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Chapter – 22
The opinions among the Sigmund family members waiting for Carlisle were all different.
“Big sis, do you think Brother Carlisle will be able to bring out a successor’s sword?”
“You know it’s unlikely.”
“Oh.”
At Selena’s reply, Frey hung his head.
She wasn’t wrong.
It was far more likely that he would be rejected by every heirloom blade — and come out empty-handed.
That was the most reasonable prediction.
The successor swords, imbued with the souls of their ancestors, thoroughly rejected anyone deemed unworthy of being a true member of House Sigmund.
There had been people throughout history who were not chosen by any successor’s blade — and every one of them had been denied recognition as a member of the family.
“Still… you never know.”
Selena was clinging to a sliver of hope — that Carlisle might have changed.
He no longer indulged in debauchery, nor did he cause chaos the way he used to.
Of course, he had still broken a knight’s ribs not long ago and occasionally destroyed property in fits of rage, but…
“I just want him to go back to the way he was.”
Frey’s voice carried quiet regret.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Selena said firmly, shaking her head.
“The Carlisle we knew as children doesn’t exist anymore. He’s changed.”
“But…”
“He might improve a little, but he’ll never go back to who he was.”
“……”
“All we can hope for is that he comes to his senses soon and stops being a burden to the family.”
Despite her harsh words, Selena’s expression was filled with the same sorrow as her brother’s.
Meanwhile, Grand Duke Guntram sat upon his throne, motionless, his gaze fixed silently on the portal.
“Your Grace, there is no need to be anxious,” said Maranello, smiling pleasantly.
Guntram frowned, as if offended.
“Anxious? What nonsense, Maranello. I am not anxious in the slightest.”
“Heh heh.”
Maranello chuckled.
“Truly? Then why are you tapping your fingers on the armrest?”
“…Hm?”
“Do you not always tap your fingers like that whenever you’re uneasy?”
“I do?”
“You weren’t aware?” Maranello smiled gently.
“Believe me, Your Grace. You have nothing to worry about. I can guarantee it.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
“Because your son has changed, my lord. He is still far from perfect, but I am certain the souls of our ancestors will not turn away from him.”
“As you’ve been closest to the boy, I shall take your word into consideration.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Maranello bowed deeply.
(Your Grace… your second son is far greater than you imagine. He only pretends to be a scoundrel for reasons he cannot reveal.)
It wasn’t easy for Maranello to hold his tongue.
In the few weeks he had watched over Carlisle, he had realized — the young man was a genius.
During training, Carlisle displayed terrifying focus and pushed his efficiency to its absolute limits. His skills were growing at a remarkable rate.
And somehow, his strength and endurance had increased dramatically in a very short time.
If he continued at this pace, the kind of monster he would become was almost frightening to imagine.
(One day, Your Grace, you’ll see the truth — the true brilliance of Carlisle van Sigmund.)
But most others in the Sigmund family were convinced of Carlisle’s failure.
“He’ll come back empty-handed. This is a waste of time.”
“Wasn’t the last person to be rejected by every sword over a hundred years ago?”
“The ancestors must be weeping. Ha!”
Considering Carlisle’s past behavior, such reactions were only natural.
“That boy will never be chosen by the ancestral swords.”
His aunt Medeia was no exception — she too was certain of his failure.
“Wouldn’t you agree, dear?”
“Of course,” replied her husband, Rebesch, nodding approvingly.
“This time, everything will be made clear.”
“What do you mean?”
“That he’s nothing but a disgrace to our family.”
Medeia’s eyes curved in a mocking smile as she looked toward the portal leading to the Cradle of Swords.
“Even those who still held a faint hope for him will turn their backs after today. A Sigmund not chosen by a successor sword is a stain upon the family.”
“True enough…”
“Which means it’s only a matter of time before he’s cast out. Unless…”
Medeia smirked coldly.
“…he dies on the battlefield first.”
Meanwhile, Carlisle stood face-to-face with a blade of jet-black steel — the only sword that had subdued hundreds of others and approached him.
(What are you?)
He was burning with curiosity.
The successor swords resting within this tomb were all renowned masterpieces — each worthy of being called a legendary blade.
For one to have overpowered them all through sheer dominance… that alone proved the black sword’s terrifying power.
Ding!
[Notice: The Black Sword, “Grimungand,” has chosen you.]
(Grimungand? Wait — that means… ah!)
Carlisle’s eyes widened as he realized what it was.
Grimungand.
Among all the successor blades of the Sigmund family, it was said to be the most mysterious, the most powerful, and the most unpredictable — a being of chaos itself.
