The blade shimmered under a crimson haze, its glow rippling as though whispering fragments of a memory. Siwoo's heart tightened. This was exactly what Minjun had told him—the blood-stained will of a weapon, memories etched into its steel from the final moments of a fallen master. Rare blades, especially those forged from uncommon monster materials, often carried such lingering resentment, shaping themselves with sorrow.
Siwoo stared at the weapon as its color deepened once more, responding to his emotions. That memory from two days ago returned vividly.
It had been his first time stepping into an M-rank gate. He had entered expecting only low-level threats, the kind of E-class monsters anyone could handle. Instead, a D-rank beast—the Bear Tiger—had lunged from the shadows. Though he had slain it and escaped, his sword had reacted in a way that unsettled him, staining itself in red mid-battle, striking with a sharpness beyond normal steel.
Afterward, while recounting the fight to Minjun, the oddity of the blade had come up. The younger man's reaction had been immediate and intense. To him, the shifting of color and the surge of power were signs of something extraordinary.
Siwoo recalled how Minjun had pressed for the sword's origins. The truth was simple but unusual—the blade had once belonged to a fallen A-rank Hunter, forged from the remains of a Castal beast. At the name, Minjun had quickly scrolled through his ever-present tablet, uncovering the monster's true classification in his own world: the Cruahua, an S-rank abomination whose body could resist almost any mortal craft. That such a creature's remains had been forged into a sword was rare beyond measure.
Siwoo explained further—only a handful of such weapons even existed, fewer than twenty across Earth. The metal was notoriously difficult to shape, its benefits meager compared to the effort it demanded. Most smiths shunned it. Yet a man named So Byungseob had succeeded, though he never received recognition worthy of his skill.
But Minjun knew what others did not. In his world, such metal was revered. Weapons forged from it could inherit the emotions of their wielders, amplifying mana, altering form, or even protecting a master it deemed worthy. Yet this came with a condition—if the sword rejected its wielder, it would remain nothing more than cold steel.
The memory of the day Siwoo first grasped the blade came rushing back—the faint tremor in his hand, the fleeting flicker of blue light. A sign of acceptance.
Now, before him, the sword pulsed crimson. He steadied his breath. This was the moment to attempt what Minjun had told him: the method to strip away the lingering hatred of the previous master and claim the weapon fully.
Siwoo exhaled slowly and allowed his mana to seep into the blade. His focus sharpened, pushing aside all distractions. The world outside blurred as his spirit was drawn inward. A sudden jolt shook him as his consciousness plunged into the sword.
The air crackled. A battlefield unfolded around him. This was no illusion—he was seeing through the weapon's memory, stepping into the day its former master had perished.
And there he was. A man swung the blade with fierce strength, cleaving through lesser beasts. His name echoed unbidden in Siwoo's mind—Kim Juyun. The blade itself whispered this truth into his heart.
The memory shifted. The ground quaked as an enormous monster revealed itself, a grotesque bulk of flesh and tendrils. Siwoo recognized it instantly: Muastan, an A-rank beast dreaded by all Hunters. It was infamous for its immense vitality and nearly impenetrable resistance to physical attacks. Only magic could bring it down—but even then, it carried a barrier that deflected long-range spells. To kill it, mages had to risk close combat, buying time while warriors distracted it.
A team of twelve stood against it: three assault Hunters, seven mages, and two collectors standing far behind. At their center, Kim Juyun's commanding presence bound them together, his confidence rallying their spirits. His leadership shone, the kind of warrior who turned men into brothers.
Siwoo watched as Juyun surged forward, sword wrapped in blue mana, his comrades at his sides. Their formation was precise—the textbook strategy against Muastan. The beast, hulking and revolting like an overgrown caterpillar, writhed and struck with its monstrous tendrils. Juyun's blade flashed, cutting them aside with impossible precision. But his companions faltered, their defenses cracking under the relentless onslaught. Blood spilled as cries for healing rang out.
The rear-line mages responded swiftly, their spells weaving light and fire to restore wounds, while others hurled elemental fury at the beast. Explosions seared its flesh, sparks and ice shattering against its hide. The valley roared with magic, yet the Muastan did not fall. Instead, it howled, enraged, lashing out with even greater force.
Still, Juyun stood firm, urging his comrades forward, pouring mana into his strikes to shield them. The battlefield should have held—until betrayal shattered it.
Two assault Hunters at his side, the anchors of the formation, suddenly faltered. Fear twisted their faces, and without warning, they turned and fled to the rear. In that instant, the defense collapsed.
The Muastan's tendrils seized the opening, lashing toward Juyun with terrifying speed.
Siwoo's chest tightened. He already knew the truth that awaited, but witnessing it unfold through the sword's memory sent a chill down his spine.