Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 272: Holy Sword (2)

“Wait! Are you insane?”

The Holy Sword’s voice cracked with panic. It had barely finished warning Ketal about the danger of the divine shard when Ketal tilted back his head and swallowed it. The fragment slid down with the simple, terrible finality of a gulp.

“Spit it out now! Strike your chest! Hook your fingers under the jaw—anything! You have to bring it back up!”

The sword’s fluster matched what came next. The power asleep within the shard woke like a startled beast and exploded outward. The force of a great god surged through Ketal and tried to rip him apart from the inside.

It was violence of the purest kind. Bones boomed and tissues shook. It felt as though a bomb had gone off beneath the skin. Even a Hero like Karin would have doubled over and coughed blood, left swaying on the edge of death.

However, Ketal’s face barely changed.

Not as bad as the beast of Myst, he thought.

The sanctified energy ravaging his organs could not match the fury of the beast within him when it bucked his control. That creature had torn at him with hunger like a winter storm. Compared to that, this was bluster.

A low growl rose from the depths of him. The beast of Myst lifted its head, roused by the intruder. It did not like the smell of divinity trespassing in its den. A rumble rolled through Ketal’s core, and then the beast roared and sprang.

It pounced through him in a way no anatomy could map, seized the sanctity that had come to break its host, and bit down.

Of course, Ketal thought. He had expected as much. The finicky monster would never watch quietly while something else rampaged through the place it considered home.

The holy power tried to gather itself and fight, but the beast was merciless. It clamped down and chewed, tore, and trampled, ripping gleaming threads of divinity apart and swallowing the pieces. For a moment, the sanctity shifted strategy and tried to flee instead. However, there was nowhere to go. This was Ketal’s body. The beast ran it down, cornered it, and kept eating.

“...Wh—what?” the Holy Sword whispered.

While it watched in horror, the sanctified energy that had been shaking Ketal faded. More than that, the quantity of Myst inside him began to rise, slowly at first and then with real momentum, as if someone had opened a sluice gate. Divinity became prey. The beast of Myst devoured it to the last gleam and licked its chops.

A satisfied belch echoed faintly in the quiet.

“Oh... oh,” the sword breathed.

Ketal exhaled, a pleased sound riding on the breath. The Holy Sword’s power, the sanctity housed in the god’s fragment, had been swallowed whole. The beast had taken it all and grown. He lifted an arm and reached for the current he knew so well. Myst answered more quickly than before. It moved through him like a river freed of stones.

“Good,” he said, smiling. The satisfaction faded a notch as he tested the boundary of his strength. “But still, the Myst reserve is not up to the Transcendent tier.”

Even after consuming everything the sword had stored, he had merely solidified his Myst reserve at the very peak of Advanced. He could feel the limit like water lapping the crest of a dam—close enough to hear the spill but not enough to cross.

Do I need a little more? Or something particular? he wondered. He rubbed his chin and considered. Then he nodded to himself. “Even so, this is a fine result.”

Gaining something to rival the Dragon Heart this easily was not a turn he had expected. He was satisfied.

However, the Holy Sword was not.

“Oh... this is insane,” it whispered, equal parts awe and dismay. It had realized what the change meant: the fragment, and the power it had held, were no longer a separate thing. They had become Ketal.

“What in the world are you raising inside you?” it blurted.

“A fussy creature,” Ketal said.

“What, precisely—”

A knock sounded. When Ketal opened the door, Cretein stood on the threshold. He had gulped hard to steady himself and still looked as if his heart had forgotten to beat for a breath.

“Do you have an answer?” Ketal asked him.

“Please... follow me,” Cretein said, forcing calm into his voice.

Ketal went with him into the church at the heart of the holy land and found himself alone with the Saint. Penlero bowed with solemn care.

“Thank you for coming.”

“So you received your answer,” Ketal said. “What did your god decide?”

The Holy Sword went quiet, then gave a tiny, anxious hum in Ketal’s hand. Penlero took a breath and spoke after a short pause.

“Our great Elia has said this: let him do as he will.”

It was not approval, nor was it a rejection. It placed the choice squarely in Ketal’s hands and left it there.

“So I’m to decide,” Ketal said.

“I believe so,” Penlero answered softly. “May I ask what you intend to do?”

Ketal studied the broken sword for a moment and rubbed at his jaw again. Though the relic had no heart, it somehow managed to look as if it were holding its breath.

Ketal came to a conclusion. “I’ll carry it myself.”

He had broken the Holy Sword. Whatever the cause, that was true. There was a debt in that, and he would shoulder it.

It's going to be a noisy companion, he thought, with a corner of his mouth quirking.

“Thank you!” the sword squealed.