Forged by none other than the third family head, Cain the King of Chaos, Grimungand was a dark-attribute magic sword — a demonic blade.
(Can I even touch this thing?)
Carlisle hesitated to reach for it.
Cain, the “King of Chaos,” had once led a rebellion against the royal family — the most infamous traitor in Nyrburk’s history.
Though he later swore loyalty to the crown after his defeat…
(It’s a poisoned chalice.)
There was no doubt Grimungand was a blade of unparalleled might — but becoming its wielder would draw the attention of the royal family.
And that could put House Sigmund in danger.
Even if the royal family had long lost their prophetic power, their vast intelligence network and centuries of military strength were not to be taken lightly.
To incur their wrath now would be premature.
So Carlisle couldn’t help but feel burdened by the choice.
“You’re… a bit much for me to handle right now.”
At that moment—
Srrrk…
The obsidian blade began to change — its sheen fading, its perfect edge dulling, until it became a rusted, chipped, and worn-out sword.
It looked so decrepit that no one would give it a second glance.
“…What the hell.”
Carlisle couldn’t help but laugh.
It was as though Grimungand had read his thoughts — and responded accordingly.
“Are you saying it’s okay for me to choose you now?”
Naturally, the sword didn’t reply.
It simply tilted its hilt toward him, as if urging him to take it.
(The sword of the King of Chaos…)
Under the condition that no one discovered its true identity, it was the best possible choice.
Now disguised as a mere piece of scrap iron, it would avoid drawing attention from both the royal family and the Sigmunds.
It was perfect.
If he were to walk out holding a famous blade, it would only stir unwanted curiosity and expectations — and with them, endless nuisances.
Better to carry an old, rusty sword and live in peace.
“Well, no reason to turn you down, then.”
The moment Carlisle’s hand touched the hilt—
“—!”
The world before his eyes shifted.
He was a man who defied fate — one who sought to shatter the wheel of destiny itself.
“Dekaron will no longer be a puppet of the royal family.”
A man who forged his own path — and had the strength to do so.
And so he raised his banner in rebellion, daring to defy the crown.
Against a royal family whose prophetic power could bend reality itself — godlike beings who could rewrite fate — he drew his sword.
But even his might could not overcome the royal house’s overwhelming strength.
His rebellion ended in failure, and House Sigmund was forced to kneel.
On the day Cain bent the knee and swore fealty before the king, House Sigmund became a vassal — bound for eternity to defend the kingdom’s borders from barbarian invasions.
(A history of disgrace…)
Carlisle knew all too well what that had cost.
Three hundred years had passed since Cain’s failed revolt.
In that time, the blood spilled by the Sigmunds was beyond measure.
Hundreds of their kin had fallen in endless wars against the northern tribes, leaving the family’s strength stagnant.
Every time they grew stronger, the invasions came — forcing them to fight just to survive.
The history of House Sigmund was, in truth, the history of their struggle to endure.
Perhaps that was why…
(So he poured his regret and his atonement for his descendants into this blade…)
Before his death, Cain had forged Grimungand, embedding within it his will — his wish that one day, a descendant would finish what he could not.
When Cain’s memory faded—
[Notice: You have obtained the Black Sword “Grimungand”!]
[Notice: The power of “Cain, the King of Chaos,” has been inherited!]
Carlisle looked down at the rusty longsword — Grimungand in disguise.
“He didn’t have to go that far… I suppose that’s the limit of one who couldn’t see the future.”
He murmured quietly to himself.
Because in truth, the liberation of House Sigmund from the crown was already inevitable.
The royal family had lost their prophetic power long ago. The collapse of the kingdom was only a matter of time.
What the Sigmunds needed to focus on now was not independence — but survival, in the coming age of chaos.
(King of Chaos Cain… your wish has already come true. So I’ll make good use of this sword, at least.)
With that, Carlisle took his first step forward.
And thus, Grimungand, the sword of the mightiest Sigmund in history — the Northern King himself — came into Carlisle’s possession.
The moment he stepped out of the Cradle of Swords—
“Hm?”
“He’s holding something!”
“So he was chosen after all?”
The Sigmund family members gasped in surprise.
Everyone — except Maranello — had been completely wrong.
And the first person to approach, to see what Carlisle held, wasn’t a Sigmund at all.
“Carlisle van Sigmund.”
A man wearing a robe emblazoned with an eye-shaped insignia over his chest approached.
He was one of the Watchers — agents officially dispatched by the royal family to monitor House Sigmund.
