Chapter 44: The Hero’s Sword

The rain had finally begun to weaken, bleeding out into a fine, freezing mist.

Kōya remained kneeling beside the freshly turned earth of his father’s grave until the relentless drumming of the downpour softened into a quiet, steady drizzle. He did not know how much time had slipped away into the dark. Minutes. Hours. It no longer mattered. The concept of time belonged to the living, and right now, Kōya felt entirely hollowed out.

His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his skin like heavy iron. Thick mud caked his knees and scarred hands. His dark eyes were swollen and raw, and his chest physically ached, a cavernous, jagged void where something enormous had been violently ripped away.

But sitting there in the cold mud, beneath the crushing weight of his grief, something fundamental inside him began to crystallize.

His father’s final, gasping words echoed relentlessly in the quiet chambers of his mind.

I leave Mizuki to you, my son.

Kōya slowly pushed himself to his feet. He stood over the disturbed earth, the rain running down his face. For several long seconds, he offered only absolute silence to the night.

Then, slowly, he raised his right hand. He formed a tight, trembling fist and placed it firmly over his own heart.

Just as Seiya had done.

"I’ll bring her home, Father," Kōya whispered to the damp earth. "I promise."

He lowered his hand, his dark eyes hardening into obsidian. He turned his back on the grave and walked toward the house.

The small, familiar wooden building stood silently beneath the pale moonlight, a ghost ship marooned in the dark. Every step Kōya took toward it felt incredibly, unnaturally heavy, as if the gravity of the world had doubled.

When he crossed the threshold, the suffocating silence of the interior struck him like a physical blow.

The dining room was exactly as he had left it. The heavy oak table. The wooden chairs. The ceramic bowls. The cold, untouched remnants of the final meal he and Seiya had shared.

And Seiya’s chair.

Kōya stopped dead in the hallway. His eyes locked onto the empty wooden seat. For a fleeting, agonizing second, his mind played a cruel trick on him. He could almost see his father sitting there again. His broad shoulders taking up too much space. Laughing that booming laugh. Complaining that the portions were too small. Asking about the Academy. Desperately pretending the world outside wasn’t currently burning to the ground.

Kōya walked slowly toward the table, reaching out with a trembling, mud-stained hand. His fingers brushed the smooth wooden back of the chair.

"Father..."

His voice cracked, the grief threatening to drag him back under.

Then, his tactical mind reasserted control. He remembered the final directive.

The sword.

Seiya had told him exactly where it was hidden.

Kōya turned away from the table, his expression shifting from a grieving son to a soldier on a mission. He walked into the adjacent room his father had indicated and dropped to his knees. His fingers traced the seams of the wooden floorboards, feeling for anomalies.

There. One rectangular section of wood sat slightly uneven.

Kōya pressed his weight against the corner. The panel shifted with a quiet click. He dug his fingers into the gap and pulled upward, tearing the board free.

A hidden, velvet-lined compartment lay recessed beneath the foundation. Darkness filled the narrow space, but Kōya didn’t need light. He reached his right hand inside.

His fingertips brushed against cold, heavy metal. He curled his hand firmly around the grip and pulled.

The weapon emerged slowly from the shadows, sliding out with the heavy, satisfying friction of master-crafted steel.

Kōya knelt on the floorboards, staring at the ancient weapon.

The sword was absolutely enormous. Its broad, heavy blade was forged from a shimmering, unidentifiable alloy that looked entirely alien to ordinary steel. A faint, dormant golden radiance seemed to pulse just beneath the surface of the metal. It was not the chaotic heat of ordinary fire. It was not the ambient hum of standard mana.

It was something vastly older. Something impossibly pure.

Kōya’s expression grew intensely serious. "So, this is what you saved for me."

He reached for the center of the hilt with his right hand, intending to test the balance.

The absolute microsecond his flesh made contact with the holy metal—

CRACK!

A violent, concussive burst of blinding white energy exploded directly from the sword’s core.

Kōya was launched violently backward as if struck by a siege ram. He crashed brutally into the far wall, splintering the wooden beams, and dropped to the floor.

He recovered almost instantly, rolling to his feet, his combat instincts flaring. He stared at the weapon resting innocently on the floorboards.

