Mu Yichen was falling.

  Or so he thought.

  He was dreaming, or something close to it. At first, it felt like drowning, then like walking into sunlight, until finally the scene opened around him.

  White pillars reached toward the heavens, banners fluttered, and rows upon rows of ministers, hunters, and guild leaders filled the ceremonial hall.

  Their gazes all pointed toward a single pedestal at the center of the stage. Upon it rested the holy sword, radiant, silent, unyielding.

  Mu Yichen knew this place. Knew it far too well.

  “The selection ceremony…” he muttered.

  It was the day the world had held its breath.

  He saw himself again, younger, draped in immaculate white robes, stepping forward with calm dignity. The whispers of the crowd trembled in the air. Son of the Hero. The only SSS-rank. Surely, he will be chosen.

  But the sword did not move.

  It had not even flickered.

  Mu Yichen watched the memory unfold, a spectator to his own actions.

  He remembered that sting, the weight of silence heavier than any sword. Not only him, but no one had been chosen that day. The sword had rejected them all.

  The Mu Yichen in the memory stood still, composed, but Mu Yichen in the dream clenched his jaw. “So this is where it began…”

  But then the memory shifted.

  He saw himself again, older, sharper, eyes glinting with a secret he had never held in reality.

  His other self lifted his hand and murmured something under his breath, a skill hidden so deeply that not even the world had known of it. A skill to bend the will of any blade.

  [Sovereign Blade] — Loved by all swords.

  And the sword moved.

  The holy sword rose from its pedestal, its light bending like a bow before him. Gasps erupted through the hall.

  The whispers of disappointment turned into wild cheers.

  The dream Mu Yichen smiled faintly as the weapon settled into his grip.

  The real Mu Yichen recoiled. His eyes widened. “That… never happened.”

  He had tried. Long ago, in desperation, he had tried to wield that secret skill on the holy sword.

  It had not budged. His ability, though formidable against mortal steel, had meant nothing before the will of a divine relic. And yet here, in this twisted dream, it had succeeded.

  Why…?

  The world around him pulsed, and suddenly memory began to flood back, not of the dream, but of reality.

  He remembered his life before the end.

  Since birth, he had carried the weight of a title: the son of the hero.

  The world had looked at him as if his path was already written. In his teenage years, he awakened as the only SSS-rank hunter alive, and the cheers grew louder. The attention never stopped.

  He had walked through life with expectations pressed against his skin like chains.

  The day the holy object revealed itself was not something Mu Yichen could ever forget.

  The dungeon had been collapsing, dust and darkness filling the air, and among the chaos there had been a single light.

  A fragment of something unknown, pulsing, shifting, reshaping. He was the first to reach it.

  The first to touch it. The first to witness it lengthen, gleam, and solidify into a blade that carried divinity in its silence.

  The Holy Sword.

  The world erupted in celebration.

  Of course it would be him, they said. The only SSS-rank hunter alive. The son of the previous hero.

  The one who had never once failed at anything. He would be chosen. He had to be.

  Mu Yichen, however, felt only a mild detachment as the HQ prepared the ceremony. Excitement was expected of him, but in truth, he didn’t care.

  The sword was only a tool. Glory, attention, responsibility, he had lived under their weight since birth. The holy sword was no different.

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  But there was no escape. He had no reason to refuse.

  The ceremony began.

  He stepped forward into the sea of light, every noble and guild master watching. The holy sword floated above the pedestal, radiant, silent. All he needed to do was extend his hand, and the fate of the world would tilt in his direction.

  He reached out.

  The sword did not move.

  It didn’t flicker, didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge him. His hand hovered in the air, and the silence of the hall roared louder than a battlefield.

  He had been rejected.

  Mu Yichen’s jaw tightened, but he did not let his expression waver. He was used to masks. He had worn them since childhood. But behind his composed eyes, something sharp twisted.

  Still, he was not the type to give up.

  There was a skill he had kept hidden, buried so deeply that no one in the world knew of it.

  [Sovereign Blade] — Loved by all swords.

  A skill that allowed him to wield any sword, no matter the resistance. Mortal steel bent to it. Cursed blades yielded. Even relics from dungeons trembled under its command.

  And so he tried.

  The air shifted faintly, unseen currents pulling at the holy sword. And this time, the blade moved. Slowly, deliberately, it lowered itself until it touched his palm.

  Gasps filled the air. The crowd erupted. “He’s chosen!” they cried. “The holy sword accepts him!”

  Mu Yichen let them cheer.

  But he knew the truth.

  The holy sword rested in his grip, but it was cold. Empty. He could hold it, yes. But its true power was sealed from him. He was not the chosen one.

  And strangely, he didn’t care.

  Because he understood something the rest of the world could not: the chosen one and the holy sword always appeared together, as if bound by fate.

  If the sword had not answered him, then its real master had yet to be found. The one who could truly wield it would appear someday.

  Until then, the world needed an illusion. If no one took up the sword, panic would spread. Hope would fracture. Humanity would collapse.

  So Mu Yichen decided.

  He would be the chosen one, at least in name. He would carry the blade, calm the world, and protect the fragile illusion of safety.

