Pillar of Yita

The desolate moonlight was mirrored upon the vast boundless lake, laying a rim of silver along the rippling waves; the shimmering light pierced the porthole and fell into the cabin, mottled shadows and gleams flowing like water.

That radiance seemed to brighten the cabin, refracting across the rust‑stained blade. The sword lay flat upon soft silk; the silk was violet, edged with gold thread, exuding a trace of mystery, and the sword as a whole seemed to be shedding a faint, glimmering glow.

Yet through countless years it appeared long accustomed to such nameless, silent slumber, no longer showing its former visage before the world, so that it had lost its keen edge, and let its mottled body narrate the ancient passage of time.

”Broken sword,” gray‑white letters hovered above the blade, visible to nearly everyone who possessed a system.

But only in Fang Hong’s eyes was there a slight difference; what he saw had one more word than the others:

”Broken holy sword.”

It was precisely this subtle discrepancy that made Fang Hong feel its origin was far from ordinary.

The information provided by the system was sometimes incomplete, but it seldom lied.

Everyone stepped forward in turn to grasp the sword, yet could not induce any response. Parker even tried to pick it up and swing it a couple of times with all his strength.

The group tried all manner of methods, including dripping blood upon the edge, yet it remained as quiet as ever, keeping its unremarkable appearance.

”Maybe it really is broken,” Ai Xiaoxiao whispered.

Tianlan moved his lips, but said nothing.

Sadly, they did not possess a craft known as ”repairing holy swords.” For these were not even Magic Guided Conductors, but true magic swords.

In former days they were born from fairy hands, forged in the furnace of Chongshan, tempered in dragon blood, and blessed by the gods.

That streak of dark red in the darkness, the golden radiance that cast its blade—sparks poured down like a waterfall, and in their fall they traced out the sword’s soul.

At their birth the whole world trembled; the hosts of darkness regarded them as mortal foes. In every shadowed corner there lurked furtive whispers, as though telling of an unseen dread for these five fairy holy swords.

Where the swords turned, profane evils scattered—for in that age, such tales were more than mere legend.

Yet this blade, rust‑flecked and worn, lay quietly upon the supple silk, while moonlight pooled like water.

Fang Hong gently closed his hand around the hilt; in the dimness all blaze and clamor fell to silence.

It was as if all arcane marvels and legends in the dark had collapsed; scattered dreams, like clinging smoke, flickering glints and shifting shadows, merged layer upon layer into the blade and became one with it.

The past was the present, and it had always been thus.

Fang Hong could not help drawing a breath, fearing that what he had bought was truly a counterfeit—that would be ridiculous indeed. But he would rather believe that he had not yet found the proper way to waken it, for Miss Tata would not deceive him.

Nini was lying on his shoulder as well, her small hands clutching his collar, trying to keep as far away as she could, yet unable to leave him. It was as if once the sword left its sheath, it would lop off father and daughter on the spot; this was a memory buried in the blood, hard to alter. But more than herself, she worried for her Papa, and in a soft, uneasy murmur she said, ”Papa, Papa, Nini is scared...”

Fang Hong tapped Nini’s cheek gently with his fingers, comforting the little girl, then stepped back two paces to put some distance between himself and the blade.

A holy sword does not grow worn from combat, nor rust for having lain too long in repose. Under certain conditions, it hides its own light, becoming as an ordinary sword.

Yet in the beginning, at the time of forging, the fairies had already set the means by which they were to be awakened: the blood of the five Oathkeeper clans. But it was not only the appointed Guardians who could take them up—any mortal hero might raise a holy sword against the darkness, the key lay in fulfilling the required conditions.

Of the five holy swords, all but Morning Light were wrought by fairy hands.

The Morning Light Holy Sword, Light’s Blade, was the first sword to be born from the furnace of Chongshan, forged by the Dwarves, with the God of Chongshan, Tarot, bestowing his blessing upon it.

To this day that sword remains the national emblem of Ishurian, and a holy relic famed alongside the Hailin Crown.

All Colin People and all Dwarves may take it up. This sword has had three famed bearers: two were Kings of Colin, including the founding sovereign; the third was a Dwarf Hero.

Moya was the second sword forged, first among the five. Its pre‑eminence was not only because it bore the blessing of the Dragon God Bahamut and possessed a nature most feared by Dark Giant Dragons; more crucially, it slew Dragon King Leifgard.

Galapea, the Fairy Kin—its tale alone could be written into an epic, and it was the last holy sword of mortals, witness to the Golden Star Fire falling into the mortal realm and to the end of the War between humans and dragons.

The fairy goddess, the pure maiden Aisha, blessed it with a single drop of blood; the blood slid down along the spine of the blade and formed a pattern of intertwined thorns.

Whosoever bore this sword was sheltered by Aisha, as though dwelling in a realm of purest light, never to be touched by darkness throughout all ages.

Yet in the end this remained but a beautiful vision; the tale of Dragon Slayers turning into dragons has never ceased.

The fourth of the five swords was the most enigmatic blade; it was as if the world had never heard its name, nor ever witnessed its true form. It seemed to have neither past nor future—none knew where once it had been, nor where now it lay in slumber, what it had undergone, what story it had inscribed.

Its legend, in the end, is known to none.

And as the last holy sword drawn from the furnace, Foe Slayer was by contrast far more ordinary.

It is the enemy of dragons, the sword of dragon‑death; beneath its blade hang the severed heads of seven legendary giant dragons, blood dripping into rivers, blood flowing into seas.