A Wish to Grab Happiness

The sword had no original name.

Officially, you're right about changing that name over and over again. He changed his name and appearance by the man in his hand, and when he fulfilled his role, he lost his name again. So I don't have it right now.

He crossed the hands of numerous heroes and carved several brands into them. Sometimes, the glory itself and sometimes, the sword showing victory and so called.

The fact that the sword touched the hand of a hero was even as if it were God's decided destiny. That's how, when a hero plays that role. And some shall be pleased with the kingdom, and some shall be the champions of the continent, and their swords shall escape unknowingly. I fell asleep and waited to be transported to the next owner.

The sword is now about to open its heavy eyes. But it was strange, as is always natural, that the inscription coming down from heaven is not engraved on me now.

At that point, the sword, which should have been magically braided in ancient times, is now even incorporated into the owner's flesh. It was a sword that had crossed many years of history and that transition, but it was the first time such a thing had happened to a boulder.

--If you will---

The voice of those close to magic, trembling in space, is conveyed to the body of the sword. Even though it does not exist in the iron body, as if the heavy eyelids had finally begun to make use of it, the sword brings heat in the body of those who have semiassimilated themselves.

But this body hasn't been branded yet. If you don't have a name, the sword is just blunt. This body says it has awakened, but no matter how long it waits, God does not try to take a pen with his hand, and the world does not try to give blessings.

The sword shows a slight vibration. Could it be that this person who is now embedded is not the one who should be the owner? It was also my first experience for the sword. Human beings without qualities that should not be in their hands cannot reach this body, even if they twist their destiny. Besides, I don't understand it very well, but this human being swallows himself into his body and even accomplishes semi-association.

Then you must be the owner. Besides, to the sword everything that took itself was a hero in any way. Paradoxically, it is this man who has himself now who is a hero.

But the name is not engraved. Then you can inscribe the right name for the owner. It would not have been possible to do such a thing, but it would not have been possible if it had been a semi-assimilated status quo.

The sword begins to pulse, gathering information about its entire body, from blood to flesh, with its entire body as our own. What kind of person, what kind of life, what path have you chosen, and the right name.

If, on top of that, this human being is not worthy of a handshake, you should put him to sleep again. It's just that.

That's a flash of events. Naturally. No longer is the sword his gushing blood stream, the flesh and bone that sustains the body.

His name is Rugis. Neither birth nor blood muscles are privileged. Talent does not extend to the very gifted. Not enough heroes are very unspeakable qualities. Not strong. I can never say it's a good idea.

So it was its spirituality that the sword accidentally retained consciousness. Oh, my God, you should describe it. Complications that are very hard to describe as giving up badly, etc.

I gave up once, let go of everything, and gave in. He recognized himself as mediocre and said he couldn't reach it.

As is often the case, it is not bad for ordinary people to live like that. That's the way to live happily ever after, and if you reach out, you just get the recoil from destiny on you.

But again, reach out, he says. Even if the flesh rips, fate tries to kick its body, that doesn't make it a reason for him not to reach for his ideals.

Besides, they can't even live cleverly because of their poor nature. If I kicked someone in the foot, I would have lived so well, I even refused to do so and threw myself into the sea of death.

Clumsy, what a stupid man, he is. There is nothing unusual about reaching out and scratching your ugly feet at something you don't deserve. Everyone will cover their eyes and spit that everyone is a silly way of life.

Yeah, but great. The flesh cannot be called a very hero. But its spirituality, which stops the roots of the giving up breath and prevents it from treading down a path without a way, is what one deserves in one's own hands.

If so, let's inscribe our name. The sword finally follows its shape. Work out the magic again, to the form the owner deserves.

The owner who steps through the mediocre but gives up and tries to reach for the neck of the hero, if it is, my name is ------.

It was a sight that was out of intent.

The left wrist is broken, the two-wielded knife is lost, and there are no more weapons in this hand. The tactic, which is not even a prepared one, is defeated by genius moves, doesn't even have a retracting leg, and later, just waits for Hert Stanley's white blade to crack this cranium. That's all it was supposed to be.

Suddenly, you can say so suddenly. In this right hand swallowed up the surrounding space, as if born, until a wave of sword appeared. Are you telling me my wish pierced heaven? No, it sounds too stupid.

The sword born at hand, breathlessly, was a beautiful sword. A dark purple line on a silver blade. Purple is more a shade reminiscent of lightning than toxicity.

I didn't have time to ask why. Even though Hert's eyes are as stunned as mine, Sang's sword is shaken off. deviate or intercept with knowledge of impossibility?

If you deviate from the sword, you can make a moment of time. But before this one wields a swing that will be a chase, he probably wields his second swing faster than that. After a moment of extension of life, a clear death awaits. But what do we do? You want me to intercept his blade? Head-on.

Strange. How strange. It couldn't have been possible. The choice is to intercept Hert's blow and target his neck. There's no way I can cut off his sword.

But surely one clear track was showing up in my eyes. Oh, fine, I don't mind. Better than dying with a flash of life extension. Much better. That doesn't bother me. A once folded arm wields a blade in a procedure that releases a back fist. That is, as a matter of course, a blade interception.

The white blade is shaken off as it slashes away space accompanied by an auspicious speed. You can't win. You can't win. But at this time, we can only win. Nothing, I chose a path where my will would conflict head-on with the white blade.

The white blade is imminent over the sky, and the blade that houses the purple involves air and roars if it cannot intercept the white blade more than the ground.

—— This is our family heirloom. In inheritance, what was also called mystery and miracle.

Once I heard that word of Kalia, for some reason it was squeaking again in my brain.

I doubted my own eyes by accident.

That moment when each other's blades are supposed to bond and carve the impact. The sword at hand remains its momentum, breaking Hert's two-handed sword only if resistance is not even tolerated. Impossible. Such a two-handed sword is even supposed to kill the opponent. It doesn't break or bend, it breaks and so on.

Crawling through the ground, a blow pouring up the sky stripped the hert of what remained to be protected.

It was an unmistakable moment to see it. Wrong look, was it? I felt that the cheek of the helt taking that blow was smiling slightly.

—— The end of that blow was not the neck muscle of the helt, but one crack of its golden eyes, choosing the left eye.

It's not like blood just sprays all around you and cleaves meat in your hands again. It has a strange soft feel. It was not now known whether the tip where the blade had fitted was the eye, not the neck muscle, which depended on the gift of the helt, or whether it had been deflected from orbit by its rigid sword.

But in this hand, indeed, the feeling of trumpeting hero Hert Stanley remained with paralysis.

The moment you realize it, your brain shakes and your body brings intense pain and fatigue to your fingertips as if you had remembered it now. I accidentally bit my teeth off and only avoided falling into them.

A crest man, a guard regiment, and both loud voices split their ears.

"--God has given us destiny! Anchor him! All hands, assault!

Is this the voice of the Virgin Mattia? He's a healthy guy, even though he looked like he was dying.

The boulder hert can't move quickly with that bleed. I see you keeping your shoulders in the guard corps soldiers. And I can't move anymore.

Oh, please, don't die on me. I didn't even understand whether the whining was on my body or on my enemies again. Whatever it is, there was a rare abundance in my chest, so there's no problem.

—— Moments, blue light ran at the edge of my eyes. Guard Corps Sabel color.

That's as if I've targeted you. with cleverness as if I had been waiting for this time. He was after my nostalgia, which was suspicious of even standing anymore.

Oh, it's you. I see, it's something we do well. Let's just empathize with that obsession. Apparently, me and you are one of a kind, lizard.

Reptile eyes, running blood, were after me.