"Is that confidence of yours tied to that artifact?" Arista asked, her tone neither accusing nor skeptical—simply calm, quietly probing.
Her gaze lingered on the blade in Alex's hand. Even from a distance, the power emanating from it was unmistakable.
Coming from one of the most distinguished noble families, Arista had seen more artifacts than most students would in a lifetime—family heirlooms, commissioned pieces, and relics excavated from ancient ruins. She could identify the rank of almost any weapon with a single glance.
'This one… is unmistakably S-rank.' But beyond that, its presence felt different—heavier, darker, and far more dangerous than any artifact she'd ever encountered.
From A-rank onward, the gap between weapons widened immensely. A low-grade S-rank weapon was leagues apart from a mid-grade one. Yet, that wasn't what unsettled her.
It was the aura.
Cold. Oppressive. Almost demonic.
Her instincts whispered caution.
Still, the boy wielding it stood calm and steady, as if the blade's will bent quietly to his own.
Alex didn't falter under her gaze. Instead, he offered a faint, almost sheepish smile. "Ah… yes. You could say that." he admitted evenly. "This sword was a gift from my master. I wouldn't have been able to handle the Hill Giants without it."
The honesty in his tone disarmed her. There was no arrogance, no self-importance—just quiet acknowledgment.
Arista studied him a moment longer, then nodded slightly, her expression softening. "I see," she murmured. "Then be careful with it. Then be careful with it. Weapons of such magnitude often come with… a price of their own."
The words hung in the air—not a warning, but genuine advice.
Her gaze shifted toward Sherry, who had been standing silently beside Alex. The tension in her shoulders eased as Arista's tone gentled further. "You too, Sherry. Don't push yourself too hard."
Sherry, caught off guard by the Vice President's kindness, nodded quickly. "Y-Yes, Vice President."
Satisfied, Arista turned away, her cloak rippling faintly as she rejoined her team. Within moments, they disappeared back into the cliffs.
Only when the sound of their footsteps faded did Sherry exhale, shoulders sagging in relief. "That… could've gone worse." she murmured.
Alex let out a quiet chuckle, lowering his sword. His eyes followed the direction Arista had gone, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. She's not bad."
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
Now then—to answer the question that had been quietly hovering in everyone's mind.
What was that sword? And why did it unsettle even those who merely laid eyes upon it?
The truth was simple—and terrifying.
It was a cursed weapon. Or more precisely, a weapon forged from the remnants of one.
Cursed artifacts were a category unto themselves. Their name was no exaggeration—they were exactly what they sounded like: objects that bore true curses. Not mere hexes or malicious enchantments, but forces of balance twisted against their wielder.
Artifacts that consumed their users' lives—whether directly or indirectly—were classified as cursed artifacts, and their creation or possession was strictly forbidden.
They granted strength beyond mortal measure—power that defied reason or restraint. But the world demanded equilibrium. Every ounce of strength carried a price, and for the bearer of a cursed artifact, that price was always the same: their life.
Some were consumed slowly; others, violently. But in the end, the curse always collected its due.
The sword in Alex's hand had once been known by another name—Crimson Grief.
It had belonged to a demon cultist, a man who had surrendered everything—his humanity, his sanity, his soul—to the pursuit of destruction. With that blade, he razed villages, slaughtered innocents, and drenched entire valleys in red.
At the heart of the weapon pulsed a Bloodstone—a gem that could only be forged through a forbidden ritual, by sacrificing the blood of a thousand innocent souls.
And with each life it devoured, the sword grew stronger.
It fed on blood, on agony, on the flickering essence of life itself. In time, it turned upon its master, feeding on him as greedily as it once had on his victims. The more he fought, the deeper the blade drank.
Eventually, the cultist's mind shattered. His body twisted under the Bloodstone's hunger until he became the very demon he once sought to summon.
When the chaos spread beyond containment, the Adventurer's Guild sent Alicia. She in a single attack cleaved through both man and weapon in a single, blinding strike.
The sword was shattered. Yet among the ruin, Alicia discovered its core—the Bloodstone—cracked, faint, but still alive.
A normal person would have destroyed it then and there.
But Alicia was not normal.