Kōya narrowed his eyes, his breathing perfectly controlled. He approached the blade a second time. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his right hand again.

The moment his fingertips grazed the hilt—

CRACK!

Another violent, explosive rejection repelled his hand, sending a shockwave of burning pain up his forearm.

Kōya snatched his hand back, his brow furrowing. "What?"

He looked down at his stinging palm, examining the red, blistered skin, and then glared at the ancient sword. "You rejected me?"

The sword offered no answer, merely pulsing with that faint, arrogant golden light.

Kōya looked back toward the dining room, toward his father’s empty chair. "You explicitly told me this was mine."

Silence.

Kōya analyzed the variables. The sword was a holy relic. It was a weapon forged to eradicate the dark. And his right hand... his right hand was the primary conduit for the deeply entrenched, suffocating demonic aura of a former Demon Lord. The holy weapon was violently rejecting a power fundamentally incompatible with its own nature.

Slowly, testing a theory, Kōya raised his left hand.

Something incredible happened. As his left hand hovered over the weapon, a faint, resonant golden light began to bleed from his own fingertips.

The sword responded. The ancient blade hummed, its golden radiance swelling to meet his hand.

Kōya’s eyes widened in realization. He reached down and wrapped his left hand securely around the heavy hilt.

Nothing happened. There was no violent rejection. No explosive holy fire.

Instead, the enormous sword trembled, vibrating with pure resonance.

Kōya pulled. The heavy blade came free from the floorboards, entirely weightless in his left hand.

The entire room erupted in a blinding, incandescent golden light.

Kōya’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. A massive, roaring current of ancient energy surged through the hilt and into his arm.

Then, the dynamic violently inverted. The sword began aggressively drawing energy out of him.

Kōya’s expression fractured. "What are you..."

He felt it. A power he had never fully understood, a radiant force entirely separate from the ancient darkness that had defined his previous existence, was surging awake within him. It flowed like a golden river down his left arm and directly into the glowing hilt.

The holy weapon acted as a divine conduit. It resonated flawlessly with the Heroic power already residing within his soul, pulling it to the surface.

An overwhelming, radiant golden energy erupted outward, burning fiercely alongside the dark aura occupying his right side.

Kōya stared at the blinding weapon in absolute disbelief. "It was already inside me..."

The sword greedily drew deeper into his immense, untouched Heroic reserves. Kōya’s physical body suddenly felt impossibly light. A soaring, euphoric Heroic power surged through his left side, rising alongside the dense, heavy signature of his Demonic Aura. The golden blade burned brighter than the midday sun.

Running entirely on instinct, Kōya swung the massive sword.

A gigantic, crescent-shaped arc of pure golden energy exploded from the weapon.

BOOOOOOM!

The devastating attack tore cleanly through the far wall of the house. Wood, stone, and earth exploded outward into the night in a shower of debris. The surrounding silverwood trees shook violently, their branches snapping under the sheer kinetic pressure of the holy blast.

Kōya immediately clamped down on his aura, forcibly severing the flow of energy to his left arm.

The blinding golden light vanished. The oppressive silence of the night rushed back in.

Kōya stood amidst the splintered wood, breathing heavily. He looked through the massive, smoking hole in the wall, then down at the heavy sword in his left hand.

"It actively drew upon my Heroic reserves..." He slowly, deliberately clenched his fingers around the hilt, testing the grip. "It acts as a conduit for a power I already possessed."

For several seconds, he remained standing in the ruined room, the tactical implications cascading through his brilliant mind. Then, his thoughts returned to Seiya. He remembered his father’s final, fading moments. The closed fist pressed firmly against his heart. The strange, comforting warmth that had radiated from the dying man.

Kōya’s dark eyes widened slightly as the final puzzle piece clicked into place.

"So, that’s what you did..."

He looked back through the hallway toward the empty dining chair.

"Even on your literal deathbed..." His voice grew incredibly soft, stripped of all its cold armor. "You knew I would need a catalyst."

A faint smile touched Kōya’s lips. It possessed absolutely no joy. It was a complex, shattering mixture of profound gratitude and absolute, bleeding pain.

"Thanks, Dad."