The manic expression didn't last long. Realizing how disturbing his smile must've looked, Mikael composed himself, softening his features into something more controlled, more natural. His gaze then returned to the longsword resting comfortably in his right hand, a soft gleam dancing in his green eyes as he admired it.
In that moment, the sword appeared more captivating to him than any naked woman could ever hope to be. 'Well, maybe not more beautiful than my girls,' he amended quickly, before letting his attention return fully to the blade.
He spent a few more seconds lost in admiration, quietly appreciating the obsidian-black longsword's eerie beauty, before finally turning and beginning his jog back toward the others. He already knew where they would be, and he couldn't help but feel a spark of curiosity about what the dwarven advisor might have to say upon seeing this remarkable weapon.
As he made his way back, it became apparent that there was something different about him. Mikael radiated a faintly more cheerful aura than usual, a subtle shift that made perfect sense. After all, he had just stumbled upon something he hadn't even been searching for—an unexpected discovery that would help him grow stronger. Such a surprise was bound to lift his spirits.
Especially considering that growing stronger was, without a doubt, one of his favorite pursuits. But only when that strength came from his own efforts. He had no interest in being granted power by some omnipotent being, like in those cliché reincarnation stories where the protagonist gets handed an absurd cheat ability that instantly makes them unstoppable. That path held no appeal to him.
What he truly appreciated was growth earned through effort—through trials, risks, and ambition. Just like now. This sword wasn't some gift from a divine entity. It was a reward born from their own bold actions. He and Kiara had raided the Great Dwarven Empire themselves, and this blade was the fruit of their efforts. His loot. His prize.
Of course, while the pursuit of strength was a passion, it wasn't the only thing that brought him joy. He also loved the thrill of combat—especially difficult battles that pushed him to his limits and made his blood boil with excitement. And naturally, spending time with the girls was another thing he cherished, whether in romantic moments filled with warmth or in more intimate settings with fewer clothes…
As his thoughts drifted toward them, Mikael released a small sigh. 'It's a shame there aren't legendary weapons suited for all of them... The only one that should work is that green bow and its matching arrows. It'll undoubtedly be a good gift for Amelia, but it's a pity there aren't any harps or mage staffs.'
'Those would have fit Kiara and Lyra perfectly. But I suppose it makes sense... Magic doesn't exist in this world, so creating a weapon like a harp or a staff—typically associated with magic—would've seemed out of place and practically useless. Still, it's a damn shame...'
Mikael's musings were cut short as his so-called 'light jog'—one that still covered several hundred kilometers per hour—brought him back to the trio's location. Kiara was currently rummaging through the vault's treasures with methodical precision, calmly looting everything of value while the emperor and his advisor looked on. The advisor, for his part, appeared relatively composed now. Most of the earlier terror had faded from his expression, replaced by a more calculating calmness. He'd clearly chosen to make himself as useful as possible in hopes of avoiding death.
The emperor, on the other hand… didn't seem to be handling the situation nearly as well.
There was fear in his eyes—yes—but it was the hollow kind, laced with disbelief and helplessness. His gaze remained fixed on the sight before him: the rarest and most valuable treasures in the empire's central vault being plundered right under his nose, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He was consumed by shame. Not just the shame of failure, but the deeper, more visceral humiliation of feeling as though he had betrayed the very legacy of his ancestors. The vault that had taken generations of conquest and accumulation to build—passed down from one ruler to the next—was being pillaged under his reign. His watch. The weight of that failure pressed heavily on his chest.
And yet, beyond even the shame, what cut deepest was the sheer pain of helplessness. Even if he'd never planned to use the resources stockpiled in this treasury, he had drawn pride from knowing they were his. The knowledge that all of it now slipped from his grasp before his very eyes tore at something fundamental inside him. It was a devastating blow to his identity, to the immense pride he'd held as an emperor accustomed to looking down on others with detached arrogance.
His thoughts wandered, spiraling into desperation. 'Should I try to use the artificial intelligence system to launch an attack on these two monstrous humans?' The idea flickered in his mind—but was extinguished just as quickly when his gaze fell upon the dark blue-haired woman.
The mere sight of her was enough to erase any such foolish thoughts.
Because as painful as it was to watch his empire's wealth vanish, the memory of the agony she had previously inflicted on him was far more vivid. He valued not reliving that torment far more than clinging to pride or riches. And so, he remained standing there in silence, powerless, as the male human approached.
Meanwhile, Mikael stepped closer to the advisor, the obsidian-black longsword casually resting in his hand. Its blood-red edge caught the artificial lighting of the vault, reflecting a subtle yet menacing gleam. Though the blade emitted no sound, its very presence seemed to distort the atmosphere, exuding a heavy, suffocating pressure—an invisible force that made the surrounding air feel tense and charged, as if warning that violence could erupt at any moment.
"Do you know the history behind this longsword?" Mikael asked, voice calm but with the edge of command.
The advisor, fully aware of his position—his life and the emperor's hanging by a thread—bowed his head and nodded quickly. His eyes drifted uneasily to the sword, as if it still bore witness to every life it had taken.
