Derek stepped through the swirling portal, feeling a strange weightlessness before landing on solid ground.
He opened his eyes—and stilled.
The Sword Graveyard was… otherworldly.
The sky above was dark but endless, like the inside of a storm cloud, flickering with occasional flashes of silver lightning. The air was thick with energy, crackling around him like invisible threads.
And then, of course—the swords.
Thousands—no, millions—of swords lay scattered across the battlefield-like terrain, their blades sticking out of the ground like forgotten tombstones. Some were rusted, others pristine, but they all shared one thing: an aura of mystery.
Derek exhaled slowly.
"This is it."
Then he heard the grunting.
Nearby, a group of warriors were trying to pull various swords out of the ground—and failing miserably.
One guy, muscles bulging, was pulling a longsword with everything he had. "Come on, you stupid thing, I'll—HRNNNGH—rip you out if I have to!"
The sword did not move an inch.
Another swordsman, red-faced and straining, tried to pull a dagger. He gave up after two minutes, collapsing onto his knees. "WHY?!! I train every day!"
A young knight screamed, "I HAVE ROYAL BLOOD!" while pulling at a glowing rapier. Nothing.
Derek watched, bemused. "It's like a bunch of kids trying to lift a hammer that's too heavy."
Taking a deep breath, Derek walked forward, passing over countless swords before stopping in front of one that immediately felt right—a massive greatsword, its black blade shimmering faintly under the strange sky.
He gripped the hilt.
Pulled.
…Nothing.
Derek frowned and tried again.
Still nothing.
A warrior passing by snorted. "Hah! Thought it'd be easy?"
Derek sighed. "Of course not."
Only a handful of people ever got swords each time the Sword Graveyard appeared. It wasn't about strength—the swords simply chose their wielders.
And so far, none had chosen him.
Derek moved on, trying another greatsword. Nothing.
A heavy longsword? Nothing.
A strange curved blade? Did not budge.
As he kept searching, his hand trembled slightly.
This place was a dreamland for swordsmen—but only for those who were worthy.
Behind him, another warrior sighed heavily. "Forget it. We're not chosen."
Derek gritted his teeth. Not yet, I'm not.
Then, suddenly—
A flash of red light.
A warrior, not far from Derek, held up a massive sword wreathed in flames.
The blade glowed violently, runes across the hilt burning with magical fire.
Everyone froze.
A single moment of silence.
Then—
"HE GOT ONE!"
"IT'S A HELLFIRE SWORD!"
"STEAL IT!!!"
Instantly, dozens of warriors lunged at him.
The man who had drawn the sword barely had a moment to react before the first attack came—a rogue lunging with a dagger, aiming for his back.
He barely dodged, swinging his new blade instinctively—a wave of fire erupted, sending several attackers flying.
But that only made it worse.
More warriors charged in.
"What the hell—?!" the man shouted, trying to defend himself.
A knight in full armor slashed at him, forcing him back.
The air was filled with shouts and battle cries, weapons clashing violently.
Men who had failed to draw swords now turned their jealousy into rage, believing if they couldn't have a weapon, no one should.
Some of them didn't even want the sword—they just wanted to kill the man who succeeded.
Blood splattered the ground, bodies falling as warriors cut each other down in a frenzied battle.
Derek, watching from a distance, sighed deeply.
"This is a curse disguised as a blessing."
Everyone here was so obsessed with power that the moment someone actually succeeded, the others turned into rabid animals trying to steal it.
He clenched his fist.
He wouldn't let greed take over him.
Taking a deep breath, he turned to leave.
Then—
He felt something.
A strange pull, deep within his chest.
Derek froze.
Slowly, he turned his head—toward a sword half-buried in the distance.
His heart pounded.
"…What is that?"