Mu Yichen leaned back against the reading couch, fingers brushing the closed spine of the book on his lap.

  His mother had accepted her husband’s death with grace, but as her son, he had seen the cracks.

  In the way she touched old photos when she thought no one was watching.

  In the way her voice caught whenever the Gate was mentioned.

  And now, in the way she talked about Mu Yichen going in next, as if it were already fate.

  It puzzled him.

  That calm and unwavering belief that he wouldn’t die.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you believe in me like that?”

  “Why do I believe in it too?”

  Mu Yichen stared at his own reflection in the dark window glass.

  Silver hair, Sharp jaw. Clear eyes. A noble aura that made people turn heads wherever he went.

  Since he was a child, his path had already been laid out by those around him.

  Elite school.

  Best combat instructors.

  Special awakening center.

  Leadership track in the Shadow Guild.

  Now even the holy sword had been “delivered” into his hands, though it had yet to acknowledge anyone.

  And he had followed it all without complaint—because what else was there?

  He had everything.

  But something still felt… missing.

  Ever since he touched the sealed object deep in the ruins—before it transformed into the glowing blade, there had been this persistent tug in his chest.

  A feeling like he had forgotten something.

  Someone.

  He was certain he hadn’t lost any memory.

  But the emptiness gnawed at him like an echo that wouldn’t fade.

  It was unfamiliar, unsettling even.

  Mu Yichen, who had always moved with purpose, now found himself questioning something for the first time.

  Mu Yichen closed his book with a quiet thud, eyes lingering on the spine as if expecting an answer hidden between its pages.

  Ever since he touched the holy object and carried it out of the ancient ruins,

  Ever since it shifted forms into a glowing, ethereal blade,

  That hollow sensation hadn’t left him.

  A weight in his chest.

  A forgotten name on the edge of memory.

  A sense that something or someone had been left behind.

  But Mu Yichen, who grew up with the calm of certainty, didn't dwell on it for long.

  Whatever it was, he would overcome it.

  He always had.

  The next day dawned bright and bitter with anticipation.

  The Holy Sword Ceremony had begun.

  Broadcasts flickered across every screen across the continent.

  In homes, schools, guild halls, and even military watchtowers—people paused everything to watch.

  This wasn’t just a competition.

  It was the moment where fate would decide who would take up the mantle to face the Hell Gate—an apocalyptic wound threatening to reopen.

  The central arena inside the Hunter HQ was nothing extravagant: a reinforced battle platform surrounded by tiers of stands, sealed by shields for safety.

  But what made it holy was not the decor, but the presence of the floating blade in the center of the stage.

  It hovered upright, unmoving, wrapped in bands of golden light.

  Any who drew too near without permission were violently repelled.

  Only the worthy could approach.

  But to even earn the chance to try—one had to prove themselves in battle.

  Thus began the tournament: a test of swordsmanship, strength, and spirit.

  In a viewing box above the crowd, shielded from the cameras and curious eyes, Mu Yichen watched it all in silence.

  His posture was upright. Composed.

  Next to him lounged a blond young man in a crisp white coat—his golden hair tousled and his sharp eyes narrowed in mild boredom.

  “Another one bites the dust,” Seo Minhyun muttered, watching a would-be contender fall unconscious after a brutal match.

  “Honestly, what’s the point of letting amateurs in? It’s just embarrassing.”

  Mu Yichen didn’t respond.

  Seo Minhyun glanced at his old friend from the corner of his eye. “Still brooding?”

  “Just watching,” Mu Yichen said quietly, his gaze on the Holy Sword.

  Seo Minhyun was a prodigy in his own right.

  An S-class mage with devastating long-range combat potential.

  Son of Seo Taejin, one of Mu Tianchi’s original teammates and now head of the Flame Serpent guild.

  He and Mu Yichen had grown up together, trained together.

  But their personalities couldn’t be more different.

  Minhyun was loud, sharp-tongued, and impatient.

  Yichen was silent, observant, and unnervingly calm.

  “Yichen,” Minhyun said, leaning in, “Don’t tell me you're actually nervous.”

  “I’m not,” Mu Yichen replied, but his eyes were still on the sword.

  He wasn’t nervous.

  He was… unsettled.

  ‘Why do I feel like this sword is waiting for someone else?’

  Down in the arena, the rounds continued.

  Dozens of fighters from top guilds showed off their sword skills, hoping to be selected for the final phase: the touch test.

  But the sword remained unshaken.

  Still hovering.

  Still glowing.

  Still alone.

  And somewhere far from the spotlight, buried in the quiet outskirts of the west, someone else was dreaming of blood, betrayal, and cold hands reaching for a warmth that never came.

  The ceremony at the central Hunter HQ was formal, yes—but uninspiring.

  A squared-off arena of reinforced marble and glass, lined with cameras, journalists, and guild officials.

  A polished platform made for broadcasting, not reverence.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  And at the center of it all floated the Holy Sword.

