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Chapter – 21
The people of the Sigmund family—
Or, more precisely, those who had undergone their knighthood ceremony—each possessed a very special sword.
A heirloom sword.
A blade said to be imbued with the spirits of their ancestors.
The Sigmund family had a tradition: before death, one would pour their lifetime of enlightenment and mastery into their sword, passing it on to the next generation.
Such swords were called heirloom swords—treasures and sacred relics of the Sigmund line.
Because these swords contained not only the family’s swordsmanship but also the wisdom of generations, they were treated as priceless.
And every Sigmund received their own heirloom sword on their twenty-fourth birthday—
the day of their commissioning ceremony.
It was tradition to enter the place known as “The Cradle of Swords” and emerge holding the sword that had chosen them from among hundreds of others.
Since it was the sword they would wield for the rest of their lives, it was a day of great importance—not only for the family, but most of all for the individual.
“Master Carlisle, this old man is truly overwhelmed.”
Maranello’s eyes glistened with emotion, as if watching his own grandson grow up.
It was strange to see the man once called the Reaper of the North tear up, but Carlisle didn’t find it too odd.
Maranello had aged; the fierce knight he once was now resembled more an affectionate grandfather and meticulous butler.
Though, of course, Maranello hadn’t yet put down his sword.
“It’s nothing special. Everyone goes through it. Did you cry like this during Selena— I mean, my sister’s ceremony too?”
Carlisle asked awkwardly, stumbling a little on the word sister.
“Why, of course I did. Ho ho. When Lady Selena was chosen by Asrada, I was deeply moved indeed.”
Asrada, the Frost Blade—
a sword of ice, and one of the top ten heirlooms in existence.
It was no wonder Selena was considered the strongest candidate to be the next head of the family.
Though in time, due to certain events, it would be Frey who inherited that title.
“You don’t need to get all emotional over me. Save your tears for Frey’s ceremony. That’ll be the one worth crying over.”
“There’s no need to compare such things, young master. Every ceremony is equally moving.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Carlisle replied curtly.
“Don’t expect anything, though. I’ll just grab whatever sword’s closest and get out.”
“Haha! As if it were up to you, young master!”
Maranello laughed heartily.
“The succession ritual isn’t one where you choose the sword—
the sword chooses you, after all.”
“You think I don’t know that? Anyway, don’t expect much.”
Truth be told, Carlisle found Maranello’s recent attitude burdensome.
The expectant gleam in his eyes, his knowing tone, his faint smile—
it was clear the old man was hoping for something.
‘That sly old fox. He probably thinks I’ve been hiding my true strength.’
Carlisle could read him easily enough.
Maranello wasn’t a fool; anyone would wonder if a man suddenly changed so drastically.
Carlisle, however, had no reason—or ability—to explain the truth, so he just let it be.
As long as the old man didn’t become a nuisance, it didn’t matter what he thought.
“How long will the ceremony take?”
“Usually about two hours, young master.”
“Not bad. I can endure that.”
Carlisle followed Maranello toward the place where the ceremony would be held, wishing only that it would end as quickly as possible.
Before the ceremony began—
“Do well. Don’t make a fool of yourself.”
Selena approached, tossing out her words with casual sharpness.
Though her brother was a known troublemaker, she was still his sister; there was a trace of concern in her tone.
“No one knows which sword will choose you, but you’ll find the one meant for you. Don’t worry too much.”
“Yeah.”
Carlisle replied briefly.
“Congrats on your commissioning, brother.”
“Thanks.”
His younger brother Frey also offered him a polite word of celebration.
Though Carlisle had been a disgrace and a source of trouble for years, his siblings still cared enough to offer some kindness.
They were distant now, yes—but not entirely estranged.
‘Looks like it’s starting.’
The ceremony began with an oath before Grand Duke Guntram, ruler of Dekaron and head of the Sigmund family.
“…I so swear.”
Kneeling on one knee, Carlisle pledged loyalty to Dekaron and the Kingdom of Nürburgrk.
Many nobles and family members watched, but Carlisle’s eyes met no one’s.
He just wanted it over with, so he could return to his room.
The Grand Duke touched Carlisle’s shoulders and head lightly with a ceremonial sword, completing the rite.
Up to this point, it was all ordinary—nothing special.
But when Guntram used the ring known as “The Heart of the Legion” to open a portal to another dimension, the atmosphere shifted.
