Chapter 4 – The Blade That Walks Alone
Night fell over the world of Infinity Realms, but the city of Halros didn't sleep.
It burned with light.
Players and NPCs alike bustled through its grand plazas, from blacksmiths shouting over ringing anvils to potion vendors luring adventurers with false promises of instant strength. The marketplace roared like a beast. But above it all, in the heart of the city's Coliseum District, a different kind of fire burned.
Tonight was the Trial of Blades.
A preliminary event.
Unofficial.
Unendorsed.
But important.
It was the kind of underground contest where reputations were forged not through fame, but through blood, speed, and spectacle.
Klaus watched from the shadows of the observation gallery, his figure draped in a dark cloak, face partially obscured by a hood. The arena below throbbed with tension. Steel clashed against steel, roars of victory and agony echoing through the night.
'This is where the strong gather before the world notices them,' he thought, arms folded.
And tonight, he wasn't here as One, the mysterious merchant prince.
He was here as Saint Sword—the identity that would shake the pillars of this world.
His character looked unlike anything else in the arena.
While most fighters wore mismatched sets of early-game armor, patched together like scavengers, Saint Sword stood wrapped in a sleek black-and-silver coat reinforced with enchanted chainmail. At his back, a greatsword longer than most men was sheathed diagonally, its hilt wrapped in white cloth, its guard shaped like a broken wing.
No ornaments.
No glow effects.
Only purpose.
The kind of purpose that made people instinctively back away.
The announcer, a thin elf NPC with a magically enhanced voice, bellowed over the arena.
"And next—an unknown challenger steps forward! Name… Saint Sword!"
Mocking laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Edgelord name much?"
"Probably some pay-to-win noob."
Klaus stepped into the arena.
The world quieted.
Every footfall echoed like a hammer strike against the silence.
On the far end, his opponent waited: a warrior named Iron Pike, well known among early PvP circles for his aggressive spear style. He was sponsored by a mid-tier guild looking to make him their banner holder. A beast of a player in this stage of the game.
But Klaus wasn't here to win.
He was here to broadcast.
To show his blade.
To make his entrance unforgettable.
"Begin!" the announcer cried.
Iron Pike lunged forward immediately, trying to exploit the long wind-up Saint Sword's weapon demanded.
Big mistake.
Klaus didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped diagonally, just outside the line of the spear's thrust. The movement was subtle, surgically efficient.
The greatsword left its sheath with a clean metallic hiss.
[Flash Sever] — a skill that seemed far too smooth for the current stage of the game.
The blade moved in an upward arc, impossibly fast for a weapon of that size.
Iron Pike's shield arm snapped back from the impact.
"W-what—?!"
He staggered.
Klaus didn't pursue.
He stood still.
The crowd was silent now.
They hadn't even seen the motion clearly. Only the aftermath—a chipped spear, a player forced on the back foot from a single strike.
Iron Pike growled and activated a combo chain—[Piercing Dance] into [Cyclone Feint]. His spear twisted into a flurry of deceptive jabs, illusions trailing behind the real attack.
But Klaus's eyes tracked them all.
Because unlike Iron Pike, Klaus had already seen this combo a hundred times.
In his last life.
In tournaments. In war zones. In betrayals.
And now?
It was old news.
[Phantom Guard]—a class-specific parry exclusive to Klaus's unique hybrid.
He sidestepped mid-combo and countered with a flat, two-handed strike to the stomach—non-lethal, but deeply humiliating.
Iron Pike crashed into the dirt.
Silence.
Then murmurs.
"Wait… that wasn't just a parry—he redirected the whole combo."
"That's not a starting skill, is it?"
Klaus lowered his sword.
"I surrender," he said.
The announcer blinked. "W-what?"
"I didn't come here to win."
The crowd erupted in confusion.
Klaus turned to face them directly. His voice was calm, yet it carried unnaturally far, as if the system itself had boosted it.
"I'm not interested in fighting for sport."
He paused.
"But for those who seek purpose… for those who want something greater than rankings and killboards… watch for the Ouroboros insignia."
Then he walked away.
Leaving behind the stunned arena and the humiliated Iron Pike.
---
Back in his private workshop, Klaus stripped off his gear and stared into the flickering forge fire.
Iris was already there, arms crossed.
"Well," she said dryly. "That was dramatic."
"It was necessary."
"You just humiliated a guild-sponsored fighter and then walked away mid-victory. That's not subtle."
"It wasn't meant to be. It was an invitation."
Iris blinked. "To who?"
"To those watching."
Klaus opened a system panel.
Already, the public forums were igniting.
> [Who the hell is Saint Sword? That wasn't normal combat speed.]
[He surrendered after dominating? What kind of ego move is that?]
[Did you see the blade? No glow effects. No flash. But it hit like a truck.]
[Ouroboros... what the hell is that?]
[Looks like we have a new player in town.]
Klaus closed the panel.
"I need you to send out feelers. Quiet ones. Tell our merchant allies to begin circulating gear stamped with the Ouroboros symbol. High quality. Below market price. No direct association."
"Keep Saint Sword and One separate," Iris said.
"Exactly."
He turned to her with a gleam in his eye.
"I just declared war, Iris. But no one knows what kind."
She smirked.
"And what's the endgame?"
He looked to the sky window in the forge, where the moon hovered over the city skyline.
"To reshape the foundation of this world. Not through guild raids or flashy battles. But by making everyone rely on the empire they don't know I built."
He turned back to his workbench, beginning the crafting of a new item.
A cloak.
Name: Whispering Veil (Rare)
Effect: Masks player identity and title when in cities. Cannot be detected unless by higher-tier insight skills.
Binding: Personal (Saint Sword)
'They'll chase the blade,' he thought. 'But they'll never see the hand holding it.'
---
End of Chapter 4
[Word Count: ~2,160 words]