Penlero nodded, relief loosening his shoulders. “Very well. Then you are the sword’s bearer. However... I am sorry to say this, but...”

“You cannot announce it publicly,” Ketal finished for him.

“Yes. Forgive me.”

The sword was broken. The power inside it had mostly blown away. The god had neither denied Ketal nor claimed him, and no one could call him the true Champion who bore the Holy Sword. There was nothing to gain by telling the world.

“It doesn’t matter. Do what’s easiest," Ketal said, nodding.

Keeping quiet did not bother him. Being trumpeted as the sword’s master, paraded as a Champion, and pulled into endless ceremonies would twist the simple journey he wanted from this fantasy. Secrecy suited him.

Penlero let out a long breath. “Thank you. Please rest for now. We will take care of the arrangements and bring you word. Ah, one more thing. The separated blade is yours as well. We will prepare it and present it to you.”

“Understood.”

Ketal took his leave and returned to his room.

“Thank you for not discarding me,” the Holy Sword said once they were alone. “If you dislike noise, I will try to be quiet.”

“It’s fine. I made this mess,” Ketal answered. He had broken the sword, and he had then consumed the power inside. An adult accepted responsibility for his choices.

Besides, the sword’s knowledge could help an outsider like him fill the gaps everyone else never had to think about. Its inherent divine power would also be useful against petty demons; he would not need to rouse Myst every time something foul crossed his path.

But I can’t carry it forever, he thought. There was duty, and then there was lugging a sacred relic until the grave. He needed a path that made sense.

“Is repair possible?” he asked the Holy Sword. His tone made it clear he was not expecting much. His full strength had only barely managed to crack this weapon. The power that had made it useful had flown. It did not feel like something a blacksmith could fix.

“Not... impossible?” the sword said timidly.

Ketal blinked. “You can be repaired?”

“I am not sure whether the power inside me can be restored,” it admitted, “but the blade itself can be mended. I was forged by the God of the Forge.”

It was a simple, obvious truth. If a god had made it, the path to fixing it also ran through a god. And those who served that god lived in a particular place.

“The Forge God’s holy land,” the sword went on. “Where their dwarven faithful dwell. The Dwarven Cave of Mantamia. If you find its Saint, they should be able to repair me.”

“Of course.” Ketal’s eyes lit. The solution was straightforward. He needed to go to the dwarves, meet the god, and fix the sword. After that, depending on how the wind blew, he could even return the blade to its pedestal. With the mechanism that stripped a bearer’s will now gone, there would be no danger of losing himself. It sounded almost like a happy ending.

The Holy Sword sounded less enthusiastic. “I do not recommend it personally. It is a long journey. And Mantamia is veiled from the world. The directions are in my memory, but reaching it is not easy. This is not because I fear being scrapped if I go there.”

Ketal snorted. “I can make the case. Don’t worry about that. Until then, take care of yourself.”

“Honestly, I am a bit scared,” the Holy Sword confessed. “But I am yours, for now. If you say go, I must go.”

“That makes you sound like a slave.”

“Better than dissolving,” it said. “My crisis has passed. I will take the win. Ah, oh.”

“What is it?”

“I'm sleepy,” it murmured.

“The Holy Sword sleeps?” Ketal asked it, amused.

“Not normally. But you broke me, and much of my power leaked away. I will likely fall into torpor from time to time. I am... sorry. I will sleep now...”

Its voice dwindled, and silence followed.

Ketal looked at the sword for a moment longer and huffed a laugh.

A strange companion indeed, he thought. The chatter reminded him of the child who had followed him across the White Snowfield years ago, calling him teacher and never running out of words.

I wonder what that kid is doing now? he thought, then lay back on the bed.

***

The next day, the Church of the God of the Sword made its proclamation. A bearer of the Holy Sword had been chosen, and by the will of the god, that bearer’s identity would remain concealed.

The city stumbled over the words. Traditionally, when the Holy Sword chose a master, the name was proclaimed to the world. Banners rose, crowds filled the streets, and the Champion rode forth to match their fame with deeds against the demonkind. Never in history had a church concealed the bearer.

Some muttered that the church had lied, that a problem had forced them to invent a story. The church answered by swearing in the god’s name. Faced with that oath, speculation sank back under the surface and stayed there.

The festival ended in confusion, and only a handful within the church knew the truth. Among them was Helia, the Saintess of the Sun God.

“I did not know this was possible...,” she murmured, looking at the broken sword in Ketal’s hand with a bright, intent gaze.

The Holy Sword noticed her and whispered in surprise. “This woman is remarkable. A mortal can hold that much holy power?”

Helia’s eyes narrowed a fraction, as if she had heard a faint sound at the edge of hearing. “What is the Holy Sword saying?”

“It's saying that you are impressive,” Ketal said.

