It's at least a famous relic, I thought as I studied the oddly shaped scrap of a blade. It had some years on it, that much was obvious.
A moment ago, listening to the Lady Inquisitor and the Archbishop trade remarks back and forth, I'd gotten the rough history of this ancient sword called Corruption Star. It had that sort of legendary vibe—like Excalibur (except, you know, the evil version).
The gist was that its origins could be traced back to a long, long time ago, to something called the Imperium's XIV Legion… and then, about a thousand years ago, the sword resurfaced on a planet called Bogenhafen and triggered a massive bio-catastrophe. Supposedly the entire world became a breeding pit of plague and rot, to the point the Imperium had no choice but to glass it from orbit with annihilating weapons, burning the whole place into vitrified slag.
Then the truly cursed part happened: the sword survived, right at the epicenter.
A few hundred years later, on Bogenhafen—now nothing but a dead world—some… traitors, or a renegade legion, dug it up, either following the scent or proving something from old records. Then they carried it off to wreak havoc everywhere, stirring up bloodshed and disaster after disaster.
After that, the sword passed through multiple wars, changing hands between the rebels and the Imperium over and over. The Imperium tried repeatedly to destroy it, but it kept appearing in major historical incidents as though it were actively "present."
The sword's reputation grew monstrous. Allegedly, its power was so extreme that even an Imperial "Titan" (I wasn't entirely sure what that was, but it sounded like some absurdly rare super-weapon, the kind you barely ever see even across the whole Imperium) had once been scratched by it and then died in agony…
Finally, sometime in the era middle era… cough. Sometime around two or three hundred years ago, the sword was sealed here by an Imperial saint—"Anonymous"—who did it by sacrificing himself, and it had remained that way until today.
Tsk. Tsk. Whether the story was true or not, the cultural and historical value was basically maxed out. But looking at the thing… the "artistic value" was flat zero. It looked worse than one of those handmade scrap-metal contraptions. I couldn't help feeling a little contempt.
"No wonder this scourge vanished from the Odysseus Sector over the last century," the Lady Inquisitor said, staring daggers at the Archbishop. "So it was the Ecclesiarchy that brought it here to seal it. You've lost your minds, keeping it in a place this populous and developed."
"This was the best method Saint Anonymous arrived at, after learning from every failure in our past attempts against this evil," the Archbishop replied. He looked exhausted—not physically, but the kind of tired that comes from carrying a weight for too long. "Grandtale itself is strong, unafraid of any invasion. And Spirepeak City is old enough and holy enough; every inch of steel here is steeped in the glory of loyal devotion…"
He paused, then met her eyes directly.
"You were once one of the God-Emperor's finest daughters. You should understand. That is why Saint Anonymous chose this place, and used his immortal body to suppress Corruption Star forever. The price he paid far exceeded death."
"The price wasn't his alone," the Lady Inquisitor said. Her tone softened slightly, but her gaze stayed stubborn. "Spirepeak City, and all of Grandtale with it, has been bearing it alongside him. At the grand scale, this was the first time in thousands of years that the power of a great enemy penetrated Grandtale, and the seeds of evil and corruption took root here, growing worse and worse. It's hard to believe that has nothing to do with this thing."
She looked at the Archbishop, the corner of her mouth lifting into a faint sneer.
"And at the smaller scale… Spirepeak City's economic strength and cultural influence have been declining year after year for nearly a century. Now your rival city, New Lien, has you completely under its heel. And with that, the pro-Imperium forces across Grandtale have been shrinking, steadily losing ground to the local powers."
Her eyes returned to the rust-choked ancient sword.
"Otherwise, why do you think I'm here?"
At that point I really couldn't help myself. I cut in.
"Um… if you all agree this thing is a catastrophe, why not just destroy it? Like… smash it into pieces, then toss it into a steel furnace and melt it down, or something?"
The Archbishop gave me a look that blended sorrow and pity, like I was a child asking why the sun couldn't be turned off.
"Child. Over the centuries, we have tried every method. But this evil is nearly indestructible. No mundane means can truly damage it."
His voice drifted into something almost like a dream.
"It can sit unharmed at the very center of orbital bombardment."
"It can reduce an Astartes—one of the God-Emperor's Angels of Death—who tried to shatter it with a Thunder Hammer… hammer and all… into a writhing mound of filthy slime."
"The Grey Knights of the Ordo Malleus once defeated its wielder and sealed it on a world long since dead. Yet it always manages, through its indescribable power, to draw those who crave corruption and strength, across the stars, to retrieve it again."
He slowly shook his head.
"Once, a valiant shipmaster carried it aboard his own vessel, intending to plunge into the heart of a star and die with it."
"But during the voyage, it swiftly ignited the crew's fall and mutiny, and used its warp-taint to corrupt the entire voidship."
"In the end, we could only watch through the Astropath's shattered reports as that ship became an unnamable abomination—twisted from rotting flesh, corroded steel, and endless wailing—before vanishing completely into a single, untraceable warp translation…"
"That… strong?" I listened, eyes wide, thoroughly engrossed. Whatever else, it was certainly entertaining. I found myself looking the scrap-iron sword over again. Looks really can be deceiving. Who would've thought this disgusting thing had such a long, crooked history? It honestly outdid a whole library of wuxia novels, no contest.
"So you brought us here to see the evil relic because…" the Lady Inquisitor began at my side.
The Archbishop seamlessly continued, as if he'd been waiting for the opening.
"…because we need you to pull it out, if you would be so kind."
"Huh?" A single dumb syllable was all I managed.
