Only the sword stood before him.
Waiting.
Calling.
The hesitation in Max's eyes flickered.
And vanished.
In its place came something else—eagerness. A raw, primal urge. Not born of logic. Not even of defiance. But something deeper.
Need.
He stepped forward without a word, his hands rising to grip the hilt of the crimson sword with both hands.
The instant his fingers wrapped around it, a jolt shot through his entire body.
But Max didn't flinch.
Didn't let go.
He was too far gone for pain to matter.
Teeth gritted, muscles tight, he began to pull.
Slowly.
Agonizingly slow.
The blade resisted him—like it didn't want to be removed. Like it was holding on to the altar with everything it had.
'Damn… this thing is heavy!' Max cursed under his breath, sweat already forming on his brow.
Without wasting another second, he summoned the full might of his physical strength.
Fifty-eight Draconic Essences flared to life inside him.