  But he would not lie to the sword.

  He was the son of a hero, raised to respect the divine. And so, in the quiet of the ceremony, beneath the cheers and hymns, he bent his head slightly toward the blade and whispered his intent.

  “I know I am not your master. But until the one you wait for appears, I will hold you. I will carry the weight of the world in their place. And when they come, I will give you to them.”

  The sword pulsed faintly in his hand, light flashing once, sharp and clear.

  An acknowledgment.

  Not acceptance. Not devotion. But agreement.

  Mu Yichen’s lips curved faintly. To the world, it looked like a smile of triumph. To him, it was a vow.

  He was not chosen.

  But until the chosen one revealed themselves, he would bear the blade as if he were.

  The holy sword had agreed to his words that day. Not in devotion, not in loyalty, but in acknowledgment of a contract.

  Mu Yichen would carry it until the one it awaited appeared. That was the plan.

  And so he lived.

  With Park Taegun and Seo MinHyun at his side, he moved from gate to gate, the trio celebrated as the hope of the nation.

  The government added Yoo Areum to their roster—a rare S-rank healer, arrogant by nature, but essential for their survival.

  They became a team admired by millions.

  And why wouldn’t they? Mu Yichen had been born with everything. Wealth, fame, status, his very blood was the legacy of a hero.

  The addition of the holy sword only elevated his image. To the public, he was untouchable, divine, the flawless centerpiece of every battlefield and every banquet hall.

  But Mu Yichen was not arrogant. He wore courtesy like armor, offered respect like ritual. He was never cruel, never dismissive. Always calm, always composed.

  And because of it, eyes followed him wherever he went.

  That attention suffocated him.

  For three long years, he carried the holy sword.

  He fought with it, posed with it, and became the symbol of its light. No one ever questioned him—how could they? He was the only SSS-rank in the world.

  His strength was unmatched, his aura overwhelming. No one would suspect the truth.

  No one knew that the sword in his hand was little more than a weight of silver and gold. He could swing it, yes. He could cut and kill with it, yes.

  But its true power, the divine strength whispered of in legends, remained locked away from him. The blade was silent in his grip. Cold.

  And with each passing day, Mu Yichen grew tired.

  Not because he feared discovery. Who could challenge him? But because the endless cycle of expectation left nothing for him to grasp.

  He lived only to fulfill what others demanded. Smile for the cameras. Lead the charge. Be the hero they needed.

  It was not a threat. It was worse. It was emptiness.

  Then came the dungeon break.

  A massive, S-rank anomaly. He and his companions waded into the chaos, steel meeting fangs, spells cutting through shadows. The fight dragged on, brutal and unyielding.

  And then—

  A strike caught him off guard. Not a wound, he could never be brought down so easily, but the impact jarred his hand.

  The holy sword flew from his grip, spinning across the blood-soaked ground.

  The battlefield froze in his mind.

  Because he knew what would happen next.

  The holy sword would not return to him. Not on its own. Not to someone it had never truly chosen.

  He watched it tumble into the darkness, its light flashing once as it struck the ground.

  And Mu Yichen… did not move.

  He could have run for it. He could have grasped it again, forced his hidden skill to bind it once more. He could have maintained the illusion.

  But he didn’t.

  For the first time in years, he simply stood still, swordless in the storm, and felt the quiet weight of freedom press against his chest.

  The battle roared on around him, his teammates shouting his name, but Mu Yichen’s eyes lingered only on the fallen blade.

  The holy sword did not stir.

  And for the first time, he realized how deeply, profoundly tired he had become.

  The holy sword did not return to him.

  And Mu Yichen… did not care.

  With nothing but his own power, he cut down the final boss of the S-rank break, his blade skill tearing the monster apart in a storm of silver arcs.

  The ground trembled as the creature fell, silence devouring the battlefield.

  He breathed out once, steady. The fight was over.

  When he turned to retrieve the sword, he expected to find it lying abandoned in the dirt, waiting.

  Instead, he saw his teammates gathered in a circle, voices raised in anger. Their bodies blocked the view, but their expressions told the story—something had happened.

  Mu Yichen approached, each step cutting through the stillness. The closer he came, the clearer the shouting became.

  “…put that down right now!”

  “…how dare you touch it!”

  “…you’ll be executed for theft!”

  And then he saw him.

  The man at the center looked half-broken. His clothes torn, his body marked with fresh blood, exhaustion clinging to him like shadow.

  Yet despite the mess, his face held a startling beauty—striking features, framed by dirt and sweat. But his eyes…

  They were lifeless. Dull. The eyes of someone already drowning.

  What caught Mu Yichen wasn’t the man’s misery. It was what lay in his hand.

  The holy sword.

  It did not dim. It did not resist. It rested against his palm with a quiet belonging, its surface gleaming faintly as though relieved.

  Mu Yichen’s breath caught.

  There was no doubt.

  The real chosen one.

  Author Note:

  Every “OH MY GOD ASEOK STOP” gives me the strength to write the next disaster.

  Mon ? Wed ? Fri

  (Yes, I too question my life choices.)

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