A black spot appeared in front of Klaus, floating a few inches above the desert sand.
His breath caught anyway.
For a brief moment, the battlefield slipped out of focus. The heat, the shifting sand, even the sand wyrm looming in front of him blurred into the background. Klaus’s eyes lit up with sharp excitement and anticipation, the kind that made his heart beat faster for reasons he didn’t fully understand.
Like a child spotting his favorite toy on a dusty shelf.
The black spot twisted, stretched, and then tore open like fabric pulled apart by unseen hands.
Out of it slid something.
Klaus leaned forward slightly, lips curling into an eager grin.
“Here it comes,” he murmured.
The Sword of Despair.
It wasn’t an ordinary sword—he knew that much from its description alone. A mythical weapon. A blade said to have burned through thousands of souls, leaving despair soaked into its very existence. Compared to that, even his rare enchanted Devil’s Arm suddenly felt mundane.
That was why its appearance felt different.
There was no glowing light. No heroic hum. No dramatic surge of mana.
It simply existed.
And its presence alone sent a cold chill crawling up Klaus’s spine.
Then he saw the pommel.
His smile froze.
It was rusty.
Not ancient-and-dignified rusty. Not battle-worn relic rusty. This was ugly rust—the kind you found on forgotten tools behind a shed. Flaky, dull and unimpressive.
“…Huh.”
The sword rotated slowly in the air, as if giving him time to judge it. The grip came into view—old wood, cracked and worn smooth by countless hands. A dark handprint was burned into it, faint but unmistakable, fingers stretched in desperation.
Klaus frowned deeper.
His excitement drained away, replaced by confusion, then disappointment.
“That’s it?” he muttered. “That’s the legendary terror blade?”
The sword looked like an ordinary training sword worth a silver at best. The edge was dull. The blade was rusted. It had no beauty, no menace—nothing that screamed mythical.
Klaus snorted.
“Seriously,” he said incredulously. “A mythical sword that burned thousands of souls is just an old, dull, rusty sword?”
In front of him, the sand wyrm roared.
The ground trembled violently, snapping Klaus back to reality. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the massive beast coil its body, muscles tightening as it prepared to charge. Sand slid down its armored scales like rain.
“Yeah, yeah, I see you,” Klaus said quickly, waving a hand. “Give me a second. This is a disappointing moment.”
The wyrm, unsurprisingly, did not care and charged.
With a resigned sigh, Klaus turned back and reached out for the sword.
The moment his hand touched the hilt, the world went black.
Black flames erupted violently from the blade, swallowing him whole.
They didn’t burn. There was no heat. No pain. Only an overwhelming weight, as if his soul had been dragged underwater and held there. His body locked in place, breath frozen halfway in his lungs.
Everything around him stopped.
The sand wyrm hung mid-motion, jaws open. Sand grains froze in the air. Heat shimmer ceased. Time itself seemed to step back, granting Klaus a private moment he never asked for.
Klaus gasped, instinctively trying to let go, but his fingers refused to open.
Then he heard them.
Kill us.
Kill them.
Burn them.
Release us.
The voices came from everywhere and nowhere at once, overlapping and whispering directly into his skull. Some begged. Some screamed. Some laughed.
Klaus clenched his teeth, heart pounding.
“Not today,” he growled, trying to pry his hand free.
The flames tightened, pressing in on him. His vision flickered as dark shapes moved at the edges.
He almost dropped the sword.
Almost.
The sword refused to let go.
Panic crept in, sharp and unwelcome. Then, through the noise, a memory surfaced—clear and irritatingly calm.
A phrase. Written differently in the sword’s description.
Only those who pass shall wield.
Klaus swallowed hard.
“…Right,” he muttered. “This might be a trial of the sword.”
The black flames receded slightly, and the darkness beneath his feet shifted.
Shadows began to move.
They crawled outward from his own shadow, stretching unnaturally across the frozen ground. Thin, writhing shapes slithered over his boots and climbed his legs, cold and heavy, like regret given form.
Klaus looked down, his expression dark and unreadable.
One shadow lifted its head. Its voice was deep. Familiar.
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“Why?” it asked. “Why did you let us die?”
Klaus’s chest tightened.
He remembered that voice. Screaming. Begging. One of the slaves from two years ago.
Another shadow followed, its tone sharp with disgust.
