FSFSLU 32

chapter 32

All monsters across the canyon, caves, forest, volcano, and sea froze in place.

Goblins attempting to ambush passing carriages, armored wolves waiting for daytime to rest, and wild golems naturally born without a wizard’s hand—all stopped and gazed skyward.

It wasn’t instinct. Nor was it reason.

It was an ancient command system embedded in their blood, mana circuits, and genes since time immemorial.

The monsters felt it in their skin: until now, they had been nothing more than dogs on a leash.

They hadn’t been uncontrolled, just not controlled—but they were never beyond control.

The days of aimlessly wandering without purpose were over.

Their true master had awakened.

“—!”

Roars. Howls. Stomps. Splashing water.

In their own ways, the monsters made their presence known.

And so did Elia, the commander of the Demon King’s army and a prophet.

“Ahahaha—!”

Elia laughed out loud in his cramped room.

The time had come.

The cursed sword, hidden for 300 years, had finally returned to the world. Elia knew the name of its owner, and the noble and magnificent presence of the one who wielded it.

Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular arms, taciturn, possessing immense strength.

A tragic person, disillusioned by the world yet unable to escape it.

“Dyke! Take up that sword, and unleash the desires you’ve kept hidden!”

Elia had never once misread the future.

He didn’t know the time or place, but the events he prophesied always came true.

“And please… become a source of power for the Demon King!”

For the first time ever, Elia’s prophecy had gone awry.

Without realizing it, Elia spread his madness-filled laughter across the room.

Mad with joyous anticipation.

The one destined to wield the cursed sword.

The one to bear the fate of destruction and trample the world under the name of the “Black Knight.”

Dyke was…

“Hu…”

Jaw nearly touching the floor, mouth agape.

Geralt wasn’t much different, mouth open in shock as well.

Wouldn’t all that magic pour into their mouths? Maybe the protective barrier prevented it.

I couldn’t even mock them. My mouth was just as wide open.

“Hu…”

A major incident had occurred.

Not me—Isabel.

Or maybe… I had caused it.

Had I ever told Isabel, “You must not draw the cursed sword”? I said everything else but that.

Was it my fault she drew it? She absolutely shouldn’t have. If she had common sense… but Isabel didn’t, so yes, it was my fault! Ahh!

Still, we’d seen it in the first run—how dangerous the cursed sword is, and what happened to Dyke when he drew it!

And yet she went and drew it anyway!

“Ai…gh…”

My head throbbed. I could barely stand. Causing a stress-induced headache to an angel—truly remarkable for a saint.

This was a huge problem. Way too huge.

The one who drew the cursed sword becomes its servant. Dyke, after drawing it, immediately fell to the role of Demon King’s army commander. Was it Dyke’s will? Or the sword’s?

Now Isabel could not separate herself from the cursed sword. Even if I tried to discreetly remove it, it would ultimately remain in her hands.

Unless time was reversed, Isabel would live her life as the sword’s master.

Damn it.

It wasn’t Isabel’s fault.

She had chosen what she believed to be the best option.

My instructions to her were simple: destroy the sword, or summon the holy knight of the Sun God to retrieve it.

But arriving at the Dragon Scale Cave later than Geralt and Dyke, she couldn’t follow either instruction. And she couldn’t let them draw it either.

“Then drawing it herself must have seemed the best choice. Once someone draws it, the others can’t.”

True, it might have been better than letting either of them draw it. But… this situation was still overwhelmingly confusing.

Something felt off.

Isabel had drawn the sword. Shouldn’t it dominate her now?

Why was she standing still?

At that moment—

Patchin—

A strange sound echoed, and I saw something deep purple appear in the middle of the spatial pocket.

It looked like ice partially frozen in a fridge—transparent on the outside, but inside, white frost spreading like a flower.

That was exactly it. The eerie violet rift in the air looked like a violet flower or a star blooming in the sky.

