercised an authority that reached into the world’s rules and rewrote them. The first time Ketal had tried to approach, that same force had blasted him all the way to the far wall.

“You can never reach me. You will need to try another,” the sword announced, lofty and sure.

Ketal’s answer was a breath pulled tight in his belly. He gathered himself and drove strength through every muscle fiber. His frame braced, his breath climbed, and he forced his way through the pressure that excluded him.

“What—?” The sword’s voice clipped short.

In a rush, new blades formed and hurled themselves at Ketal. He met steel with palm and elbow, turned his shoulders to let points pass him by, yet the effort cost him perfect resistance. The room’s rejection chewed at him and slid him back across the floor.

Even so, he was pushed back far less than before—not even half the distance.

Ketal smiled, easy and almost pleased. “I’ve adapted.”

“Then I am the one who must try another way,” the sword said, flustered, words tumbling over one another. “Such monstrous strength. You are one of the Oldest Ones, I think, and among those, you're especially fearsome. That's the only explanation for your extraordinary force.”

The Holy Sword continued, “With only my own power, I doubt I can bar your path. I would ask for the aid of the gods, but their intervention is impossible for a time. Much was spent to send me down here at all, and for a while, they will not be able to interfere with the Mortal Realm.”

“You talk a great deal,” Ketal muttered, faintly dismayed. He could not remember the last time he had faced an opponent so talkative. He was getting used to it, though. A blade that held a conversation tended to leak information while it spoke, and he did not mind that at all.

So the gods cannot step in for a while, he thought.

“I have a good idea,” the sword said brightly.

The Holy Sword gathered its strength. Above it, light condensed into a single giant blade, gold from edge to spine. It was enormous, the size of a house. Power pooled inside it until Ketal could taste the grade in the back of his tongue. It had the weight of a Hero-level strike.

“Are you allowed to use that much force?” he asked the sword, eyebrows raised.

“No. But I cannot stop something like you otherwise. The great gods will forgive me.” The Holy Sword sounded almost satisfied with its own logic. “By my judgment, your power can withstand this attack. Your body will bear the blow. The cost to the surroundings will be large. If you try to dodge, the blade will punch through the outer wall and fly outside. People will hear the commotion and come running. Then I will raise my voice and declare the truth for all to hear.”

I am going to tell everyone that you're not human, and that you're a monster, the Holy Sword thought.

Ketal huffed a laugh. “ You're smarter than I expected.”

“I accept the compliment with gratitude. Now, enjoy my wrath. I have begun to feel a touch of fondness for you, so I hope you do not die.”

The golden mass fell. It was simple, heavy destruction made into a blade. If he evaded, it would tear the wall and draw a crowd. If he blocked, its sheer physical power would launch him like debris.

There was only one way he could counter this attack.

He drew Myst into his frame as he drew his breath. The Myst washed down his bones and wrapped his flesh, hardening muscle and tendon and planting his weight as if he had sunk roots into earth. He set his feet and reached out. He caught the falling sword out of the air.

Force shook the chamber. The outer wall shivered on its hinges. The blow carried enough power to drill a hole through a mountain. Even so, Ketal did not give a step.

“Oh. Oh, good heavens,” the Holy Sword said, startled in a way that sounded almost human. “I did not anticipate this.”

He had not slipped it, and he had not parried. He had not even truly blocked the attack. He had simply taken hold of the blade. Ketal squeezed the blade as it wailed with a strange metallic treble, then fractured. Shards burned across the floor in a glittering spray.

Ketal bared his teeth in a grin. “Good.”

He walked toward the Holy Sword with unhurried steps. Whether it had spent too much power or lost its nerve, it launched no second strike. Its voice came out small and filled with despair.

“How can this be... Forgive me, gods. This maiden has failed to do her duty.”

Ketal stopped in front of the pedestal and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The blade trembled as if afraid, but it did not resist. He set his legs and pulled.

“As expected, sheer force cannot pull you out,” Ketal murmured.

The Holy Sword did not budge. There was no tremor, not even the smallest twitch. A heartbeat later, the Holy Sword seemed to collect itself.

“Ah. I let the shock rattle me. I remember now. You cannot draw me.”

“As I thought,” Ketal said, clicking his tongue.

He could not pull the Holy Sword.

Perhaps this is far enough, he thought. Perhaps it's time to go back.

If he were honest, the failure did not sting. He had never set his heart on drawing the sword. He had wanted to see the Holy Sword with his own eyes, to try once, to feel the weight of it in his palm. Becoming its master, becoming a Champion, soaking in the adoration of the crowd held no appeal to him.

It was just like how a person could spend an afternoon at a family-run farm and try the work without wanting to become a farmer. Ketal had already begun to yield the space and step back when the voice spoke again.

“You cannot draw me,” the sword said. “Only a rightful soul of this world, bearing the proper qualification, may claim me. You cannot meet that condition. You are not a being of this world.”

“I am a being of this world,” Ketal said, stopping in his tracks.

