FSFSLU 31

chapter 31

Around the time Isabel was dashing through the streets, blessed with her body-strengthening boon,

“Puhah!”

Marcel, covered in black, sticky oil, shot up from the middle of Tames.

Isabel’s blessing of enhanced physique hadn’t significantly increased his cardiovascular endurance.

His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded wildly. Marcel hurriedly swam to the riverbank.

Supporting himself with his arms against the brick-lined edge of the Tames River, Marcel caught his breath and thought,

“What an extraordinary day….”

Looking back, since yesterday, Marcel felt like he had been living days completely unlike before.

In a city where encountering a priest was as difficult as becoming one, Isabel had boldly opened a relief center. And that person had told him to enter the river, saying he was destined to draw the Holy Sword. It all felt unreal to Marcel.

He could have dismissed those words as nonsense. The Demon King would resurrect next year, and he was supposed to stop it? No matter that it was an angel speaking—it didn’t sound believable.

“Still… I thought, well, thanks anyway. Might as well go along and see what happens….”

Yet.

Marcel had discovered the truth.

“It was real….”

Burying his head between his arms, Marcel exhaled deeply.

In Tames, just before the river shifted from midstream to downstream, there was a peculiar formation.

A wide, deep part of the river where sediments had accumulated over time, forming muddy pits beneath the surface. It had been left by urban planning errors and naturally formed.

Having searched all the plausible places in the main river for the Holy Sword, only that spot remained for Marcel.

So he tried. Diving deep, stirring the mud, resurfacing for air, and diving again.

How many times had he tried?

In the murky water, unable to see an inch ahead, he finally found the Holy Sword, radiating dazzling light.

His heart raced—not with fear or anger, but with a feeling he hadn’t known for a long time. Perhaps, a feeling he had never felt before.

If he could give this luxurious feeling a name, it might be… anticipation.

Marcel didn’t think about what he could do with the sword or the wealth and fame it might bring.

Marcel had never thought that way.

From the start, he had considered himself worthless, expendable. Everyone in the rat-hole thought the same, but Marcel thought it even more strongly than anyone else.

Gott had raised him and Dyke; Dyke had become a Gerolter to protect them, but he had done nothing for either.

But now, that was no longer the case.

Marcel was valuable.

The one meant to draw the Holy Sword. The one destined to defeat the Demon King resurrecting in a year and save the world. Not a disposable rat, but someone who must survive to protect Gott, Dyke, and everyone else.

How was he so sure? The proof was beneath the river. The sword had been waiting for him, glowing in the abandoned riverbed, untouched by anyone.

If the sword truly existed, then the Demon King’s resurrection a year from now must also be true.

“So… let’s do it.”

He could do it. Now he had a powerful driving force:

Anticipation.

Anticipation of a better self.

Clinging to this newfound feeling in the rat-hole of his life, Marcel would walk the path of the hero.

He inhaled deeply, his chest swelling.

“Fwoop.”

And he dove.

To draw the Holy Sword, which shone even in the mud.

Breathing deeply, Dyke raised his pickaxe high.

To find the Demon Sword, which exuded darkness even under the sun.

Clang—

But Dyke didn’t even realize he was searching for the Demon Sword.

He was merely following Gerolt’s orders.

Clang—Clang—

Dyke’s strikes grew stronger, as if trying to dispel his hesitation through sheer labor.

Each blow shook the Dragon Scale cavern, rattling even the ground.

The dragon scales, weakened over centuries, were only like solid walls before Dyke’s monstrous strength.

Clang—Clang—

With trembling fingers, sweat dripping from his brow, and the cavern’s roars, Dyke tried to forget the tormenting emotions.

Looking back, his relationship with Liz had never been close. They just greeted each other and toasted at gatherings.

Yet, it was still so painful—because no matter whom Gerolt ordered him to kill, he would have to obey.

If a similar command came again, Dyke would first check his target’s relationship to him and mutter, “At least it’s not someone close this time,” to console himself.

Feeling as if his identity and dignity were seized by others.

A premonition that he would never escape that grip.

He had known this before, but this incident made him realize it fully.

He hated Gerolt and despised his powerless self.

How many more days of laughter were left in his life? He had always lived imagining a better future, a better self.

Now, he felt he could never imagine that better self again.

“If I take out what’s inside, can I be free?”

With that thought, Dyke raised the pickaxe again.

But this time, he couldn’t bring it down.

“Aaah!”

A sudden scream made him turn.

Dyke hadn’t noticed that other Gerolters were lined up on the slope. But the one who screamed wasn’t visible. All others were petrified, except Gerolt.

Seeing Dyke frozen in shock, Gerolt glanced at him.

“Something wrong, Dyke?”

“…No.”

Dyke’s shock changed nothing. Gerolt wouldn’t stop, and Dyke remained under his command.

He resumed his strikes.

More screams followed, mingled with sounds of exertion and desperate courage.

After a dozen times, the screams ceased. Only Gerolt’s muttering, sending the subordinates down the slope, remained.

“Useless fools…”

Dyke wished he could block it out. If only he could remove what’s inside… If that could end everything.

Would it really end? What more awaited?

Then—

Crack.

The pickaxe struck deep.

“…!”

It was the first time it had lodged. Dyke twisted his wrist and pulled it out, seeing a clear crack in the cavern wall.

He was certain: one more strike with his strength, and a hole would open.

But he hesitated. What if Gerolt…

“Dyke.”

A voice called.