“I despise you,” it said. “I wish you were the one who died.”
Klaus shook his head slowly as the shadows crawled higher, wrapping around his waist.
A third shape emerged behind him, larger and clearer than the rest. It wrapped its arms around him from behind in a tight, almost affectionate embrace.
The silhouette was unmistakable.
“Father,” Klaus breathed.
Leopold’s shadow leaned close to his ear, voice calm and cruel.
“You can’t run,” it said. “This is your destiny, son. Your curse.”
Klaus’s hands trembled, but his face remained blank.
Then a smaller shadow appeared at his feet.
A child.
Tiny hands reached up and touched his face. The voice was soft, barely louder than a breath.
“You’ve killed me…”
The fingers brushed his cheek.
“…Brother.”
Something cracked.
Tears flowed before Klaus even realized it.
“Who are you?” he muttered, his voice echoing strangely.
He didn’t know the shadow. He had never killed a child. The only one he remembered killing was Hevert. So why did this feel so familiar? Was it from a forgotten past? A memory buried too deep?
He laughed suddenly—hysterical, broken—as tears kept falling.
“You bastard,” he said shakily. “You think you can mess with my head?”
Darkness spread in his silvery eyes, starting from his black pupils. It formed into six-pointed stars.
His gaze locked not on the burning sword—but on the frozen sand wyrm ahead.
“If this is your trial,” Klaus said quietly, “then give me a harder one.”
He began to walk forward with great effort, shadows tightening around his body, trying to hold him back.
“Because you got it wrong about me,” he continued. “I have nothing.”
The shadows began to slip.
Cracks spread through the frozen world like broken glass. Time shuddered.
Klaus tore free completely, the shadows dissolving behind him as reality surged back into motion.
The desert roared back to life.
He dragged the Sword of Despair through the sand.
He spoke, voice steady and cold “And a man with nothing does not fear despair—he lives inside it.”
Klaus phantom jumped just as the sand wyrm continued its charge.
The world lurched, space folding with a familiar snap, and Klaus reappeared midair behind the beast. For a brief, satisfying moment, he thought he had it clean. The wyrm's massive jaws snapped shut in front of him—biting nothing but a fading afterimage.
"Too slow," Klaus muttered.
Then the sand itself betrayed him.
From beneath the dunes, the wyrm's tail burst upward like a siege hammer. Klaus barely had time to register the movement before it slammed into his side. He raised the Sword of Despair on instinct, black flames flaring as steel met scale—
—and the impact hurled him dozens of meters away.
Klaus spun through the air, bounced once, then plowed through the sand in a long, painful skid. He finally stopped face-first, coughing grit and swearing violently.
"Damn it," he groaned, pushing himself onto one knee. "How did you get faster?"
The wyrm roared in answer, its massive body twisting as it turned toward him again. Each movement sent ripples through the desert, dunes collapsing like waves.
Klaus didn't wait.
He dug into his storage and pulled out a cured pork leg, still wrapped in cloth.
"Sorry, buddy," he said to no one. "Emergency rations."
He bit down hard.
"Exhausting Hunger."
The meat dissolved instantly, turning into a thick, shimmering liquid that flowed into his mouth. Klaus gulped and shuddered as warmth spread through his limbs. He glanced at his status and let out a relieved breath.
His stamina points increased to three-quarters.
"Much better," he said, tossing the empty cloth aside.
The wyrm charged again, faster this time, sand exploding beneath its bulk.
Klaus straightened and threw his head back, letting out a raw, thunderous roar.
"Primal Roar!"
The sound tore through the desert like a shockwave. Red light burst from his body, veins glowing beneath his skin while black flames continued to coil around him like living shadows. His muscles tightened, strength surging violently through every fiber.
Agility, strength, endurance—each spiked with fifty points.
Though his intelligence dropped fifty points, like a price he was forced to pay.
He barely cared.
"Eye of the Forsaken."
His eyes flared purple.
The world sharpened.
The wyrm lunged, claws slashing toward him in a blur. Klaus didn't phantom jump this time. Instead, he stepped in and swung.
Sword met claw.
Sparks exploded as black flame and hardened scale collided. The impact drove Klaus backward, boots carving trenches through the sand, but he twisted with the force, letting it carry him sideways. He spun low and slashed across the wyrm's flank.
