Perhaps his brothers were right and he did have a slight problem with running away the moment he heard about something that interested him. (Sure, maybe his mother had slipped him the rumor, but still!) First the Lazarus Tournament, and now this?

But truly, it wasn’t his fault that a story of a blade that could only be wielded by the most skilled of warriors had reached his ears. And it most certainly wasn’t his fault that he had conveniently found a plane ticket to the other side of the world.

His hands wrap around the cool blade, anticipation curling in his stomach. He’s very distinctly reminded of the story of Excalibur, and he can only pray that he’s Arthur. If he’s not, he very well might die of shame.

With a loud grating sound, the blade came free, beautiful and ornate. It almost seemed to glow as he brought it up, holding it into the light. For a moment, he was silent, before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He gasped and turned, preparing his new blade. “Who dares to-“ his breath caught in his throat. A sword spirit was before him, just as beautiful as the blade in his hands. He had heard rumors that something- someone- magical resided in the sword, but he had not believed it was true.