"Long time no see, Duke Viremont."
A figure in a black cloak stood beyond the rain-soaked window. Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the silhouette for a fraction of a second before swallowing it back into darkness.
Duke Viremont rose slowly from his chair. Though surprised, he already understood why the figure had come.
"So His Majesty received the artefact?"
"Precisely. His Majesty has personally sent me to deliver it to you, Duke Viremont."
"Why me?" Viremont asked, genuine confusion slipping into his voice. "Surely there are many more suitable candidates."
"There are," the messenger replied calmly. "Many more suitable than you. But His Majesty chose Duke Viremont because you possess the finest knights to protect the high-priests and complete the oracle. If we ruin this chance, Thalaor will face its downfall. Furthermore, it is our dream to descend our god and bring salvation to this land."
Thunder scraped across the heavens like iron dragged against stone.
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy.
After a long moment, Viremont spoke.
"I understand. I will bear the sins of our kingdom and move it toward glory."
The messenger left, placing the artefact behind the window before vanishing into the storm.
Artefacts — items that carried power beyond craftsmanship. They were bound to history, divinity, or narrative weight. Even one could ignite war between kingdoms.
In Duke Viremont's case, it was an artefact capable of summoning a deity.
Its name: Oracle's Anchor.
Its power was immense. So immense that a circle of high-priests was required to stabilize the descended astral body of the god.
***
I need to hurry. I need to stop them from completing the miracle.
Noa clenched his teeth.
According to what those guys said, none of the sacrificed children will survive. That includes Lina. The others are not my concern… but Lina—
He tightened his grip.
I have to save Lina.
A knight with pure white hair and piercing blue eyes stepped out to meet him. A scar ran across his right eye, thin but deep. He wore shining Low Relic Grade armor that reflected the church's sacred light.
His aura alone dwarfed the other knights behind him threefold.
They locked eyes.
Without a word, both assumed their fighting positions.
The knight raised his blade beside his head, steel angled toward the sky. His weight shifted to his back foot, knees bent — coiled like a spring ready to fall.
On the other hand, Noa moved like something without structure.
He shifted his weight like a shadow with no fixed form. His blade flickered lazily in his grip, as though it had no loyalty to direction. A ripple of inevitability and quiet chaos lingered in the air around him.
"I am Valvakile, the strongest knight under Duke Viremont."
It was not a question, but it carried one.
What is your name?
"Noa. A brother."
hmm? Valvakile thought.
"A brother? Can a brother be that cold?"
"Adopted. Though I still love my sister." A simple reply came.
Valvakile's gaze sharpened. He studied Noa's stance carefully.
"Your stance is wrong. Who taught you?"
Noa paused.
"Myself."
Valvakile nearly scoffed. Impossible. No one could slaughter that many trained knights outside without formal training.
But then again… those dark purple eyes aren't lying.
They stepped forward.
At least, that's what the others saw.
Clang.
The two had already crossed the distance before anyone could blink.
Steel rang through the sacred church, colliding against chants and prayers. Sparks danced between them.
Valvakile tested him first. Clean diagonals. Disciplined tempo. Standard knight doctrine.
Noa responded with something entirely different.
He did not block in textbook fashion. His blade bent around strikes. Slid off angles that should have trapped him.
Valvakile circled half a step clockwise. His back foot pivoted first. His shoulders remained square. Struck diagonally — clean, disciplined, efficient.
Noa didn't block traditionally.
His wrist turned slightly. The blade slid along Valvakile's edge instead of stopping it.
Sparks trailed downward in slow arcs.
Valvakile felt it immediately.
The angle is wrong. That parry shouldn't exist.
He followed with a horizontal sweep.
Noa leaned — not backward, not forward — but slightly off center, as if gravity meant less to him. The steel passed so close it trimmed a strand of black hair.
The watching knights gasped while Valvakile's eyes narrowed.
There should be openings.
There were none.
What is this rhythm? Valvakile wondered. It's wrong. Completely wrong.
After several exchanges, Valvakile concluded one thing.
The boy was not to be taken lightly.
Valvakile stepped back.
His sword began to shine.
The church lights dimmed slightly as bluish aura began to coat his blade. It started at the guard. Spread to the midsection. Then to the tip.
The light intensified until it outshone the storm beyond the windows. A bluish energy wrapped around the blade, refracting like a prism — rainbow hues flickering within its core.
This was an Aura Blade.
Aura Blade — the technique of infusing one's weapon with aura. Depending on nature, quantity, and quality, the blade transformed.
Noa blinked.
What the—
Clang!
The downward strike descended like judgment.
"Ghah—"
Noa was pushed back. The floor cracked beneath his boots.