Shhhh!
A bright light flared—the portal to the Cradle of Swords.
“Go,” said Guntram.
“Go forth and bring back the sword that chooses you, my son.”
“Yes, father.”
Carlisle nodded calmly and stepped into the portal.
Once he disappeared—
“…I wonder if he’ll even be chosen.”
Guntram muttered, concern flickering in his voice.
After all, the swords within the Cradle possessed fragments of consciousness.
Each had developed a distinct will and temperament based on its creator and former wielders.
Which meant—no sword of sound mind would likely choose a degenerate like Carlisle.
Unless, perhaps…
‘Avaris, or Baramund, maybe.’
Avaris was unpredictable and bizarre beyond measure.
Baramund was pure madness incarnate.
Only such blades, Guntram thought, would ever choose his wayward son.
Any other was hopeless.
“Do not worry, my lord,” said Maranello with a chuckle.
“After all, he is your son. Nothing bad will come of this.”
“But still…”
“Trust in him, Your Grace.”
“I can’t fathom it. You, of all people, knowing the boy best, speak with such confidence?”
“It is because I know him that I say so. Kukuku.”
“Hmm.”
Guntram frowned. He could tell Maranello wasn’t just making polite conversation.
The old man truly expected something.
“Well, we shall see.”
Guntram returned to his throne to wait for Carlisle’s return.
The Cradle of Swords was a dark labyrinth.
All around lay barren earth and endless shadow. The sky above was pitch black.
And scattered throughout were hundreds of blades—heirloom swords filled with the spirits of Sigmund ancestors.
‘So this is it, huh?’
It was Carlisle’s first time seeing the place.
Even in the game’s lore, the Cradle had never been shown; he’d only ever heard of it.
‘Now what am I supposed to do?’
No one had told him what to do once inside.
When he’d asked Maranello, the old man had simply said, “You don’t need to do anything.”
And that, apparently, was true.
Fwoom!
The sword nearest to Carlisle suddenly flared with light, rising into the air.
‘Huh?’
He knew that sword.
The Blazing Sword Bryunak—its green blade radiating with heat and fire.
Its destined owner was—
‘Gunter? That’s Gunter’s sword!’
Bryunak was supposed to belong to Gunter in the future.
‘So why is it choosing me—’
Just then—
Fwoom!
Another sword rose.
Then another. And another.
One after another, until every sword in the Cradle floated up, facing Carlisle.
As if pleading—Choose me.
[Notice: has chosen you.]
[Notice: has chosen you.]
[Notice: has chosen you.]
…
“Huh?”
Carlisle blinked.
Normally, a candidate might be chosen by two swords—three if they were truly gifted.
Even his father, Grand Duke Guntram, had only been chosen by three.
Frey, the future family head, had received five.
But hundreds?
It was unheard of. Impossible.
Yet here it was—the entire graveyard of swords calling out to him.
They trembled and sang in harmony, ringing out their names—the souls of the Sigmund ancestors dancing their sword dance before him.
As if to court him.
‘It’s because of that, isn’t it?’
Carlisle guessed the reason: his unique trait, [Master of Weapons].
To the swords, he was irresistible—a perfect wielder who could master any weapon to its ultimate form.
Even if he himself had zero interest in that.
‘What now…’
Now it was his turn to choose.
He had to take one sword, but of the hundreds here, he barely recognized ten.
‘Great. Now I have to inspect every single one? What a pain.’
Just then—
Fwoooooosh!!!
A black current of energy surged from afar, sweeping through the Cradle like a storm tide.
The wave of darkness pushed back the glowing swords surrounding him.
Clang, clang, clang!
The other swords resisted, ringing defiantly—but it was futile.
Shrrrk, shrrrk…
Soon, countless shadow-like swords appeared—
each a dark reflection of the glowing blades that had surrounded him.
‘What the hell is happening?’
Before Carlisle could react—
CLANG!
The shadow swords let out a deep, threatening hum, as if warning the others to back off.
The message was clear:
He is ours.
One by one, the other swords withdrew, their cries ringing sorrowfully through the dark.
Chiiing… chiiing…
Then, from the distance, a single sword approached—
its blade black as night, its design ancient and solemn.
Thump!
Carlisle’s heart skipped a beat.
It seemed he wouldn’t need to inspect each sword after all.
