The rain stops, but the world it leaves behind is no kinder for it. The trail has turned into a miserable stretch of mud, each step threatening to drag boots loose, each patch of earth slick and untrustworthy. Water clings to everything—roots, stones, the hems of clothing—refusing to drain, refusing to yield. The smell of wet soil rises thick in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Night presses against Mount Morito like a living thing.
It does not simply fall over the land—it leans, it watches, it weighs. The mountain rises from the forest not like a natural slope but like a wound forced upward from the earth, something that should have remained buried but instead tore its way into the sky. Its sides are too narrow, too vertical, its surface too sheer to belong to anything shaped by time and erosion. Dark stone catches fragments of moonlight through drifting clouds, each pale reflection breaking across jagged surfaces that seem almost deliberate in their sharpness.
Around its base, pine trees gather densely, as if trying to contain it—or perhaps hide it. Their tops sway under a cold, restless wind, branches whispering and scraping against each other. Below, fog from Lake Admonito crawls through the roots like pale fingers, coiling low to the ground, slipping between trunks, clinging to the earth as though reluctant to rise.
Aldo stares upward silently.
Even from below, the mount feels wrong.
Too steep.
Too isolated.
Too deliberate.
There is no gradual incline, no sense of belonging to the surrounding land. It stands apart, like something placed rather than formed.
Beside him, Comtois tilts his head all the way back until his neck cracks audibly. He squints upward for a long moment, trying to trace the outline against the shifting clouds.
"Bro…"
His voice carries a mixture of disbelief and quiet dread.
He narrows his eyes further.
"…that's not a mountain. That's a pillar pretending to be a mountain."
Hano Kichiro exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a scoff, though there is no humor in it.
"I hate this already."
Ryong Min Ki adjusts the lantern hanging from his belt, the weak glow swaying slightly with the motion. He crouches just enough to steady himself and begins sketching the outline quickly despite the darkness, his hand moving with practiced urgency.
"Architecturally impossible…"
He mutters while drawing, the words half lost to the wind.
"Or at least irrational."
Onaga Kei says nothing. He simply studies the stone surface with narrowed eyes, gaze moving slowly, methodically, as if searching for something hidden within the unnatural formation.
The wind blows harder.
It cuts sharper now, colder, slipping through layers of clothing and settling into bone. The trees respond with a deeper groan, branches bending further, leaves whispering more urgently.
Then—
A faint creaking sound echoes downward.
It is subtle at first, almost mistaken for the shifting of branches or the settling of wet wood. But it grows clearer, more distinct.
Then—
A rope ladder unravels from above.
The old vine ropes slap roughly against the cliffside, striking stone with dull, uneven thuds before finally settling into place. The ladder hangs unevenly, swaying slightly, its age immediately apparent in the frayed edges and darkened fibers.
A boy leans over the edge high above them.
Fifteen years old at most.
One of the slave-soldiers from Company 205th.
His face is drawn, exhaustion etched into every line, eyes heavy but alert.
"Captain Comtois!"
Comtois lifts both arms and waves dramatically, as if greeting someone across a crowded market instead of halfway up an unnatural cliff.
"Yo!"
The boy points upward, urgency creeping into his voice.
"We already tested the sword again earlier!"
Hano steps forward slightly, his expression tightening.
"Any success?"
The boy grimaces, the answer already visible before he speaks.
"No."
Comtois sighs loudly, dragging the sound out with theatrical frustration.
"Damn fantasy world scams."
Aldo does not respond. He walks forward without hesitation, boots sinking slightly into the mud before reaching firmer ground near the base of the cliff. His hand grips the rope ladder.
He tests the tension once.
The old vines creak dangerously, the fibers shifting under strain.
Comtois immediately points upward, accusatory, as if the absent builder might still hear him.
"You know what the Eighth Hero should've built?"
Nobody answers.
Comtois spreads both hands dramatically.
"A slide."
Silence.
"Seriously."
He gestures upward again, incredulity sharpening his tone.
"Bro made a ladder to climb up but no easier way to come down?"
Hano stares at him blankly, unimpressed.
"You think a legendary hero built a mountain retreat and thought about playground design?"
Comtois nods immediately, without hesitation.
"Good infrastructure matters."