She took the fragment, sealed its hunger, and reforged it into a new blade. The weapon retained its S-rank classification, though its grade had fallen sharply due to the Bloodstone's fracture. Its malevolence had dulled, but it was not gone.
For years, the reforged sword gathered dust in her collection, until one day, she passed it on to her disciple.
To Alex.
The reforged blade hadn't impressed Alicia much when she first examined it. But later she changed her mind.
It fit Alex perfectly.
The Bloodstone, though born of forbidden ritual and inhuman sacrifice, functioned much like a reservoir—an eternal vessel of life force, absorbing energy without end.
After Alicia reforged the weapon, the gem lost most of its malevolence and now behaved more like a power bank. Yet, even stripped of its darkness, it still demanded a toll—quietly draining the stamina of its wielder if left unfed.
As a doting—and somewhat possessive—master, Alicia would never entrust her precious disciple with something truly dangerous. Before giving the sword to Alex, she had meticulously drained the Bloodstone of all residual energy, sealing away its former hunger.
Only then did she allow it to grow again—slowly, safely—responding solely to Alex's mana, and to him alone.
Sherry, being knowledgeable about ancient relics, had recognized the gem immediately from illustrations—she knew it was a Bloodstone.
Alex had reassured her that it was safe—that it wasn't a cursed weapon.
Still, when Arista's sharp eyes had lingered on the blade, Sherry's pulse had spiked. She had feared the Vice President might recognize what it was—or worse, mistake it for a forbidden artifact.
Thankfully, Arista hadn't acted.
Even so, Sherry had caught that flicker of caution in the senior's eyes. It was brief, hidden quickly behind composure, but it was there.
Sherry herself didn't fully understand how Alex could wield something so dangerous without showing the slightest strain.
Whatever the reason, the sword obeyed him—completely, unflinchingly.
And that alone made her both curious… and quietly afraid.
==============================
[Magic Artifact]
Name: Bloodedge
Grade: S
Type: Sword
Description:
- Reforged from the shattered remains of a cursed weapon, its damaged core — a Bloodstone — now serves as a living power source.
- Absorbs the blood (life energy) of any living being it wounds or kills, storing the harvested power within the Bloodstone.
- Converts the absorbed blood into temporary boosts to the wielder's physical and magical power.
- The stored energy can be released in a devastating explosive discharge, consuming all accumulated power at once.
- Prolonged use gradually drains the wielder's stamina, potentially leading to exhaustion if overused.
==============================
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
Finally, the Wilderness Survival Training came to an end.
The course had officially concluded. From this point onward, any monsters defeated would yield no points. The remaining task was simple—return to the Academy within a week, submit their watches, and turn in a detailed report and journal.
It might have marked the end of the competition—but not the end of danger.
The wilderness cared nothing for deadlines. The monsters wouldn't stop hunting simply because a timer had hit zero.
Still, for Alex and Sherry, the hardest part was behind them. They had already begun their return journey, carefully retracing their path through the Giant's Valley and back toward civilization.
When the tall, familiar walls of Lunar City finally came into view, both of them exhaled quietly.
They had made it.
Their watches flickered as they crossed the checkpoint, their final total solidifying at a staggering eight digits. Enough to make jaws drop… yet still shy of breaching the top ten.
Alex could only chuckle wryly at that. "Guess we're not the only ones who worked hard." he murmured.
The scene awaiting them beyond the gates was a stark reminder of what the Wilderness Training truly meant.
The checkpoint had been transformed into a makeshift field hospital. White tents lined the road, their fabric fluttering softly in the cold wind. Healers and clerics moved with brisk efficiency, murmuring incantations as they treated the injured. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, medicine—and blood.
Students streamed past, many limping, their clothes torn and stained. Some had arms in slings; others were carried on stretchers by teammates too weary to stand. Their faces were pale, eyes hollow—haunted by the things they'd seen and barely survived.
A few wore faint smiles of victory. Most wore the silence of exhaustion—or grief.
As Alex and Sherry walked through, they drew quiet stares. Where others looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield, the two of them seemed… completely fine.
Their clothes, though weathered, were mostly neat and clean. Whispers followed in their wake.
And as they continued toward the Academy's registration checkpoint, the chaos of the wild gradually gave way to the hum of civilization once more.
But the wilderness had left its mark—on everyone.