Just as he had ordered Liz’s death, just as he had pushed Gerolters down the slope, the voice rang again.

Dyke gripped the pickaxe tightly and struck, almost pushed by the command.

Bang—

Next moment, Dyke collapsed.

‘Huh…?’

There had been an explosion—not loud, not physical, but worse.

Dyke was consumed by an unimaginable, excruciating pain.

“Kraah-!”

He couldn’t hold back his scream. Darkness, purple flames, enveloped everything. His skin felt like it was melting.

The force that touched his skin and seeped into every opening, even sticking to solid areas, was a foreign power, opposite to divine order—chaotic in nature.

Magic energy.

Released from the shattered Dragon Scale cavern, it engulfed Dyke.

“Hahaha!”

Amid the agony, a familiar laugh reached him—Gerolt’s.

Through bloodshot eyes, Dyke spotted him, leaning against the remaining cavern wall, a longsword drawn, holding what looked like a scroll.

‘A scroll!’

A luxury item, only crafted by high-level mages, unattainable in the rat-hole.

Gerolt, leaning on the wall, watched as Dyke fought through the chaotic energy.

“Of course, preparation is key. Right, Dyke?”

Dyke wanted to ask what he meant, but the pain made it impossible.

Gerolt laughed, thrilled by the situation unfolding as planned.

“Do you really think a dragon gave gifts to humans? Even a vault of dragon scales? The rats might be cleverer than you.”

Then Gerolt tore the scroll.

Mana surged, triggering magic. A semi-transparent protective shield enveloped him—a mana-based shield, unlike the blessings priests use.

Protected, Gerolt walked beyond the wall Dyke had destroyed.

“…!”

Even a dormant Demon Sword emits minor magic constantly. Dragon scales repel both divine and chaotic energy, containing the sword and its magic for 300 years.

Thus, the cavern was filled with magic. Dyke had released it all.

Gerolt had ensured his own safety while using Dyke to trigger the release.

‘Haha…’

Dyke could guess that this had all been Gerolt’s plan.

He didn’t yet know that the black energy engulfing him was chaotic mana, or that the Demon Sword was hidden there.

He only suspected that the defenses were attacking him to protect what lay inside.

‘Was I… meant to be used until the end and die?’

Gerolt walked into the cavern, slowed by the black mist. But it was only a matter of time.

Then, a whisper entered Dyke’s mind.

[Rise.]

Unlike any command or suggestion, compelling and enchanting.

Entranced, Dyke got up. The pain of the chaotic energy seemed slightly lessened by the voice.

[Walk.]

He followed the voice.

Gerolt didn’t notice Dyke following. Excited by the culmination of years of effort, he was too thrilled.

Still dark, the cavern was filled with chaotic energy, but Dyke could now discern the object hidden within.

A sword radiating a sinister aura, lodged in the center of the cavern.

The mist made its form hard to see, but Dyke recognized it as a sword.

‘No… did I recognize it, or was I told?’

[You weren’t noticing, you were being guided.]

The voice spoke again.

Illusion or telepathy—it didn’t matter. Dyke finally understood.

That was the Demon Sword. Gerolt had prepared all this to obtain it.

All rumors aside, one thing was certain: the one who draws the Demon Sword becomes bound to it. Its owner can never be free.

‘Then…!’

Dyke now had a way out.

The despair of being bound to Gerolt, the impossibility of expecting a better self—he had found a path to escape.

Crack—

Dyke sprinted with all his might.

Splash—

Clearing the final tangled ropes obstructing the Holy Sword, Marcel dove deeply.

Swimming boldly, he reached the sword.

“…”

Even in the filthy river, the sword glowed. Though the light didn’t penetrate beyond the mud and sewage, it continued to emit a mysterious glow, waiting for someone to draw it.

Marcel slowly reached out.

For the inverted hilt of the Holy Sword.

He was nervous, unsure, sensing that his life would change in this moment.

He recalled Gott, Dyke, and Isabel, who had cried upon seeing him.

Crossing the final line he couldn’t otherwise cross, Marcel grasped the Holy Sword with all his strength.

Clack—

Gerolt, carefully walking through the chaotic energy shield, heard footsteps behind him and was startled.

‘Damn!’

Dyke, blackened and corroded by mana, ran with blazing eyes.

But even he realized: Dyke’s eyes weren’t on him. Gerolt’s shield was impervious to bare hands.

Dyke knew this, so instead of trying to kill Gerolt, he aimed to seize the Demon Sword before him, bringing Gerolt immense despair.

‘No!’

No matter Gerolt’s skill, if he delayed, Dyke would reach the sword first.

Both charged, hands outstretched toward the sword.

The sword, emitting stronger chaotic energy, seemed to test them, venting centuries of resentment.

Their hands reached, Gerolt’s first, Dyke’s faster. Both attempted leaps rather than a sprint.

One hilt, two hands.

At that tense moment, another presence intervened.

“Yaaah!”

Saint Isabel dashed like a streak of light.

Both were swept back by the force of her sprint, realizing—

‘What the…’

Isabel shone with holy light, reflecting chaotically off the cavern walls, blinding them.

Still, they couldn’t close their eyes.

Before the disheveled pair, Isabel stood proudly, smiling, holding the Demon Sword she had just drawn.

“Ah…”

Dyke and Gerolt’s eyes filled with unprecedented, intense confusion.

And so it was.

“Crazy…!”

The fallen archangel, Smiel, in the sandpit of the playground, felt the same.