Aldo quietly notes it down. "Good Infrastructure..."
Hano leans slightly, curiosity overtaking irritation for a brief moment.
"What is that for ?"
He flips Aldo's notebook just enough to catch the title.
"Gorvernance for Dummy 101."
Hano's eyes open wider for a fraction of a second, then he brushes it off as if he never saw it.
Aldo calmly takes the notebook back and slips it into his pant pocket.
He begins climbing before the conversation can deteriorate further.
The rope ladder sways violently under his weight, each step causing the entire structure to shift. The mountain wall is close—too close—and it radiates a cold that bites instantly into his fingers. The stone is slick in places, rough in others, uneven in a way that offers no comfort.
Onaga follows next, movements precise and controlled.
Then Hano.
Then Comtois, muttering under his breath.
Then Ryong last, awkwardly trying to protect his papers inside his coat while climbing, his movements hesitant but determined.
The ascent quickly becomes miserable.
The vines creak constantly, each sound a reminder of how little separates them from the darkness below. Wind slams against them from the sides, sudden gusts threatening to pull them away from the ladder. Small stones occasionally break loose under shifting pressure and vanish into the void beneath, their descent swallowed entirely by distance.
Halfway upward, Comtois groans dramatically, his voice strained.
"I miss farmland."
Above him, Aldo speaks without looking down, voice steady, unaffected.
"You aren't part of the farmland, you are 205th commander, the farmland belongs to 204th company. And stop being lazy..."
Comtois immediately looks offended, as if personally attacked.
"Excuse me?"
Aldo keeps climbing, his rhythm unchanged.
"For modern teenagers, fifty meters without elevators already counts as suffering."
Hano snorts quietly despite himself, the sound brief but genuine.
Aldo continues, almost conversationally.
"This is three hundred sixty-nine meters."
Comtois glares upward, though the expression is mostly lost in the darkness.
"I survived monster attacks, slavery, rebellion, and lake dragons."
He drags himself up another step, muscles protesting.
"But this damn ladder might finally kill me."
Behind them, Ryong breathes heavily, each inhale sharp, each exhale uneven.
"Historically speaking…"
He gasps.
"…humans weren't designed for this."
Hano responds immediately, tone dry.
"Humans also weren't designed to fight water dragons but here we are."
The climb continues.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Time stretches, each movement blending into the next. Hands begin to lose sensation—not suddenly, but gradually, until the distinction between pressure and pain fades. Fingers no longer feel like fingers.
Only burning.
Only numbness.
The wind grows colder the higher they go, slicing through what little warmth remains. The forest below begins to shrink, transforming into dark, indistinct waves. Individual trees disappear into a single mass of shadow.
Lake Admonito becomes a distant smear of black silver beneath drifting fog, its surface barely visible through the shifting veil.
Aldo climbs in silence, his mind working even as his body strains.
He counts internally.
Breathing rhythm.
Movement pace.
Estimated exhaustion.
Estimated distance.
Each variable noted, adjusted, refined.
No wasted motion.
No unnecessary pause.
By the time his hands finally reach solid ground—
He already knows.
Roughly one hour and eleven minutes.
No clock needed.
Aldo pulls himself onto the summit first.
Then freezes briefly.
It is not hesitation born from fear alone, but something sharper—something instinctive. The kind of stillness that comes when expectation and reality fail to align.
The top of Mount Morito is flat.
Absurdly flat.
Not a peak.
A hidden plateau.
There is no natural taper, no jagged crown of stone marking the end of the climb. Instead, the mountain simply stops, as if its growth had been cut short deliberately. The surface stretches outward in a quiet, open expanse that feels wrong for something that rose so violently from the forest below.
Wind rushes across the open space, unobstructed, carrying with it the scent of wet stone and old wood—aged, softened by time, and left to decay without care. It moves differently here, not caught between trees or broken by uneven ground. It sweeps cleanly, cold and persistent, brushing against everything with the same indifferent force.
Moonlight spills across ruins.
Soft.
Unforgiving.
It does not hide anything.
There had once been a garden here.
A large one.
Not decorative in the shallow sense, but carefully built—designed with intention, with planning, with effort that must have taken years. Even now, in its ruin, the structure of it remains faintly visible beneath the decay.
