The forge glowed unevenly, a rough furnace Nolan had built from scavenged stone and scraps. Sparks bit at his skin as he stoked the flame, steadying the air with the unnatural control of his lungs. His hammer lay on the anvil, waiting.
The Goddess sat idly on a cracked block of stone, legs dangling like a child at a festival. “All this for a sword? Mortals really do love their toys. I could summon something shinier with a snap.”
Nolan didn’t answer her. His jaw tightened as he closed his eyes, drawing inward. His talent, Full Body Control, wasn’t just precision over his muscles — it let him reach deeper. Memories not his own stirred. Primitive echoes, buried in the marrow of humanity itself. The grip of the first man who struck flint against iron. The rhythm of the first woman who hammered bronze flat into a blade. The urgency of survival pressed into instinct across countless generations.
They weren’t skills. They weren’t mastery. They were remnants of the human race learning to shape the world. And Nolan called them forward now, forcing his body to mimic what his soul only half-understood.
His hand steadied on the hammer’s haft. His stance adjusted. His breath fell into the rhythm of forgotten ancestors. “Not perfect… but enough.”
Before the first strike could fall, parchment swirled into the forge-light. Quills scratched without hands. The Akashic Record appeared, her presence as sharp as a blade drawn across silence.
“Stop.”
Nolan exhaled through his teeth, lowering the hammer. “I traded for your instructions. I know what I’m doing.”
Her eyes narrowed, heavy with the kind of irritation only overwork could breed. “No. You know what you think you’re doing. Memories of stone tools and iron scraps won’t forge destiny. And the Glory Road is not iron.”
He glanced back at her, brow furrowed. “I chose a symbol. Excalibur. The sword of victory. A shortcut the world can’t ignore. Isn’t that enough?”
The Record paused, her quill freezing mid-scratch. Slowly, she tilted her head, considering. “Excalibur… A name from another world. A blade that embodies hope itself. Hm. A fitting choice.”
Then her voice sharpened. “But even a symbol needs an image. Hammer it blind, and it will flicker between forms until it tears reality apart. You have human instincts, yes. That is your foundation. But you require precision. My definition. My instructions. Otherwise, this chamber will become your tomb.”
The Goddess gave a mock clap, smiling wide. “So the mighty archivist has to babysit the caveman.”
The Record ignored her. She unrolled a fresh parchment, ink spilling like black fire across the page. “Listen, Nolan Caelthorn. You’ll forge with your race’s memory, but to my words. I’ll anchor it; you’ll shape it. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Nolan’s grip on the hammer tightened. The instincts of humanity thrummed in his muscles, raw and waiting. The Record’s instructions gleamed on parchment, sharp as law. Between them, Excalibur waited to be born.
The quill scratched furiously across parchment, each stroke deliberate, binding more than just words. When the Akashic Record finished, she flicked the sheet toward Nolan. The ink glowed faintly against the forge-light, golden script shimmering like molten steel.
“Read it,” she ordered.
Nolan caught the page, scanning it quickly. The lines weren’t flowery—more like a ledger’s entry. But every word pressed with weight:
Excalibur The Sword of Promised Victory. Born of the Glory Road, crystallizing hope into steel. A blade forced into form because no Hero claimed it. A vessel of the world’s hope, solidified so destiny may act swiftly. It grants the bearer the right to challenge fate itself. Its edge is absolute, ignoring divinity and magic alike. Only the worthy may wield it.
He lowered the parchment, frowning. “…So this is what you want hammered into it.”
The Record nodded once. “Not want. Need. If you swing blindly, the blade will flicker between forms until it unravels reality. This anchors it. You will forge to this description, nothing else.”
The Goddess leaned over Nolan’s shoulder, peering at the parchment. “Tch. ‘Sword of Promised Victory’? That sounds like a festival banner. You’re making him carve theater into steel.”
The Record ignored her, eyes steady on Nolan. “Follow the definition. Trust your body. Nothing more.”
Nolan let out a slow breath, folding the parchment and tucking it into his belt. His grip closed around the hammer, his heartbeat heavy, steady.
“…Alright.” He glanced toward the furnace, flame reflecting in his eyes. “My blood’s pumping now.”
He rolled his shoulders, shifted his stance, and raised the hammer.
“Let’s start crafting.”
With a sharp clang, the first strike fell, sparks leaping like veins of gold across the forge.
The hammer came down with a resounding clang. Sparks burst upward, not orange but gold, scattering across the chamber like broken threads of sunlight.
Nolan pulled the glowing mass from the furnace and laid it across the anvil. His body moved with the rhythm of something older than him, every strike drawn from the instinctive memory of humanity itself. Fire, strike, shape. Fire, strike, shape. Primitive, yet precise under his control.
