The moment his fingers touched the worn hilt, his mind was violently shaken.
For an instant, the world went dark.
Then the images exploded.
Blood.
Cuts.
Countless falling bodies.
But this time, he wasn't watching.
He was the one cutting.
There was a blade in his hand—neither a long sword nor a small dagger. It felt like a natural extension of his arm, exactly as it was meant to be. The moment a decision was made, everything before him was split apart into countless fragments.
There was no hesitation.
No anger.
Only cold, absolute indifference.
Gasping, Esharath staggered back in shock and tore his hand away from the sword. His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the ground. He clutched his head, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
The vision had lasted only a moment.
Yet it felt like an eternity.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
No answer came.
But the sword was still there.
Silent.
Waiting.
And instinctively, Esharath understood one thing.
This sword was not without an owner.
It was simply waiting for a decision to be made.