Terraces stretch outward, though they are now drowned beneath weeds and wild ferns that have reclaimed every inch of soil. Layers of growth overlap one another, choking out whatever once grew in neat rows or deliberate patterns. The lines of cultivation are gone, replaced by chaos.
Broken wooden fences lean sideways into the overgrowth, their posts rotting at the base, their shapes warped and softened by time. Some have collapsed entirely, half-buried beneath creeping plants that show no regard for what once stood there.
Cracked stone paths weave faintly through the plateau, though many of them vanish beneath thick moss and tangled roots. What remains visible is fragmented—sections of stone emerging briefly before disappearing again, like memories that refuse to fully surface.
Dead vines strangle remnants of wooden frames that may once have held flowers or herbs. Their skeletal structures stand crooked against the wind, hollow and empty, their purpose long forgotten. The vines themselves are brittle, lifeless, yet still clinging stubbornly as if unwilling to release what they have already taken.
Further inward—
A ruined stilt house stands silently against the wind.
It is positioned slightly higher than the surrounding ground, supported by wooden pillars that have somehow endured despite their condition. The structure leans almost imperceptibly, as if caught in the slow process of collapse but refusing to complete it.
Its roof is partially collapsed, sections missing entirely, leaving gaps where moonlight pours through in broken beams. The remaining portions sag under their own weight, warped and darkened by years of exposure.
The walls are rotten, wood eaten away in places, surfaces cracked and peeling. Some panels hang loosely, barely attached, shifting faintly whenever the wind pushes through.
Yet somehow—
It still stands.
Not strong.
Not stable.
But standing.
The entire place feels abandoned not for years.
But generations.
Time has not simply passed here—it has settled. It has layered itself over every surface, every structure, every forgotten intention, until what remains is less a place and more a residue of something that once mattered.
Ryong slowly whispers, his voice almost carried away by the wind as soon as it leaves him.
"This is depressing."
Onaga quietly nods, his gaze moving across the ruins with a kind of quiet understanding.
"Heroes always sound glamorous in stories."
His eyes drift toward the ruined house, lingering there as if searching for something that no longer exists.
"Reality usually looks like this instead."
No one argues.
No one needs to.
Then—
They see it.
The Morito Sword.
It stands embedded vertically into a massive stone slab near the edge of the plateau, positioned as if placed with intention—deliberate, ceremonial, final.
Black metal.
Not polished.
Not reflective.
It absorbs the light instead of returning it, its surface dark in a way that feels deeper than mere color.
Crimson veins run faintly beneath that surface, glowing softly like living blood vessels. The light pulses irregularly, subtle but unmistakable, as if something within the blade is still active—still aware.
The sword does not look holy.
It looks dangerous.
Comtois squints, leaning slightly forward as if that might help him understand it better.
"That's the hero sword?"
Hano folds his arms, expression tightening with immediate skepticism.
"Looks more like cursed final boss equipment."
Aldo approaches silently.
Each step feels heavier the closer he gets—not physically, but something else. The air shifts near the weapon, density increasing in a way that is difficult to define. Breathing feels subtly restricted, as if the space itself resists intrusion.
It is wrong.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But unmistakably.
Like standing too close to deep water, where the surface appears calm but something vast waits beneath.
Onaga's expression tightens immediately, his posture sharpening with alertness.
"The corruption…"
He does not elaborate.
He does not need to.
Ryong instinctively steps backward slightly, his earlier curiosity replaced by quiet unease. His lantern flickers faintly, the light trembling as if reacting to the same invisible pressure.
Even the wind around the blade sounds strange.
It does not move cleanly anymore.
It bends.
It distorts.
Whispers almost seem buried inside it.
Not actual words.
Nothing that can be clearly understood.
But something close.
Something that almost forms meaning before dissolving again.
Hano rubs his arms uneasily, trying to shake off the sensation creeping under his skin.
"Maybe corruption was always the default setting."
Aldo kneels near the stone instead of touching the sword directly.
His movements are careful, deliberate, measured.
He studies the base.
The angle.
The depth of the embedment.
Then—
He pulls out a pickaxe.
Everyone stares.
For a brief moment, the tension shifts—not gone, but interrupted by confusion.
