Sang reached into the pile and pulled out a warped, blackened sword. It looked no better than the slag surrounding it—brittle, soot-stained, and structurally unsound.
"No matter how I attempted to stabilise the spirit-conductivity, no matter how much I refined the core, it ended up in such a way," the Headmaster admitted, his voice a mix of exhaustion and obsession.
William understood exactly what Sang was chasing. In a world where spirit masters were largely bound by the reach of their own limbs, the concept of a flying sword was the ultimate prize. If a master could craft weapons that moved with the fluid grace of a bird of prey, the entire nature of warfare would shift overnight.
