FVN Chapter 43 Failed Sword
Chapter 43 Failed Sword
Before the Duke could grant any kind of permission, Ashok's voice echoed through the silent room.
"Permission? HAH!" Ashok let out a loud sigh and shouted,
"YOU INCOMPETENT DOG!" His voice was sharp and echoed clearly, catching the three people in the room off guard. The venom in his tone was undeniable.
"Well! What can I expect from a failed sword, one that only leaves its sheath to harm its own master?" Ashok continued, his voice thick with contempt, each word dripping with disdain.
As soon as Ashok's words fell, a faint tremor ran through the sword at his neck, a subtle shake.
"You must hold quite a pride in that sword of yours, don't you?
I suppose cutting down the Bandit King has been pumping yours veins with pride, doesn't it?" Ashok's words were laced with biting sarcasm, each one deliberate and meant to sting.
"Heh! Heh! You must be dancing in happiness, thinking you've achieved something great after killing an Ascended Ranker.
But let's not forget—you are far from reaching that level yourself, aren't you?
No matter how much you avert your eyes from the truth, it won't change. The truth is, you could NEVER have won that battle on your own.
You only landed the last blow—and even a single blow, at a tremendous cost." Ashok's gaze shifted abruptly to the Duke.
"The Duchess lost her life. The Duke lost his wife. And for what?
Because she sacrificed her life protecting you, a mere DOG. And still—look how prideful you are of your so-called 'victory.'
As EXPECTED, of the FAILURE among the Weapon Saints!"
The weight of Ashok's accusations was enough to make the sword resting on Ashok's neck tremble in response, as though it were on the verge of making a fatal decision. The tension in the room thickened with every breath, the air crackling with anticipation.
The sword, once poised at his throat, now pointed downward toward the floor. The hand that held it—once so steady and resolute—was now shaking, betraying a tremor that spoke volumes.
The Sword Saint stood motionless, his head bowed, the bamboo hat casting a shadow that obscured his face, hiding any hint of emotion. His grip on the sword trembled, betraying the calm exterior.
Ashok's words, sharp and relentless, seemed to hang in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating him from within. There was no escaping them.
This time, Ashok's words were not mere mockery. They were not born or amplified by the influence of his Trait. No, this time, every single insult came from the depths of his heart, which seethed with extreme anger, and that anger was unleashed upon the Sword Saint.
Every word he spoke was the unvarnished truth, the words containing his anger gained more weight by his overwhelming charisma and struck directly at the already broken heart of the Sword Saint.
The Duke and the Head Butler, for all their authority, said nothing—no word of reprimand.
Though Ashok had stopped speaking, the atmosphere remained thick with tension. The words he had spoken didn't dissipate—they kept echoing.
The Sword Saint's mind was trapped in the rhythm of that cruel echo, each beat hammering at the walls of his pride, his honor, his very sense of self.
The Sword Saint was no longer present in the room. The reality of Ashok's words, sharp and unforgiving, had reached into him, dragging him away from the present. His mind, no longer anchored in the room, began to drift—back, further back, to the day of the incident.
His thoughts were consumed by the memories of that fateful day. The day that had irrevocably altered the course of his life—the day he would never forget, no matter how hard he tried.
The day he made his biggest mistake, one that would haunt him for the rest of his days. It was the day he lost the master he had chosen to serve with unwavering loyalty.
The day his actions had led to the Duke starting the Hunt that would be etched into the annals of the empire's history.