The blade bit.
Scales cracked. Flesh tore. Black flames burned.
The wyrm roared, pain finally punching through its arrogance. Flames erupted from its maw in a furious counterattack.
Klaus phantom jumped, reappearing low and sliding across the sand. He glanced back just in time to see the cut still burning, black flames crawling stubbornly along the wound.
He grinned.
"Of course it won't go out," he said. "It was the Sword's ability. Eternal flames of despair. Anything you touch burns. Anything you cut suffers."
The wyrm thrashed, clearly agitated now.
Klaus didn't give it time.
He charged.
This time, he was the aggressor.
He jumped beside the beast as it swiped at him with a claw. Klaus twisted past it, blade raised—then froze as heat surged from the wyrm's throat.
Flames.
He phantom jumped again, appearing behind the wyrm mid-breath, and drove the sword deep into its back.
The wyrm screamed.
It bucked wildly, trying to throw him off. Klaus clung tight, boots digging into scorched scales as the beast slammed itself into the sand. The impact sent shockwaves through the desert.
Klaus felt it coming.
He phantom jumped just before the full weight crushed him.
The wyrm's body slammed down hard, sand erupting around it like a collapsing building. For a moment, it lay still, eyes locked onto Klaus. Then began thrashing violently, churning the dunes into a blinding storm.
Klaus squinted through the sandstorm.
"Smart," he admitted. "I'll give you that."
He moved.
The wyrm's flames rushed toward him, but Klaus swung his sword through them. The black blade sliced cleanly, splitting the fire in half and leaving him untouched.
"Oh, this feels goo—"
A massive jaw burst from the sand a few meters away.
Klaus reacted instantly—but not fast enough.
He leaped, but pain exploded through his leg. Something tore.
He didn't scream.
Instead, he stabbed.
The sword plunged straight into the wyrm's eye.
The beast howled, thrashing violently as it flung Klaus away. Klaus hit the ground hard and slid across the sand, spinning before finally stopping.
He tried to stand.
Only then did he notice it.
His foot was gone.
Blood soaked into the sand beneath him.
Klaus stared at the wyrm, its eye ruined and burning with black flame. He exhaled slowly, oddly calm.
"An eye for a foot," he said. "Not a bad trade."
He whispered, "Power of Gold: 50 Gold"
A transparent panel appeared.
"Power of Gold activated."
"50 gold coins deducted."
"All attributes increased by 50 points."
Klaus laughed weakly.
"Expensive," he muttered. "But worth it."
He pushed himself upright on one leg, blood dripping freely.
"Time to end this."
He phantom jumped.
Two hundred meters up.
Not enough.
He jumped again.
Then again.
The wyrm tilted its head upward, throat glowing brighter, fire building inside.
Klaus smiled.
He pointed the sword downward as gravity claimed him.
"Mucus Armor."
A thick, translucent layer coated his body, reinforcing his form as he fell like a black comet.
The wyrm roared, unleashing a column of deep orange flame into the sky.
Black flame met fire.
The collision shook the heavens.
Ash rained from the sky as the two forces clashed violently. Klaus roared back, his voice raw and feral, and then—
An explosion.
The shockwave tore across the battlefield. Kiel skidded backward, barely managing to grab Ulon, who had turned his body to metal just in time to anchor them both.
The dust took long seconds to settle.
When it did, a massive crater dominated the desert.
At its center lay the sand wyrm.
Still.
From its torn throat, a sword pierced upward—and then a charred figure began to crawl free.
It was Klaus.
His body was burned and soaked in blood. His left arm was gone. Both legs were missing.
He dismissed the sword and dragged himself forward with his remaining arm, breathing shallowly.
Ulon and Kiel stood at the crater's edge, stunned.
Then they ran.
Ulon knelt immediately, pressing glowing hands against Klaus's torso.
"Heavenly Grace"
"Quite a scene," he said quietly. "You like making an entrance, don't you?"
Klaus coughed weakly.
"You like it?"
Ulon huffed a laugh.
"…Yeah. I'm surprised. Never thought you could pull this off."
Klaus closed his eyes.
"Me too."
"Rest," Ulon said, activating Heavenly Grace. "We'll talk later."
Kiel stood frozen nearby, speechless.
Never in his dreams had he imagined Klaus was this powerful.