“Thank you,” she replied, as composed as ever.

The Holy Sword sounded genuinely rattled. “She can feel me speaking? That is extraordinary. Is she an avatar of a god?”

Helia’s eyes shifted, ever so slightly, toward the hilt. She understood more than the sword realized. She knew that Ketal had broken it, and that because of this, the mechanism the gods had woven into the weapon no longer functioned. There would be no lure, no conduit, and no Hero to serve as a vessel for a god.

In her head, the arithmetic was swift. The divine aid intended for the world had vanished. The so-called Champion would not appear. In place of that neat plan stood Ketal.

She came to her conclusion, smiled, and bowed. “As the bearer of the broken Holy Sword, I look forward to working together from here on.”

Ketal nodded once. “Very well.”

“Good,” she said. “I always knew this world needed help, but that path was not one I wished to walk.”

The phrasing was odd. Ketal studied her for a beat.

“You knew,” he said, not really asking.

“Who can say?” she replied, voice light. “As one who lives in this world, I will count on you. If you need aid, use my name at any time. Until we meet again.”

Helia left the God of the Sword’s holy land and stepped into the open air. She lifted her chin and looked up at the sky. The sun burned where it always had. Stare too long with the naked eye and one went blind.

She looked without blinking. After a while, she spoke, so quietly that only the sun might have heard. “If the Holy Sword descends, it means a crisis is near.”

Even if the gods could not intervene directly for a time, sending down the Holy Sword meant the situation called for more strength in the Mortal Realm. Evil would move in earnest now.

“But your Holy Sword is broken,” she said, and a small smile touched her mouth. “Your interference just became harder.”

She tilted her head as if listening to a distant answer. “Was this in your plan, great Sun God? I regret that I could not see your face when it happened.”

Still smiling, she turned and walked toward her own holy land.

Ketal remained at the Holy Sword’s grounds for several more days to handle the aftermath. During that time, he set himself a private goal: to spar with Elian, the Tower Master’s disciple. It would be instructive to cross hands with a Hero mage from the continent; once the noise died down, he intended to seek the duel.

However, he never got the chance. The demon’s power began to descend in earnest.

***

“The rift is wide enough,” said the Writhing Aberration, Necrobix. The Four Pillars of Hell had gathered together in one place. “The Mortal Realm is in disarray. Several holy lands have fallen, the gods’ influence has thinned, and our dark mages rampage unchecked. Our territory grows. We can intervene fully.”

“We’re late. By the original schedule, we should have moved six months ago,” Abyss, the Living Engine of the Ruin, answered.

“It's because of that barbarian,” Necrobix hissed. “Whatever he is, he is our enemy. We have to find him and kill him.”

“He’s mine,” said Materia, the Mother of All Demons, smiling. “Touch him, and I will kill you.”

“Don't be so hostile," Necrobix said. It turned to Abyss. “Abyss. If you please.”

“Understood.”

The Living Engine of the Ruin stirred. Abyss unfolded and grew, mechanism blooming into a gate. The passage opened.

From beyond came a tide of demonic energy so fierce it made the Four Pillars feel like bit players in their own scene. The presence that pressed through the opening stood higher and heavier than any of them—a being more terrible and more absolute, master of all demonic force and god of the demonkind.

Materia’s voice shook with delight. “Ah... my king.”

“We beg you,” Necrobix said, formal for once. “Tear the barrier.”

Something vast watched them from the other side. In the darkness, the shape of a hand moved, and a single finger flicked.

The world cracked.

It did not happen in some corner the size of a room, or a city, or a valley. The fracture spread across the globe like a spiderweb, fine at first, then thicker, then everywhere at once. One motion of one finger touched everything.

The mighty felt it, and so did the ordinary; every living thing sensed, clearly and all at once, that the world they knew was breaking. The ancient shield that had guarded it for ages shattered.

Once, the Mortal Realm had belonged to demons. The gods had watched them glut themselves and could no longer bear it. They had descended, fought the demons, and driven them away. In that act, the world had become the gods’ domain. So the story went.

And now the story’s claim failed.

Ownership fell from the sky and smashed on the ground. For the first time since the ancient wars, the Mortal Realm belonged to no one.

“Thank you, my king,” Necrobix said. “We will begin the preparations for your descent.”

The gate clanged shut. The mechanism that had held it open shrieked and came apart; gears buckled, plates warped, and Abyss sagged.

“You did well, Abyss,” Materia said.

“I require convalescence,” came the flat reply.

“Rest,” she purred. “We will handle the next steps.”

“Begin,” Necrobix said.

The Four Pillars of Hell spoke with one will to the legions below.

“Full war,” their voices commanded. “Crush the Mortal Realm. Make it ours. Do everything for the Demon King’s coming.”