But the material resisted. It wasn’t steel. It wasn’t ore. Each hammer fall sent the lump flickering violently, its form shifting:
For a moment, it was a sword, radiant and sharp. Then it snapped into a card, glowing with runic text. Then it collapsed into pure light, spilling across the floor like a road unfurling before vanishing.
The Goddess leaned forward, grin widening. “It doesn’t even know what it wants to be.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” the Record muttered, eyes following every flicker. “It wants to turn back into the Glory Road. That’s its default.”
Nolan gritted his teeth, hammer pausing mid-air. “Then how do I keep it from slipping back?”
The Record’s quill twitched. “When it turns into a card, don’t resist. Put it back into the forge. Heat makes it unstable—unstable means pliable. Forge it again while it fights to return. That’s how you force it into a sword.”
Nolan gave a short nod, slipping the flickering card into the furnace’s flame. The runes glowed white-hot, trembling violently. For a moment it looked like it might dissolve into nothing—then it warped back into molten light, ready for the hammer again.
“Good,” the Record said. “Don’t treat it as failure. Treat it as part of the cycle. Break it, heat it, reforge it. Every pass makes the image stronger.”
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each strike forced the shifting light into the outline of a blade—yet the next instant it snapped flat into a card again, sizzling with instability. Nolan shoved it back into the flames, his grip firm, movements steady.
The forge roared like a beast, and the sword-card-light trinity fought him every step.
The Goddess chuckled, though unease flickered behind her eyes. “…And if he loses control?”
The Record didn’t look at her. “Then this chamber burns along with half the world. Pray he doesn’t.”
Nolan didn’t answer either of them. His eyes stayed locked on the hammer and the molten light, body moving with an inhuman rhythm. Sweat dripped into the fire, hissing instantly. His heartbeat thundered, matching the ring of the hammer.
For a heartbeat, the unstable form finally held—a long golden blade, radiant and perfect, humming with power.
Nolan let out a rough exhale, lips curling into the faintest grin. “…My blood’s pumping now.”
The hammer came down again. “Let’s keep going.”
The forge chamber sweltered like a sauna. Sweat rolled down Nolan’s temples, stinging his eyes. His hammer strikes weren’t graceful — they were methodical, repetitive, like an office worker crunching numbers in endless rows. He wasn’t a blacksmith. He wasn’t even sure he was doing it right. But his body, guided by ancient memory and the Record’s strict instructions, kept him moving.
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The unstable blade flickered — sword, card, road, then back again. Each time it wavered, Nolan shoved it into the furnace like paperwork getting fed through a shredder.
The Goddess leaned against the wall, smirking. “You look ridiculous, you know. Like a salaryman forced into a cosplay contest.”
Nolan’s lip twitched. “Close enough.”
The Record’s voice cut through the haze. “It’s stabilizing, but not proven. Its definition promises it can cut divinity.” She turned toward the Goddess. “We test that now.”
The Goddess blinked, then laughed, her voice sharp. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. You’re not turning me into your lab rat.”
“You’re the only divine body here,” the Record said flatly. “If it fails to cut you, then this blade is still a half-finished theory. And unlike him—” she nodded at Nolan, who was still hammering with mechanical rhythm— “I don’t gamble with undefined variables.”
Nolan muttered without looking up, “For the record, I’m not exactly thrilled about this either.”
The Goddess puffed her cheeks dramatically, then thrust out her arm. “Fine. But if this ruins my skin, I’m rewriting your entire archive into romance novels.”
Nolan wiped his forehead, exhaled, and lifted the unstable blade. His grip was steady, but only because he forced it to be — like holding a shaking pen during an exam. He angled the edge and gave a clean, shallow swipe across her forearm.
A red line appeared. Blood welled.
The Goddess froze, staring. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The blade in Nolan’s hands stopped flickering. Its form held steady, solid, humming like it had been waiting for this proof.
The Record let out the smallest sigh of relief. “Then it’s anchored. The sword exists as written.”
The Goddess scowled, clutching her arm. “You… enjoyed that a little too much.”
Nolan lowered the blade, exhaustion etched on his face. “Lady, I’m just an analyst who used to complain about overtime shifts. Now I’m blacksmithing destiny for two gods. Enjoyment doesn’t factor into it.”
He glanced back at the forge, eyes narrowing. “…But my blood’s pumping harder now.” He set the blade down on the anvil. “Let’s finish this shift.”