Comtois blinks twice, trying to process what he is seeing.
"…wait."
Hano slowly turns toward Aldo, disbelief spreading across his face.
"…what are you doing."
Onaga is the first to understand.
The realization hits quietly, but completely.
A small laugh escapes him—short, almost involuntary.
Then he raises a hand and points toward the five pickaxes strapped across Comtois's back.
Ryong's eyes widen immediately.
"No way."
Hano's restraint breaks.
"You're not actually doing this."
Even Comtois, who had carried the tools without question, now looks genuinely horrified.
"BRO."
Aldo does not respond.
He calmly begins positioning the rope around the sword handle, looping it with steady precision, testing the tension as if preparing for something entirely mundane.
Comtois points aggressively, voice rising in protest.
"I thought the pickaxes were for fighting the Drakolimne!"
Nearby Company 205 slave-soldiers, who had been watching quietly from a distance, instantly burst into laughter.
The sound cuts sharply through the heavy atmosphere.
One nearly falls backward, losing balance as he laughs too hard.
Another grabs his stomach, wheezing, barely able to stay upright.
Comtois looks betrayed, glancing between them with incredulity.
"Why are YOU laughing?!"
A younger slave-soldier manages to speak between gasps, wiping tears from his eyes.
"Captain… how were you planning to hit a lake dragon with mining tools?"
Comtois opens his mouth.
Pauses.
The logic fails him for a brief second.
Then he answers anyway, stubborn as ever.
"Creatively."
The laughter only gets worse.
It spreads, uncontrollable, echoing across the plateau in sharp contrast to the silence that had dominated moments before.
Aldo ignores all of them completely.
His focus never wavers.
"Break the stone."
The shift is immediate.
Laughter fades.
Attention sharpens.
The absurdity dissolves back into purpose.
The five gather around the massive rock, positioning themselves carefully.
Pickaxes rise.
Then—
They slam downward.
CLANG.
The impact rings out sharply, metal against stone, sparks jumping briefly in the darkness.
The sound echoes violently across Mount Morito, bouncing off unseen surfaces, returning distorted and hollow.
Again.
CLANG.
Again.
CLANG.
Each strike chips away at the surface, small fragments breaking loose, scattering across the ground.
The old stone resists at first, dense and stubborn, but cracks begin to form under repeated blows.
Sweat mixes with the cold wind, cooling instantly against skin.
Muscles begin to burn.
Arms grow heavier with each swing.
The rhythm settles into something relentless.
Ryong complains halfway through, his voice strained but still present.
"Why didn't legendary heroes invent pulleys?"
Hano responds immediately, not pausing his swing.
"Because fantasy heroes solve problems with destiny instead of engineering."
Comtois grins despite the effort, the absurdity of it landing perfectly.
"That line goes hard actually."
More strikes.
More cracks.
The fractures spread, branching outward, weakening the structure from within.
Then—
Finally—
The stone fractures violently down the middle.
The sound is louder than before, deeper, final.
Aldo reacts instantly.
He pulls the rope.
The sword jerks sideways, breaking free from the collapsing rock with a sharp, tearing motion.
For a brief second, it tilts dangerously toward the edge—
Then crashes onto the mountaintop ground instead of falling off the cliff entirely.
The impact is heavy.
Solid.
Final.
Silence follows.
No wind.
No laughter.
No movement.
Everyone stares.
The Morito Sword lies across the dark grass beneath the moonlight.
Black steel.
Crimson veins pulsing faintly.
Alive almost.
Comtois slowly approaches.
Not boldly, not with the careless confidence he usually carries, but with a kind of reluctant curiosity that drags him forward step by step, as though something in him recognizes the danger yet refuses to stay back. His boots press softly into the dark grass, each movement slower than the last as he closes the distance between himself and the fallen weapon.
He tilts his head slightly, examining the blade from different angles, trying to reconcile what he sees with what he expects.
"Still doesn't look holy."
There is no humor in his voice this time—only a quiet unease that lingers beneath the words.
Hano crouches carefully nearby, lowering himself with measured caution as though the sword might react to sudden movement. His eyes trace along the length of the blade, following the faint crimson veins that pulse beneath the black metal, watching how the light shifts subtly with each pulse.