"Yes. That blade was wielded by General Kadrisha Thorne during the final phase of the Second Civil War. She was one of the most feared commanders in our empire's history. By that time, firearms had already become the standard. Rifles, heavy artillery, automated walkers—those were what won battles. Not steel."
He paused, gathering his thoughts, before continuing with a more reverent tone.
"And yet, she carried that sword. Not out of nostalgia or ceremony—but because it worked. She cut down rebel officers, tore through close-quarters bunkers, and left entire skirmishes resolved before the first gunshot could echo. Her technique was flawless. Her strength, terrifying. And in her hands, that sword seemed... inevitable."
He motioned faintly toward the blade in Mikael's grip.
"As for the weapon itself—it wasn't mass-produced or even crafted during wartime. It's far older. It was forged deep beneath the Redvault Mountains by one of the reclusive Forgemaster Clans—those that have long vanished from our records. According to fragmented archives, they worked the alloy in silence for three winters, folding it with microscopic precision, cooling it in the mineral-rich bloodsprings of the inner crust. No one ever replicated the process. It's not just sharp—it stays sharp. Endlessly. Dwarven engineers studied it for decades, but never found a structural flaw or any signs of degradation."
The advisor shifted, lowering his voice as though the sword itself might hear.
"It was said that the general never once needed to sharpen it. That it cut through powered armor, reinforced barricades—flesh and machine alike—without pause. Not because of some miracle, but because the sword was forged to such extremes of precision and density that it simply outperformed anything made before or since."
He exhaled slowly, the weight of history behind his words.
"For a time, her influence brought the old ways back. There was a resurgence of swordsmanship, of strength-based doctrine. Training centers reopened. Veterans spoke of honor and discipline. And for a while, it worked. Her legend made people believe that the individual still had a place on the battlefield."
The advisor's expression darkened.
"But belief doesn't stop progress. As weapons evolved—faster, deadlier, more precise—those ideals crumbled. No sword, no matter how perfect, can block an orbital strike. General Thorne died at the Siege of Aetherforge. They say she led a final charge against an artillery hub. She never made it past the first drone barrage."
He glanced back at Mikael, voice quieter now.
"The sword is obsolete. In every practical sense. But it remains here not because of what it can do—but because of what it meant. It doesn't have a name in any official archive. And yet, among those who remember, it doesn't need one. The aura it carries speaks louder than any title."
"Impressive," murmured Mikael, his gaze fixed on the longsword in his right hand. And it truly was. The tale that accompanied it wasn't some ordinary, forgettable anecdote—it spoke of a bloody blade with an extraordinary origin, one rooted in power and reverence.
Even among the many legendary weapons housed in the main vault of the Great Dwarven Empire, this one's story stood out as particularly striking. Of course, each of the legendary weapons held some unique tale or mysterious origin—sometimes both. That much was expected. After all, none of them would have been stored here if they were anything less than exceptional. And how could a weapon of such rarity not come with an exceptional story?
But beyond his initial reaction to the tale recounted by the dwarven advisor, Mikael's expression remained calm and unmoved. It was impressive, sure, but ultimately? He didn't care that much. Aside from a fleeting interest in the sword's background, it was little more than a passing curiosity to him. What truly mattered was its sharpness—and perhaps, whether it had a name.
The sharpness, at least, he had already tested for himself—better than any advisor could describe. As for a name… he had simply wanted to know how to 'address' the sword. But upon hearing that it had none, he dismissed the thought without much concern. And giving it a name himself?
He wasn't feeling particularly inspired. He'd think about it later… maybe.
After that exchange between Mikael and the dwarven advisor, the roles shifted. Mikael and Kiara swapped places—Kiara now zipping through the rest of the main vault at supersonic speed, looting with practiced efficiency, while Mikael remained near the two high-ranking dwarves. He stayed close to watch over them while also grabbing a few things from the vault himself, though at a much slower and more casual pace compared to her.
And so, ten minutes slipped by in this rhythm—until Kiara finally returned.
"I'm full. Can't carry anything else," she announced.
"Same here. Nothing else can be taken on my end either," Mikael replied, using the same cryptic tone she had, without mentioning whether he referred to his inventory or the storage rings now secured on their fingers.
"The only thing left is to leave," Kiara said.
"Yeah—" Mikael started to agree, but then a glint flickered in his eyes. "Actually, before we go… why don't we rest for a couple of minutes?"
Kiara didn't quite understand his reasoning and found the suggestion a little odd. But there was something in his tone—something subtle—that made her nod.
[Party extraction will begin in five minutes. Do not move.]
The moment she saw the notification appear, she immediately understood Mikael's idea—and couldn't help but be impressed. It was simple, but brilliant. After all, if they left the main vault the usual way, the chance of encountering resistance or being ambushed was incredibly high. But if they let the system extract them while still inside the vault, the risk of retaliation dropped to almost nothing. No confrontation, no complications—just a clean exit.
Author Note:
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