  A weapon shrouded in divine pressure, suspended midair with a faint hum that buzzed beneath the skin of any who stepped too close.

  Before anyone could try to touch it, the rules were simple:

  Prove your worth through combat.

  One-on-one duels.

  No teams. No sponsors. No reputation battles.

  Strength, alone, would earn the right to stand before the blade.

  Above it all, behind a pane of silent glass, Mu Yichen sat watching the fights with his usual quiet, unreadable expression.

  His posture was straight. His fingers rested loosely on the armrest.

  To any onlooker, he looked serene.

  Next to him, a louder presence sighed heavily and leaned back into the plush seat.

  “Ugh. This is just sad,” muttered Seo MinHyun, eyes narrowed as another hopeful challenger went flying out of the ring with a single well-timed kick.

  “Did the government lose their mind?” MinHyun muttered, crossing his arms. “This whole competition setup… are they hoping the sword will take pity and choose someone out of boredom?”

  Mu Yichen didn’t respond.

  MinHyun cast him a side glance. “Yichen. Be honest. Are you even remotely interested in any of these people?”

  “…No.”

  “Thought so.”

  Seo MinHyun wasn’t one to hold back his opinions.

  His father, Seo Taejin, had been part of the previous Hero’s elite team.

  That legacy carried weight—but MinHyun had built his name separately, as an S-rank mage with terrifying offensive range and elemental control.

  He was sharp-tongued, prideful, and obsessed with recognition.

  But even he, who had once envied Mu Yichen’s calm prestige, admitted there was no one better suited to the Holy Sword.

  “Too bad I didn’t awaken with a sword-type class,” MinHyun added with a shrug. “I could’ve at least made it interesting for you.”

  “You still would’ve lost,” Mu Yichen said without looking at him.

  MinHyun barked a laugh. “Now that’s the cocky bastard I know.”

  Below, the matches continued.

  Sweat flew. Blood stained the sand. Names were announced and forgotten just as quickly.

  Some were talented. Some were laughable. A few even made the crowd cheer.

  But none stirred the sword.

  Mu Yichen’s gaze shifted, just slightly to the weapon glowing dimly in the center of the stage.

  Untouched.

  Unclaimed.

  Silent.

  It’s waiting.

  But for who?

  “Still thinking too much?” MinHyun asked, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Relax. You’ll be touching that thing soon enough. Everyone knows it’s yours.”

  Mu Yichen said nothing.

  He wasn’t worried.

  He wasn’t afraid.

  But the weight pressing on his chest, the one that had appeared the day he found the blade, it wasn’t going away.

  And for the first time in his life, Mu Yichen wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.

  Although Seo MinHyun felt a flicker of disappointment, knowing his magic-class abilities disqualified him from wielding the Holy Sword, he didn’t show it on his face.

  Sitting beside Mu Yichen, his tone remained teasing, light, almost bored. But deep inside, even he had to admit:

  There was only one person he truly considered worthy of the Holy Sword.

  And that was Mu Yichen.

  Yichen didn’t respond to MinHyun’s words. He continued to watch the matches with his usual detached calm.

  He wasn’t arrogant, he simply understood the situation more clearly than most.

  Everyone thought this was a ceremonial contest to find the “chosen one.”

  But Mu Yichen knew the truth.

  The government never intended for him to be the first to touch the sword.

  As the son of the previous Hero, the only known SSS-ranked Hunter of the new generation, and the likely successor of the Shadow Guild, Mu Yichen was already powerful enough.

  Too powerful.

  The Guilds had sway. The Government had laws.

  Neither wanted the other to grow stronger—and if Mu Yichen was chosen as the next Hero, the balance of power would shift uncontrollably.

  So they stalled.

  They opened the arena to the masses, letting thousands of sword-type Awakened come forward, hoping, betting, that someone, anyone else, might be chosen first.

  A futile gesture.

  But a politically necessary one.

  The matches began with ten arenas running simultaneously, each packed with sword users from various factions.

  Some came dressed in polished armor, others in sleek hunter suits.

  All wielded weapons of different shapes, broadswords, rapiers, curved sabers, dual blades, all bearing sword-based skillsets.

  And the stage became a slaughterhouse of pride.

  A young hunter from the Emerald Guild took center stage in Arena Three, dual-wielding enchanted shortswords with a glowing edge.

  His opponent, an independent mercenary, wielded a massive greatsword and moved like a hurricane.

  The clash was fast and brutal, light blades against raw weight.

  At first, the younger man’s speed gave him the upper hand. His strikes were elegant, flowing like water around the brute’s swings.

  But speed could only take him so far.

  A single misstep.

  A poorly timed dodge.

  And the greatsword crashed down like a guillotine—knocking him out of the ring and ending the match with a roar of bloodlust from the victor.

  In Arena Seven, two women circled each other like dancers—one using an illusion-based mirage sword skill, the other wielding a bloodthirsty cursed blade.