"Maybe hero weapons are propaganda too."
His tone is dry, but there is something thoughtful behind it, something that suggests he is not entirely joking.
Ryong quickly moves closer as well, though not as close as the others. He pulls out his papers with hurried precision, shielding them instinctively from the wind as he begins sketching the weapon from several angles. His hand moves quickly, almost urgently, trying to capture the details before they slip from memory.
"Actually aesthetically it's incredibly intimidating."
His voice carries a strange mix of admiration and discomfort, as if he recognizes the craftsmanship even while distrusting its purpose.
Onaga does not move toward the sword.
Instead, he looks toward Aldo.
Concern is visible now—clear, unhidden, and immediate. His gaze lingers not on the weapon, but on the one who is about to wield it, as if understanding already that the true danger does not lie in the object alone, but in the interaction that is about to occur.
Aldo kneels beside the blade.
The motion is controlled, deliberate, his posture steady despite the unnatural pressure that still hangs in the air around the sword. He does not touch it yet. He simply studies it at close range, eyes scanning every visible detail, every subtle irregularity in the metal, every pulse of crimson beneath the surface.
Then he speaks calmly, his voice cutting cleanly through the tension that has settled over the group.
"I met that merchant again, two days ago. Taking advantage of the scarce opportunity, I paid him an extra two silver coins for him to tell me more information about the sword. The merchant described six abilities. Two hundred meter radius teleportation, including up to ten people, strength amplification proportional to user capability, dark slash enchantments, higher corruption exchange for increased magical output, weakens nearby enemies, rapid regeneration through dark magic, and earth magic manipulation."
The explanation comes in a single, measured flscarow, each ability laid out with the same neutral tone, as though he is reciting information from a ledger rather than describing something profoundly dangerous.
Everyone listens immediately.
The weight of each word settles differently, but none of them interrupt.
Comtois lets out a low whistle, long and slow, the sound carrying both awe and disbelief.
"Including up to ten people."
Ryong mutters under his breath without looking up from his sketches, his pen pausing just slightly as the implication sinks in.
"Ridiculous."
Hano's expression tightens, his earlier skepticism sharpening into something more grounded.
"That already sounds unsafe."
Onaga folds his arms tighter across his chest, shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly.
"Definitely unsafe."
Ryong exhales slowly, his tone quieter now, more certain.
"Absolutely cursed."
Then silence follows.
Not empty silence, but the kind that forms when too many implications exist at once, none of them easily dismissed.
Comtois stares at the sword for several seconds, longer than usual for him, his usual restlessness replaced by a rare stillness. His eyes move along the blade, tracing its shape, its unnatural glow, the faint pulsing beneath its surface.
Then he speaks, louder than necessary, as if trying to push back against the unease building inside him.
"No wonder the Eighth Hero isolated himself up here."
He points aggressively at the weapon, the gesture sharp, almost accusatory.
"That thing screams suspicious protagonist downfall arc."
Hano nods quietly, his agreement immediate and unforced.
"Honestly if someone carried this around near me I'd assume they'd betray the kingdom eventually."
Onaga does not laugh.
He does not react with humor or dismissal.
Instead, he looks directly toward Aldo, his gaze steady, serious, and unyielding.
"If you hold it too long…"
His voice lowers slightly, not out of fear, but out of certainty.
"…you may become corrupted permanently."
The wind blows across the plateau again, sweeping through the ruins, brushing against the broken fences, the dead vines, the hollow structure of the stilt house. It carries a low, steady sound that fills the silence left behind.
Aldo speaks quietly.
"That's why I brought five people."
For a moment, the words seem disconnected.
Then—
Understanding begins to form.
Slowly.
Gradually.
Ryong is the first to look up, his eyes widening as the meaning clicks into place.
Comtois blinks, confusion giving way to realization.
Hano freezes mid-thought, his expression shifting.
Onaga's eyes widen slightly—not in surprise, but in recognition.
Aldo finally places one hand on the sword handle.
His fingers close around it with controlled precision, not gripping tightly, not hesitating either.
"If corruption becomes critical…"
His voice remains calm.
Unshaken.
"…I throw the weapon to the next person."
No one jokes now.
No one interrupts.