“Are you joking?”Genuine confusion colored the Holy Sword’s voice. “You cannot be. Imagine a lion who falls in love with a rabbit. Can that love come to fruition? It cannot. The lion’s loving caress will flay the rabbit’s fur. A hug full of affection will pull the organs free. If they kiss, the rabbit’s flesh will be torn away.”

It was a love that could not and should not be.

“And could such a love have a child? Impossible. It cannot exist. You are beyond even that. You were never of this world," the Holy Sword continued. It pronounced the words as if stating the universal laws of this world. Ketal could not draw the sword. Its tone even sounded a touch relieved, as if the conclusion brought it comfort.

“Now I understand,” the Holy Sword went on, almost excited. “You are overlapping because your will refuses to be a lion. You wish to be a rabbit. That desire has split you into layers. Your stubbornness has warped your essence. It is like a miracle. Yet even so, what cannot be remains impossible.”

“I am a being of this world,” Ketal said quietly, as he lifted his head. “I belong here. I am a being of fantasy.”

“Fantasy? What is that supposed to mean? I cannot stop you from wishing it, of course. Your heart is your own. But the thing itself is impossible. Absolutely impossible.” The sword’s voice hardened. “You will always be an outsider. A lion who wishes to be a rabbit.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Ketal smiled. “So, because I am an outsider, I cannot draw you. Is that what you are saying?”

“That is the fundamental obstacle. Wait. Why are you coming closer again?” The Holy Sword’s chatter faltered.

Ketal had tried once, failed, and decided to let it go. Instead, he closed the distance again, took the hilt in hand, and showed his teeth.

“Then if I pull you,” he said, “that proves I belong to this world.”

The Holy Sword fell silent. Ketal’s gaze felt like that of a hunter poised to devour its prey. In trying to define him, it had pressed the scale with the wrong weight.

“Wait. I see what you’re thinking. I was wrong. I apologize. Sir, please—just a moment—”

Ketal did not listen. His hand tightened around the grip. This time, he put his whole heart into it.

***

Outside the chamber, Cretein led the followers of Elia down the corridor toward the Holy Sword's room. They had been sprinting. At the threshold, they hesitated, breathless and pale.

“Sir Cretein, what do we do?”

“Should we intervene?”

“Hold on,” Cretein said, narrowing his eyes.

Clashes had shaken the hall. Then came the silence. It was worse—an oppressive stillness, a measured hush that felt like the breath before a storm.

“We go in,” Cretein decided.

Five minutes had long since passed. Every previous challenger had either failed quickly or been thrown from the chamber. This was not normal. As a devotee of the God of the Sword, he had to see it with his own eyes.

They reached for the door.

Boom!

This was no echo of earlier tremors. The entire holy land shook with a deep, rolling force. People staggered.

“What was that?" one of the holy knights shouted.

“Wait!” Cretein shouted. He dropped low out of habit, hands spread, senses flaring.

An earthquake? No. The cadence is wrong, Cretein thought. The pressure was not moving across the stone.

He went still as his expression hardened, the instinctive response of a high-level Transcendent whose body could not be deceived. It told him the truth at once—his center of gravity had shifted, not because he had moved, but because the ground itself had risen beneath him.

It was not a quake; the earth itself was lifting. A force powerful enough to pry solid land upward surged from below, so overwhelming in scale that his instincts strained to deny it. Yet there was no mistaking the source. The upheaval radiated from the chamber of the Holy Sword.

What in the world is happening in there? Cretein thought.

***

The Holy Sword screamed for the first time. “I was wrong! I take it back! Forgive me!”

Ketal’s fingers tightened around the grip as power surged through his body. He heaved upward, not with finesse or technique, but with every ounce of raw strength he possessed. His grin twisted as if he were dragging the world itself into his hands. The earth answered with a deeper rumble, and the ground began to rise.

Across the holy land, floors tilted by the barest margin, around three or four centimeters, but they rose all the same.

“I am going to come out!” the Holy Sword shrieked.

“It’s stubborn,” Ketal growled through clenched teeth. “You really are rooted deep.”

If something that was stuck refused to move, then it meant his strength was insufficient. The solution, however, was clear. He needed to push beyond restraint, abandon half-measures, and unleash the whole of his power.

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.

The rumble deepened, and the ground lifted higher. Everyone in the holy land felt it now, even those who had dismissed the tremors as nerves only moments ago. If anyone had been watching from outside, they would have doubted their own eyes.

The holy ground, which had always stood on a broad and level plain, was rising—slowly but surely—until the earth itself began to swell into a hill, the holy land perched like a crown upon its peak.

Ketal’s mouth twisted to one side.

Me. Not of this world? Nonsense, he thought.

He belonged here. He was part of this world’s fantasy, not the broken remnant from the White Snowfield he refused to ever become again.

He would not accept it. He could not. And yet the sword had denied his existence, trying to brand him foreign, to impose by law what he was not. He needed to do the very thing the sword claimed could not be done. He needed to draw it, and prove with his hands what he was.

The Holy Sword cried out, high and piercing, its entire body trembling beneath a pressure that felt less like strength and more like inevitability. It creaked and shivered, and from the earth came a grinding groan. A hidden length of the blade, buried for centuries, unseen and unregarded, began to push into the open air.