Something felt wrong. I shouldn’t get too close.

I quickly created a tunnel slide beneath my feet and hid inside, peeking cautiously from the exit.

The purple star grew in size and, in an instant, assumed a humanoid shape.

Only in form, though.

It resembled a human figure, but its entire body was covered in purple shadow, impossible to discern head from face.

It was disorienting—but not just that.

‘What is that, and how did it get in here?’

This was a unique space, a conceptual realm that remains until a proxy angel summons.

This was the first intrusion here. Who could it be?

Damn it—obvious.

The moment Isabel drew the sword, it appeared here.

That must be the cursed sword.

Just as I can contact Isabel through “descent,” “revelation,” or “illusion” in the unique space, the sword must enter here to manipulate her.

Damn. This was serious.

This was my home, yet Isabel brought an uninvited guest in.

Isabel had judged carefully.

If Geralt drew the sword, he might have massacred everyone. Dyke would repeat the same tragedy. Drawing it herself was the right choice.

But she knew how dangerous that decision was, and she was prepared to bear its consequences.

‘I’ll be scolded! Maybe really harshly!’

So she steeled herself, ready not to be intimidated, even if Smiel scolded her.

But oddly, she wasn’t scolded.

Smiel remained silent.

‘Strange. Why isn’t she saying anything?’

Smiel said nothing. Only the quest remained:

[Prevent Geralt from drawing the cursed sword (0/1)]

The quest was incomplete, and Smiel hadn’t issued instructions.

Isabel reached a conclusion:

‘Smiel is watching my choice!’

She knew Smiel often disapproved of her, but now Smiel was waiting to respect her decision.

Perhaps when she completed the task, the quest counter would change from 0 to 1, praising her.

Isabel was moved by Smiel’s thoughtfulness.

‘She trusts me this much! I won’t disappoint her!’

Then—

“Th… this damn X… drew the sword?”

Geralt, finally recovering from the shock of being denied the sword, clenched his teeth and stood, longsword in hand.

He glared at Isabel with eyes twisted by frustration and rage.

“That was my goal! I dedicated my entire life to it! And some random X ruins it!”

How could he stay calm? Only a step away from his dream, it was snatched away.

A thought crossed his mind:

I must kill her now.

Isabel hadn’t yet been dominated by the sword. Kill her before that happens, and the sword’s ownership resets, allowing him to draw it again.

He still had a chance.

Yet—

“Eh!”

Isabel’s sudden shout made him step back.

Good judgment. Though enraged, he didn’t lose his senses.

With her holding the sword, any lapse could cost him his life. He watched for any sudden movement.

Isabel, however, defied expectations. She didn’t flash red eyes, laugh maniacally, or show desire for blood.

Instead, she knelt beside Dyke, who had collapsed.

“Dyke! Your face… it’s all—”

Dyke had fainted, overwhelmed by losing the sword, the whispers in his head, and the pain of magical corrosion.

Isabel gently rolled him onto his back, seemingly attempting to heal him.

Furious, yet more anger welled up.

The one who ruined her dream ignored her words, calmly tending to Dyke.

“You damned woman! I told you—”

But Isabel, focused on her patient, didn’t hear him.

“The blackened traces… that’s Magi corrosion!”

Geralt’s eyes widened.

“Is she ignoring me completely?”

“Don’t worry! I treated Magi corrosion before in the first run!”

“I really want to die…”

“I couldn’t fully heal back then due to time constraints!”

“Listen to me—”

“Now I can! Hang on a bit longer!”

“Damn it, listen to me—”

“To the great goddess Sunya…”

“Aaagh!”

Completely ignored, Geralt could only roar in anger and strike at Isabel with his sword.

The longsword slashed fiercely—but was blocked by a sudden white barrier.

“Ugh!”

Pain shot through his wrist as he retrieved the sword.

The barrier, roughly oval, enveloped Isabel and Dyke in a dome.