"It has been too long," he said gently, and I couldn't tell whether it was excuse or sincerity. "We wish to gather the saint's remains properly, and lay him to rest with due rites. But as you can see, the people here are… well, superstitious. No one is willing to touch something so ill-omened."
His voice carried a faint plea, a hopeful edge.
"And I am an old man with no great strength. Look at it—the sword is sunk into the wall…"
"So, could I ask you to help, and pull it free?"
For an instant, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the Lady Inquisitor go rigid—like a lynx with its fur spiking—her entire body tensing. But it lasted only a second. She returned to normal so quickly I couldn't even be sure I hadn't imagined it.
Well. I didn't think it was a big deal. And honestly, after hearing so many strange stories about the artifact, I was curious.
So I put on an act, circling the ancient sword and the corpse once like some kind of professional, then said to the Archbishop, "Could you get me a pair of gloves and a mask?" I was trying to recall the mannerisms of experts from those antique-restoration shows I'd watched, hoping to look a little more competent.
The Archbishop clearly froze for a moment, as if my request hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility. He thought for a beat, then spoke quietly into the communicator built into the top of his staff.
A moment later, the heavy metal door we'd entered through opened again.
"Clank… clank…" With slow, heavy, unnatural footsteps, a half-man, half-machine thing walked in—one of the creatures I'd seen before at Valmonda Fortress. A "servitor."
I took a step back to avoid it. I'd already been stuck around these things for days back at the fortress, sure, but that was because I had no choice. No matter what, this eerie junk always made my skin crawl. It reminded me of slasher films, of masked lunatics stalking corridors. Honestly, turning a living human into a half-dead tool wasn't that far off, morally speaking.
But everyone else here looked totally used to it, so I couldn't exactly throw a tantrum.
To my surprise, the Lady Inquisitor seemed to notice my disgust. She stepped forward herself, took from the tray a pair of thick gloves made of some material that felt halfway between leather and rubber, plus something that was less a "mask" and more like a compact respirator, and handed them to me.
Since when did she become this considerate?
While I fumbled into the gloves, I caught another glimpse: the servitor shuffled stiffly to the far wall of the room, where a small door opened without a sound, and it walked inside.
I was still thinking, so this vault-like chamber has other doors too?—when a bright glow spilled through the crack, followed by a roaring, whooshing sound of open flame. Even where I stood, I could feel a searing heat-wave and the stink of something burning.
My mouth hung open for a long time.
It wasn't hard to imagine that servitor had just been reduced to smoke, a pinch of ash, and a puddle of molten metal.
"A necessary safety measure," the Archbishop said blandly.
I swallowed and decided not to dig any deeper.
With my mask and gloves on, I crouched in front of the corpse and the ancient sword. First I pinched the blade and tried to wiggle it—nothing. Not even a fraction. Yeah, it was set in there good.
The blade itself was pitted and scarred, coated in dark red rust and grime of unknown origin. Disgusting. One look was enough to trigger a healthy fear of tetanus. I decided it was better to grab the hilt.
The problem was that the corpse's two hands were still clenched around it.
"You may pry those hands open, child. The saint will not mind," the Archbishop said warmly from behind me. "In truth, he will welcome it. He has longed to be freed from this endless torment."
Bullshit. I cursed silently. I mind.
My stomach churned. Fighting down the nausea and the dread, I reached out and touched those dried, yellowed, utterly dehydrated fingers. The texture was dry and hard, but also oddly slick.
"Crack… crack…"
I forced myself through the scalp-prickling horror and peeled those fingers off the hilt one by one, like pulling apart braised duck feet. Then I gripped the thick, long handle and tugged.
It didn't move.
I leaned over the corpse's shoulder and looked behind. The sword had gone through his chest and then into the wall beyond, and I had no idea how deep it was embedded.
That wall was covered in dense lines of text like scripture, though most of it was buried beneath grime and rust. Near where the blade entered, my earlier wiggling had shaken loose some filth, revealing a patch of gold.
Gold?
Was this a golden wall?
I snorted at myself. No chance. That would take an insane amount of gold. Even the most fanatical, most obscenely rich zealots couldn't justify something like that…
I pulled a few more times. Still nothing.
So I got irritated. I clenched the hilt with both hands and started rocking it left and right, trying to loosen it. I planted my feet against the wall behind and heaved, rocking and pulling with my entire body.
You… damn… thing. That's in there.
I was getting embarrassed. This tiny task was bullying me—an unathletic shut-in with no strength to speak of. No way I was losing face in front of the Lady Inquisitor, this cold, glamorous, commanding beauty.
"…Hah!" I held my breath, gathered everything, and yanked backward with all my strength—twisting and wrenching in one violent pull!
Crack!!
A dull, brutal snapping sound exploded through the silent room.
Caught off guard, I toppled backward and landed hard on my ass.
I looked down.
In my hands was half the ancient sword. At the fracture, the cross-section was utterly ordinary: gray-black metal with a hard sheen, flecked with rust.
Trembling, I lifted my head.
The other half of the sword was still embedded firmly in the wall.
With the sword no longer pinning it in place, the dried corpse—nailed there for more than two hundred years—slowly tipped forward…
With a wet, disgusting plop, it face-planted onto the floor.
For a moment, the whole room went so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
The Lady Inquisitor's beautiful, delicate face twisted into an expression so complex it defied description.
The Archbishop's wrinkled old face also froze, mouth half-open, like a movie frame paused mid-scene.
I looked at the broken sword in my hands.
Then at the remaining blade in the wall.
Oh.
Oh no.
(End of Chapter)
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