This time they were not equal.
"What is that?" Noa asked, genuinely surprised.
Valvakile smirked slightly.
"Aura Blade. A technique to infuse aura into your weapon and strengthen it."
Noa had seen this before.
In webtoons.
He narrowed his eyes and slowly began channeling aura into the sword he had stolen from a knight four years ago. Slowly, carefully, he let aura drip into his blade.
Not flood.
Drip.
Is it something like this?
Dark purple energy flickered along the blade.
"???" Valvakile's eyes widened.
It was nothing like his own radiant aura.
Noa's aura was dense. Corrupted. It did not shine — it consumed.
Light around it dimmed slightly.
He learned it just by watching? What is that corrupted aura? And that sword technique…
Valvakile adjusted his stance and tested with a thrust.
Clang!
Noa twisted his wrist and stepped inside the line of attack — too naturally. Their swords slid along each other, aura scraping aura.
Noa's aura blade was crude compared to Valvakile's refined control, but strangely…
Their techniques matched.
They were complete opposites.
One refined through years of study.
One born from abnormal instinct.
His sword style is like a child imagining how to swing a blade, Valvakile thought. There should be openings. Countless openings.
But there were none.
"Who taught you the sword?" Valvakile asked while parrying.
The faint smile on Noa's face faded.
"I told you. I'm just swinging it however I see fit."
"What?"
You cannot fight like this without technique… unless—
Valvakile's mind reached a terrifying conclusion.
If someone fought through thousands of real battles… if experience accumulated across lifetimes… it could forge something like this.
But he dismissed it immediately.
He didn't even know Aura Blade.
Impossible. Yet doubt lingered.
Valvakile attacked faster now.
Vertical. Horizontal. Thrust.
Noa continued experimenting with aura infusion mid-battle.
"What is the name of your technique?" Valvakile asked exited.
_A name? Mmmm… what about…_
While their blades clashed, Noa muttered:
"Formless Sword: Origin."
A simple forward cut. Imperfect posture. Imperfect breath.
Aura, if applied more than needed, the blade will shatter but Noa infused aura only at the exact moment of release, allowing the blade to accelerate unnaturally at the final instant.
The result this,
A new sword technique was born: Formless Sword.
Valvakile twisted his body instinctively.
Slash.
His left arm split open, blood scattered across polished marble in slow arcs.
The corrupted aura clung to the wound, biting deeper than steel. Pain flared — but along with it, something else.
Excitement.
"Very good, Noa," Valvakile said, breathing heavier now. "Show me what you can do."
He knew he was going to die.
But he wanted to see how far this flower could bloom.
Noa suddenly remembered something. Something important.
The oracle!
He had been carried away.
"Sorry, I don't have time for that"
He reversed his grip slightly, raising the blade beside his ear.
[Formless Sword: Trace (Lingering Afterimage)]
"Thank you, Valvakile!" It was genuine appreciation for teaching 'Aura Blade'.
He gathered every remaining fragment of aura into the tip of his blade.
As his arm seemed to rot away, the thrust exploded forward.
There was no explosive flash, just a silent distortion — as if the air remembered being cut a moment too late.
Valvakile realized something horrifying.
In that stretched, fragile second, everything became clear.
Not the future — just the direction.
It was aimed beyond him.
"Nooo!" He leapt placing himself in front of the attack.
The corrupted aura tore through his body. Blood streamed from his eyes. His limbs screamed under the pressure.
He sacrificed himself.
But sacrifice was not enough.
The blade pierced through Valvakile's armor, through flesh. The corrupted aura flooded his veins, his vision blurred blur, blood streamed from his eyes.
He heard distant chanting collapse into screams.
But the thrust did not stop, it continued.
Behind him, the priests saw it.
In their perception, the knight still stood firm, aura blazing, shield raised.
Then—
A thin dark line appeared through his torso.
Too straight, too clean, too wrong.
The chanting faltered as one priest blinked.
Another's mouth remained open mid-syllable.
The head priest's eyes shifted downward, confused.
The distorted air behind Valvakile reached them a heartbeat later.
The thrust passed through him as if his armor were wet parchment meanwhile the afterimage followed a heartbeat later — a delayed echo of violence.
The first priest's chest bloomed red. He did not scream immediately, his mind refused to process it.
The second priest tried to step back, but his legs folded before he understood why.
The third's rosary slipped from trembling fingers.
The sacred circle shattered.
Three priests, pierced!
Blood sprayed across sacred stone as the chanting died mid-syllable.
Valvakile fell to his knees.
"N-no… what… what have… you done?" he whispered.
Noa stood still, breathing heavy.
A flower blooming without permission.