"Whoa! Was there some kind of trap!?"
Caught off guard by their desperate cries, Krieg reflexively let go of the Seven-Starred Sword's hilt, the metal clattering back into the stone sarcophagus.
"Are you... are you unhurt?" Izaya stammered.
"Mister, is your body okay?" Maya asked, eyes wide with terror.
Krieg looked at his hands, then back at the sword. Is there really something to this?
"Let me guess—is it the kind of thing where you're 'doomed' the moment you touch it?"
"This sword is cursed," Izaya explained, her voice trembling. "It is said that whoever holds the Seven-Starred Sword is consumed by an endless cycle of destruction and slaughter..."
"Whoever holds it, huh..."
Krieg looked at his hands again, clenching his armored fingers. Clank, clank. Taking a breath, he steeled his resolve and gripped the hilt once more. Still nothing. No sudden urge to kill, no demonic possession.
I doubt I'm 'chosen' or anything like that. If the curse isn't activating, there must be a mechanical reason.
Krieg slowly removed his right gauntlet, revealing a hand still covered by a black leather glove. Under the watchful, breath-held gaze of the grandmother and child, he gripped the white hilt again.
Still nothing.
"Alright then..."
He pulled off the leather glove, baring his skin. With extreme caution, he extended a finger and touched the hilt.
"…!!"
He snapped his hand back as if he'd been electrocuted.
"I see... it seems it transmits thoughts through direct skin contact."
"You... you are still sane?" Izaya asked, astonished.
"As long as I'm not bare-handed, it's fine. When I gripped it through the gauntlet and the leather, I saw nothing. But the moment my skin touched it... a flood of images poured in. 'Kill,' 'Destroy,' 'Cut everything'—the usual dark-side starter pack."
"It really is cursed... but to think that simply not touching it directly would be enough! That is a monumental discovery," the Elder whispered.
"I want to try something. Elder, Maya-chan, please move back."
Krieg ushered them toward the exit so they could escape if things went sideways. First, he took out a Den Den Mushi with a camera attachment and photographed the sword from several angles for his report.
Then, he took a deep breath, discarded his gloves entirely, and firmly grasped the hilt with his bare hand.
Instantly, his mind was deluged. Anxiety. Irritation. Tension. Fear. Bloodlust. Envy. Malice. Resentment. Agony. Sorrow. Despair. Hatred.
A whirlpool of every negative emotion known to man tried to drown his consciousness. But Krieg wasn't some weak-willed grunt. He was a man who had survived the Grand Line and led thousands.
"HRAAAH!!!"
With a roar to clear his head, he slammed the Seven-Starred Sword down onto the thick stone edge of the sarcophagus with all his might.
"What are you doing to the holy blade!?" Izaya cried out in horror.
"It... it didn't break..." Maya whispered, staring in awe.
Even with Krieg's monstrous strength—over ten times that of a normal man—the sword didn't have a single chip. It truly was indestructible.
"Tch, you really are sturdy! But how about this!?"
The mental assault had weakened slightly from the impact. Krieg seized the opening. He funneled his willpower into a technique he had spent years of grueling training to master: Busoshoku Haki (Armament Haki).
"In every story since the dawn of time, when a weapon tries to eat its master, there's only one answer: You make the sword submit!!"
The change was gradual but undeniable. From Krieg's hand, a shroud of ink-black Haki began to spread. It crawled up the white hilt, over the golden guard, and began to coat the patterned blade. The Seven-Starred Sword began to vibrate violently, as if it were a living thing screaming in protest.
"Stay quiet! A sword exists to be used by man! I've got no intention of being used by a piece of metal!!"
Krieg slammed the point of the sword into the ground and pressed down with both hands—right hand on the hilt, left hand on the pommel—crushing the blade's "will" with his own.
Minutes passed. The vibration slowed, then stopped. The sword, once brilliant white and gold, was now permanently stained a deep, obsidian black—a "Black Blade" forged not by time, but by a forced submission of Haki.
Krieg pulled the sword from the ground and gave it a few experimental swings. No negative thoughts. No whispers of murder. Just the weight of a perfectly balanced, incredibly sharp tool.
"Phew... I'd say that's a successful 'negotiation.'"
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