The hammer struck again, sparks flaring brighter than ever
The forge hissed like an office kettle left too long on the burner. Nolan’s arms ached, his shirt clung to his back, and his mind screamed for a desk and a spreadsheet instead of a hammer and glowing cosmic light.
The blade was almost there. Almost. Each strike forced it closer into form. Yet it still flickered, like a faulty bulb: sword—card—sword—road—card again.
Nolan pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “This thing’s worse than working with three managers giving different deadlines.”
The Record, pacing with quill in hand, snapped: “Focus, Caelthorn. Each cycle strengthens the definition. You can’t let it revert.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, sliding the flickering card back into the flames. The runes sizzled, warped, and bent until molten light oozed into shape again. He pulled it free, set it down, hammered it once, twice, three times.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each strike was met with resistance. The blade wanted to slip back, wanted to become the Glory Road again. But every cycle of heating and hammering bent its will closer to stability.
The Goddess leaned back in her chair, still cradling her cut arm, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re not forging. You’re babysitting. No wonder you look so tired.”
“Lady,” Nolan grunted, sweat stinging his eyes, “I used to work data entry until three a.m. for a boss who thought pivot tables were magic. Babysitting destiny isn’t that different.”
The Record scribbled something quickly, binding her words into the blade’s unstable glow. “Almost there. Keep the rhythm.”
Nolan adjusted his stance, hammer rising. His movements weren’t elegant—they were stubborn. Repetition, precision, nothing more. The blade flickered harder, snapping between sword and card with violent flashes, but each time it returned faster, held longer.
Until—
The last strike fell. Clang.
The blade froze in place. Golden steel, humming like a heart. A moment later, light rippled down its length, and the image of a card hovered over it—perfectly aligned. Sword and card. Both forms, both anchored.
The Goddess tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “So… it’s both.”
“Of course it’s both,” the Record said, her tone almost satisfied. “The world’s hope doesn’t belong in one form. It had to be flexible. Blade or card. Symbol or tool.”
Nolan let out a long, shaky breath. His arms trembled as he set the hammer aside. The sword shimmered faintly in his hands, weight heavier than anything he’d ever lifted.
“…Shift’s done,” he muttered. “Excalibur’s here.”
He didn’t raise it triumphantly. He didn’t pose like a hero. He just set it down on the anvil, like a worker dropping off finished paperwork at the end of a long day.
The forge finally fell quiet.
The forge dimmed. The unstable flickering stopped. On the anvil, the golden blade gleamed, its mirrored card form floating above like a sealed contract.
The Record pressed her hand against the text and spoke:
“Finalize. Anchor. Define.”
Golden script burned itself into reality.
Excalibur – The Sword of Promised Victory
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Origin: Forged from the fragment of the Glory Road, condensed destiny shaped into a blade.
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Form: Exists as both a sword and a card. Switches freely.
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Effect:
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Only the worthy can wield Excalibur without backlash.
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Each strike carries the force of absolute hope, able to pierce divine authority and rewrite fate in its path.
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Deck-Binding Effect: Excalibur allows the wielder to take any card from the deck or graveyard into the hand at will. (Destiny delivers what is needed, without restriction.)
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Stabilizes the wielder’s deck, granting seamless martial and item combinations.
-
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Symbolism: The world’s hope, made tangible — destiny forged into steel.
The description shimmered, locking itself into existence.
Nolan wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, squinting at the glowing text. “…This is ridiculous. Overpowered doesn’t even cover it. This thing could beat you up, Goddess, and there’s no way to sell that as anything but broken.”
The Goddess smirked, amused by his bluntness. “Oh? Afraid of your own toy?”
“No.” Nolan set the blade back on the anvil, tone flat. “My job’s to be the villain. Overpowered makes sense. But there’s no convincing way to stop it. The moment the hero picks it up, he’ll read this card description—” he tapped the floating text— “and he’ll realize he’s holding the single most unfair edge in existence. He’ll be screwed if he hesitates.”
The Record crossed her arms, eyes sharp. “Which is exactly why I wrote it the way I did. Only the worthy can wield it. Without the proper keys, the blade won’t obey.”
Nolan tilted his head. “…Define worthy.”
The Record’s quill glowed, tracing words in the air. “Your Hero Deck makes you eligible. Hero’s Journey. Glory Road. Return of the Hero. Those three cards together prove the wielder carries the path of destiny. That’s why you can use it now.”
Nolan’s eyes narrowed, mind clicking. “And if someone strips those cards from me—?”
The Goddess snapped her fingers, grinning wickedly. “Then you’re no longer worthy. Which is exactly what I’ll do when we fight. Take your precious trio, and the sword abandons you. Drama, spectacle, tension—perfection.”