Her earlier prayer had created this.

The semi-transparent shield let him see inside. He saw Isabel, finger to lips, scolding him.

“I’ll kill you—!”

He was furious.

Gripping the longsword with both hands, he focused all his strength.

Geralt knew drawing the cursed sword wasn’t enough—he trained to control it without being dominated.

Emitting powerful sword energy passed down only among knights, he swung with a roar.

Blocked again.

“Arrgh!”

Frustrated, he hacked wildly at the barrier. Sword scars appeared around Dragon Scale Cave, but his strikes made no sound upon the barrier. It simply absorbed the impact.

The feeling of futility—it was like trying to move a mountain with a shovel.

Fear crept in.

‘Why doesn’t it even scratch it?’

Previously, he’d cleaved priest-created divine shields with one strike.

Walls and floors bore sword marks—but Isabel’s shield remained unscathed.

Yet a question arose.

The cursed sword drawn by Isabel had disappeared entirely. Expected. It manifests only when needed.

But why wasn’t she influenced by it at all?

A priest? That wasn’t enough. Holy power and Magi are opposites. Normally, the sword would react violently.

Yet Isabel seemed unaffected, as if nothing happened.

How…?

“….”

Tension gripped me.

Is that the cursed sword? That dark humanoid shadow?

In the old stories, the cursed sword had self-awareness.

In a conceptual world, it makes sense that the sword could take a human form. I’d experienced that too.

But what it might do… I didn’t know.

I stayed in the tunnel slide, observing. It slowly rose but didn’t move further.

Yet it seemed emotional.

“Ugh…”

It crouched briefly, then—

“Damn it!”

Kicking the sand in the space, letting out loud shouts.

“What the hell! Not the big guy, why is it me as the master!”

I watched its tantrum from inside the slide.

At first scary, now it was infuriating.

Who did it think it was, talking to Isabel like that? Just because it’s the sword?

Why was I hiding?

This was my space. The Unique Space. Reserved for the Unique Angel.

Who did it think it was, barging in and wreaking havoc?

I couldn’t contain my anger. The sword didn’t seem that dangerous either.

In reality, I probably wouldn’t have dared act like this. Maybe being an angel dulled my sense of danger.

Anyway, I left the slide and confronted it.

“….”

The sword, about to kick a nearby seesaw, froze and looked at me.

Or so it seemed—the whole body black, I couldn’t be sure if it was actually looking at me.

Then—

“Oh, what…”

It looked at me, smirked, as if amused.

“Already raising something inside, huh? You little brat.”

Wow. Haha. Not even funny.

It stood before me, gesturing around.

“Who are you? Why is this place a mess?”

I didn’t answer, just stared.

“Looks like some minor spirit latched onto this X, but now you’re mine, so buzz off…”

“Who are you?”

It hesitated, then laughed loudly, shaking its head.

Then grabbed my collar, attempting to lift me.

Failed.

“….”

Whether from lack of strength or because I’m the owner of this space, I didn’t budge an inch.

The sword stood dumbfounded for a moment.

“Well, whatever.”

It released my collar, turned away, seemingly deeming me unworthy.

Then waved, opening the glass window.

The window I often used to observe or intervene with Isabel.

“I won’t recognize a priest like you as my master.”

It reached toward the glass.

Ah, right.

If unrecognized, the cursed sword kills. Classic.

But you think I’ll let you kill Isabel?

Arrogant fool.

I raised my hand. The window shut.

“Eh?”

It tried several times more, but the glass wouldn’t budge. I had prohibited it.

This Unique Space is mine. I altered its rules so the sword couldn’t intervene.

I didn’t know this was possible until I needed it.

“Uh, uh?”

Like a programmer panicking after a crash, the sword struggled, glaring at me.

“Hey… you didn’t—”

But it couldn’t continue. I charged and punched its face.

I’d had enough.

You’re done, bastard.