The weight of that statement settles hard, pressing down on all of them at once.
Shared burden.
Shared corruption.
Shared survival.
The simplicity of the plan makes it worse, not better.
Comtois scratches his cheek awkwardly, his usual confidence replaced by something more uncertain.
"That's actually…"
He exhales slowly.
"…kind of insane."
Hano mutters quietly, almost to himself.
"But efficient."
Ryong looks disturbed, his earlier analytical distance slipping.
"We're literally planning rotational corruption management."
Aldo says nothing more.
He simply tightens his grip.
And then—
The world changes.
Instantly.
Violently.
A pulse erupts through his body, not like a surge of energy, but like something forcing its way in, something foreign, invasive, overwhelming. His breath catches sharply in his chest, muscles locking for a fraction of a second as the sensation tears through him.
Thousands of voices explode inside his skull at once.
Not one.
Not many.
Thousands.
Screaming.
Whispering.
Laughing.
Praying.
Begging.
Each one overlapping, colliding, merging into a chaotic storm of sound that has no clear source and no clear end.
Aldo's knees nearly buckle under the sudden assault.
Black veins spread immediately across his hand, racing beneath his skin like spilled ink, branching outward with unnatural speed.
The sword hums violently.
The sound is low, resonant, alive.
Wind erupts outward across the mountaintop, not flowing but bursting, pushing outward in sharp, sudden force that ripples through the air.
Ryong stumbles backward, barely catching himself as the ground shifts beneath his balance.
Onaga reacts instantly, stepping forward without hesitation, hand reaching out instinctively.
"Aldo!"
But Aldo raises one hand sharply.
Stop.
The motion is abrupt, commanding, leaving no room for argument.
His feet slowly lift several inches above the ground.
Not a jump.
Not a stumble.
A controlled, unnatural elevation, as if gravity itself has loosened its hold on him.
Comtois stares with wide eyes, all traces of humor gone.
"Okay THAT'S horrifying."
The crimson veins on the sword pulse brighter now, the glow intensifying with each passing second.
The whispers grow louder.
Inside Aldo's mind—
Fragments flash violently.
Not memories.
Not visions fully formed.
Pieces.
Disconnected.
Yet overwhelming.
Blood.
War.
Mountains collapsing under unseen force.
Cities burning beneath black storms that swallow the sky.
Voices overlap endlessly, each one pushing forward, demanding attention, demanding action.
[Power.]
[Carry us.]
[Kill.]
[Save them.]
[Destroy.]
[Protect.]
[Use us.]
The contradictions pile on top of each other, impossible to separate, impossible to reconcile.
Aldo grits his teeth hard enough to hurt, forcing himself to remain present, forcing himself to anchor his awareness against the storm trying to consume it.
Sweat drips down his neck despite the freezing wind, his body reacting to strain that goes beyond physical effort.
Then—
Slowly—
He forces himself to look toward the others.
His eyes now faintly glowing crimson around the edges, the change subtle but unmistakable.
"If I become fully corrupted…"
His voice echoes strangely now.
Layered.
Distorted.
As if more than one presence speaks through it at once.
"…be ready."
He lifts the sword slightly.
The motion is small, almost restrained, yet the air around it reacts as if something far greater has shifted, the faint crimson veins beneath the black metal pulsing with a deeper, heavier rhythm that seems to echo beyond the blade itself and into the space around them.
"I throw it to the next person."
His voice remains controlled, though the layered distortion beneath it has not faded, only settled into something quieter and more dangerous.
One by one—
They answer.
Hano grips his pickaxe tighter, the wood creaking faintly under the pressure of his hand, grounding himself in something solid, something familiar.
"I'll take it."
Onaga nods firmly despite the visible fear in his eyes, his posture straightening as if bracing against something inevitable.
"So will I."
Ryong hesitates briefly, the weight of what they are agreeing to pressing heavily against his thoughts, his breath catching for a fraction of a second.
Then he forces himself to speak.
"Me too."
Comtois grins weakly, the expression strained, lacking its usual confidence.
"Dang-po corruption relay race."
Nobody laughs this time.
Aldo closes his eyes briefly.
Then—
The sword pulses.
Dark energy erupts outward, sudden and absolute—
And all five vanish instantly into black-red light.