Nolan looked between them, then let out a long sigh. “…So that’s the angle, huh. You two get your staged fight, the hero gets his destined weapon, and I get to look like the unstoppable villain until the script cuts me down.”
The Record’s eyes softened a fraction. “That’s the role. And you play it well.”
Nolan picked up Excalibur again. The sword didn’t flicker this time. It thrummed in his hands, heavy, absolute. “…Overpowered or not,” he muttered, “I’ll swing it until the scene ends.”
The blade lay across the anvil, its golden glow bathing the chamber. Its mirrored card hovered above it, the description etched forever into the world’s Archive.
The Goddess leaned forward, chin in hand, smirk curling on her lips. “So this is what all the fuss is about. Doesn’t look that dangerous.”
Nolan’s gaze sharpened. He rested his hand on the hilt, the weight of the weapon vibrating through his bones. His voice was low, steady. “This isn’t a weapon. It’s destiny incarnate. If you treat it like a game, you’ll end up dead.”
The smirk wavered. For the first time, the Goddess leaned back, her cut arm still faintly glowing from the earlier test.
The Record tapped her quill against her notebook, adding in quiet agreement: “He’s right. This isn’t a tool to be waved around. It embodies the Glory Road itself — the axis of the world’s hope. If even a scratch could cut you, imagine what a real swing would do.”
The Goddess clicked her tongue, masking discomfort with bravado. “Fine. I’ll keep it in mind. But we’re still putting on a show in the Colosseum, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” Nolan lifted the sword, then let it shift into its card form with a shimmer. The floating rectangle of golden light hummed in his hand, then snapped back into steel with a flicker. “That’s why you need to take the act seriously. One wrong move, one misstep, and the fight won’t be staged anymore.”
The Record added flatly, “And if that happens, not even I’ll be fast enough to patch you back together.”
Silence hung for a moment, heavy as iron.
The Goddess broke it with a laugh, too sharp, too forced. “So serious, all of you. Very well. I’ll play my part. I’ll make the cut look convincing—without letting it land.”
Nolan didn’t smile. He just placed Excalibur back onto the anvil, his eyes never leaving hers. “See that you do. Because destiny doesn’t forgive mistakes.”
The forge cooled, leaving Excalibur’s golden glow humming faintly in the corner. The Record shut her ledger with a crisp snap, voice low but steady.
“That settles it. The sword exists. Now comes the infiltration. The Academy won’t leave the Colosseum unguarded.”
Nolan rolled his neck, then pulled a fresh parchment closer. His hand moved in quick strokes, not sketching weapons this time, but tools: a ladder, a grappling hook, a crowbar.
The Goddess leaned closer, brow raised. “You forged destiny into a blade, and now you’re drawing… hardware?”
“Hardware gets me in,” Nolan replied evenly. “Swords don’t open doors. Grappling hooks get me over walls, ladders take me past barriers, and a crowbar makes sure locks don’t slow me down. If we’re crashing a stage, we need the backstage keys.”
The Record glanced at the sketches, nodding. “Practical. And the barrier?”
Nolan tapped another diagram — a rough dome closing over the stadium. “We’ll need to build a containment field. Strong enough to lock out most of the faculty. Only the top brass — the strongest — will be able to break through. That way the spotlight stays where we want it: on the candidates, the crowd, and the Hero.”
The Goddess smirked. “So you’re picking who gets to watch the play.”
“Exactly.” Nolan’s tone was flat. “If too many teachers get inside, the script falls apart. We need chaos, not annihilation. The barrier buys us time.”
The Record added, “And it ensures the Hero himself will have to act. Without interference, the candidates won’t be able to hide behind their instructors.”
Nolan circled three points on the parchment. “Here’s the plan. I’ll hit the Colosseum from the back gate. Vaelreth comes from the air — nothing draws eyes like a dragon ripping through the sky. And the Lich?”
The Goddess tilted her head. “Sneaks into the Colosseum through a hidden tunnel?”
“No.” Nolan shook his head. “The Colosseum’s too new. No hidden passages yet. He’ll use the Academy proper. Old stone, old designs, untouched for centuries. He knows that layout. He’ll march his summons straight through their own halls, and by the time they realize what’s happening, he’ll already be in the arena.”
The Record folded her arms, thoughtful. “Three vectors. One sky, one shadow, one strike. The Academy will scramble. The audience will panic. And the Hero…” She allowed herself the faintest smile. “The Hero will be forced to stand.”
Nolan packed the parchment away, glancing once more at Excalibur’s glow. “Then we build. The tools. The barrier. The stage itself. If this is going to look real, it needs to hold together until the curtain falls.”