  The illusions shimmered and blinked across the field—but the cursed blade user had trained under pressure.

  With every strike she made, screams echoed from the blade itself. It devoured energy, destabilizing mana.

  She won in under five minutes.

  Over seven exhausting days, thousands became hundreds.

  The weak were filtered out. The arrogant fell early.

  Only the top remained—those whose sword skills were sharpened not just by training, but by war, blood, and death.

  The competition was paused.

  By now, the live broadcast had become a global obsession.

  Screens lit up in every cafe, guild lounge, and school. The online platforms were overloaded with comments:

  “That guy in black could be the one!”

  “Did you see how she parried a lightning slash??”

  “Still think no one can beat Mu Yichen though.”

  “Has he even entered yet?”

  “They’re just wasting time. He’s the real deal.”

  The world watched.

  Holding its breath.

  Waiting for the Holy Sword to choose.

  And at the top of the hall, watching it all unfold, Mu Yichen remained silent.

  He said nothing.

  But his eyes, calm and deep as a still lake, never once strayed from the blade in the center of the arena.

  It hadn’t chosen anyone. Not yet.

  The world was glued to their screens.

  The battles were over. The weak are eliminated.

  The strongest now gathered.

  And so began the second week of the official ceremony—a ceremony not just of strength, but of fate.

  It was the moment everyone had been waiting for.

  Lee Aseok woke up sometime in the middle of the afternoon.

  His head ached. The room was quiet. The faint scent of dried blood lingered on his sleeves.

  He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the cracked windows of his abandoned building. Dust floated in the air like memories refusing to settle.

  Somewhere, his old phone buzzed, vibrating from an emergency alert or news broadcast.

  He didn’t bother checking.

  He didn’t want to know.

  Not about Mu Yichen, or the Holy Sword, or what the world had decided to worship this week.

  “...Not my business,” he murmured dully.

  A new gate had opened nearby.

  An F-rank, based on the mana wave he felt an hour ago. He hadn’t moved since.

  But now, he forced himself to his feet. He welcomed the distraction.

  Steel in his hands hurt less than memories in his head.

  The grand marble halls of the International Hunter Association HQ were packed wall to wall.

  Camera drones hovered in the air, broadcasting every movement.

  At the center of the ceremonial arena, a group of government enforcers and security-class Hunters guided a transport crew.

  They were rolling out a massive object—six meters long, sealed inside triple-reinforced glass reinforced with layers of sacred alloys and anti-mana fields.

  The cameras zoomed in.

  Inside the container, a single sword floated mid-air, suspended in shimmering silver-blue light.

  The moment the sword came into view, an audible gasp rippled through the crowd.

  A long, double-edged blade with a slender silhouette, its steel glowed with a divine, pale gold hue—neither cold nor warm, as if untouched by earthly forge.

  The hilt was inlaid with elegant runes, pulsing softly. The cross-guard curved upward like unfolding wings, made of obsidian and white-gold alloy.

  At the center of the guard sat a single, dormant gem—an ethereal iris-colored crystal, flickering faintly like a heartbeat.

  It was beautiful.

  Terrifying.

  And impossible to approach.

  Even the strongest among the staff couldn’t get within five meters of it.

  The moment someone tried, an invisible force—like a crushing wind—would slam them backward.

  Some described it as pressure. Others, divine rejection.

  The Holy Sword had chosen no one.

  Not yet.

  That made it all the more desirable.

  From the upper platform, guild leaders and government officials observed in silence.

  Names like the Crimson Tower Guild, the Silver Fang Clan, and even the elusive Warden Circle had sent their top hunters.

  Ministers sat stiffly beside generals. Foreign dignitaries watched from private feeds.

  The sword meant power, not just for individuals—but for factions, nations, and systems.

  And everyone knew it.

  The announcer's voice boomed across the grand chamber, formal and sharp:

  “...The final selection process begins now.

  These candidates will attempt to approach the sword.

  The chosen one, if selected, will be acknowledged by the sword.

  Let fate decide.”

  Eyes gleamed with ambition. Hands tightened around their sword hilts.

  Every candidate was dressed in full battle gear.

  They weren’t allowed to fight anymore. But now they’d face something even more brutal:

  The judgment of destiny.

  From the hidden observation floor, Mu Yichen sat, unreadable.

  His fingers drummed once on the armrest.

  Beside him, Seo MinHyun scoffed at the theatrics but didn’t speak.

  They both watched as the first candidate stepped forward toward the container.

  Everyone held their breath.

  The blade shimmered.

  And the first was thrown back.

  The day had been long.

  But the crowd's attention never wavered.

  Guild leaders, government officers, foreign observers, and the world itself were watching.

  The holy sword floated at the center of the ceremonial hall, sealed within its towering glass container, glimmering like it had been waiting for centuries.

  Above, in the hidden viewing platform, powerful figures leaned forward. None of them smiled. Not yet.

  every Monday and Thursday. Yes, every week!