About the blade you carry like a shadow on your back, I might know a thing or two.

The staircase curled upward like a coiled serpent, and the Little White Dragon lifted her Astrolabe like a lantern, throwing starry light ahead. The Vampire Princess followed, eyes fixed on that slim silhouette like a moth on a moonbeam.

Spotting the Broken Sword on Lilith’s back, Eliza’s memory stirred like dust in a sunbeam, and she spoke.

If I’m not mistaken, I saw that sword in the Royal Library, like a relic sleeping under glass.

The Royal Library? Lilith turned, her curiosity pricking like thorns, and the Little White Dragon drew the blade sheathed at her back, staring at the Vampire Princess with puzzled eyes like winter lakes. Why would a sword be kept in a library?

Of course it wasn’t the real thing, Eliza said, rolling her eyes like clouds crossing a pale sun. I saw it in a book, a record about that sword.

A book? Lilith tilted her head like a sparrow on a twig, and her words spilled like a stream. What book? What does it say about this sword? Is it strong? Why did it become a Broken Sword? Can it be restored?

Stop, stop, slow down, Eliza said, lifting a hand like a gate against a rushing tide. She pressed Lilith’s cheeks like a handler calming an overeager pup, her voice dropping like mist until the Little White Dragon settled.

Eliza withdrew her hand, cleared her throat like a bell tapped twice, then spoke with gravity like stone under rain.

This sword’s a bit obscure among Vampires, because its legend first blew in from the Demons like a wind through old banners.

The split within the Necromancer Cultists started before the Cataclysm, and the space behind the clouds was cleaved into three layers like a stacked sky. We had a nursery rhyme for the schism, she said, and if I remember right, it goes like this.

The cultist high above the firmament lowered his wings like falling leaves.

The cultist buried in cloud-mist offered precious gifts like dew to dawn.

The cultist racing the clear breeze gave up his former life like a shed husk.

Children of the Nameless One walked into Heaven and Earth like seeds on the wind.

One cultist closed his eyes, and his heart shone like a bright mirror.

One cultist closed his mouth, and the future sat in his palm like a small flame.

One cultist cast off his memories, surviving like moss clinging to stone.

Children of the Nameless One hid within form like fish under ice.

Nameless One, Nameless One, my great mother like the sea.

Nameless One, Nameless One, my exalted god like the sky.

Nameless One, Nameless One, your great power will descend like thunder’s rod.

Children of the Nameless One fled for their lives like birds in a storm.

One cultist sought black iron like night’s bone.

One cultist lit the furnace like a sunrise in the forge.

One cultist raised the great hammer to the glowing blade like a star at noon.

The Legendary Sword is forged, bright as frost.

Its edge points to the sky, where evil and rot hide like wolves in fog.

Its body lies across the clouds, where life and death churn like tides.

Its hilt stands upon the earth, where cold and warm wander like seasons.

The Legendary Sword bridges the realms like a rainbow.

Children of the Nameless One cried out together like bells at dusk.

Nameless One, Nameless One, my great mother like the sea.

Nameless One, Nameless One, my exalted god like the sky.

Nameless One, Nameless One, your merciful heart grants blessings like soft rain.

Children of the Nameless One became one like braided streams.

Children of the Nameless One became one like braided streams.

She finished in a low voice, and silence fell between them like snow. Lilith dragged her thoughts like a net through dark water, but her mind—never the sharpest blade—caught only a glimmer. Eliza had sung a long wave of praise, yet Lilith heard mainly the words “Legendary Sword,” and the Nameless One part slid past her like wind. She wasn’t a Necromancer Cultist; if you asked her, she’d say Icarus—no, for her now it should be Tartarus—was the brighter flame.

This song’s kind of hard to parse, she said, breaking the hush like a pebble in a still pond. She’d long grown used to god-stuff arriving wrapped in riddles like lacquered boxes, but this hardly felt like nursery-rhyme tier. Do Necromancer Cultist kids really understand it?

They just chant after the older ones, “Nameless One, Nameless One, our great mother,” Eliza said, as matter-of-fact as stones. If even you can’t catch the meaning, don’t expect the little ones to. In fact, the rhyme has countless readings among the Necromancer Cultists, especially the part about the Legendary Sword.

How so?

Back when the Grim Reaper still walked the world, there was no such thing as the Legendary Sword, Eliza said, her words falling like measured beads. The Necromancer Cultists moved in the sky, so who needed a giant blade to pin heaven and earth together? As a result, two big schools of thought grew like branches.

One, the Legendary Sword existed, but it was just an ordinary sharp blade, blown larger by the rhyme like a shadow at dusk.

Two, there was no Legendary Sword at all, and the rhyme’s sword is a symbol, like a bridge drawn in words.

So you think the Shattered Ark is the Legendary Sword—or the Legendary Sword is the Shattered Ark’s forebear? Lilith caught the thread like a swift snagging silk. If she brought up this rhyme, Eliza must see a tie between the Shattered Ark and the Legendary Sword. Lilith remembered clearly the powder-pink blade saying it once fought the evil of the whole world, which matched the name like flint to steel.

It’s only a possibility, Eliza said, trimming the claim like a gardener. The research left by our elders never slammed the coffin shut. The rhyme’s source is lost like a river swallowed by sand; trace it back and you just get a mention in a myth compendium. The true author’s unknown, and what the Legendary Sword really is can only be guessed, like stars behind cloud.

No problem. At least I’ve got a direction to explore, Lilith said, brightening like dawn. She looked at the Broken Sword in her hands and remembered the Shattered Ark’s impossible power, then added, In terms of “rank,” the Shattered Ark really fits the Legendary Sword’s weight—this blade can wound a dragon like a thorn in scales.

Is that so? Useful, Eliza murmured, thoughts clicking like beads on an abacus. That lets me strike a few hypotheses off the slate like chalk in rain. The scope narrows again, like a funnel.

Great! Then, Your Highness, tell me the most likely hypothesis, and I’ll start digging there like a fox on a scent.

Right now, the likeliest theory is this, Eliza said, tapping her temple like a knuckle on a door. The Legendary Sword was once the Grim Reaper’s sidearm, and it broke during the war against the other three gods, like a lightning-split tree.

The Grim Reaper fought three gods? I’ve never heard of that, Lilith said, her doubt rising like steam. Her crash course in continental basics hadn’t listed that.

Because the battle ended with the Grim Reaper’s sweeping victory like a tide, yet the nations devoted to those three gods held the loudest voices like drums in a court. So people let the event fade like ink in sun. If you want more, I can take you to the Royal Library, where the records sleep like cats.

Perfect! Lilith cheered, her joy flaring like a spark. But the flame flickered, and her face shifted, her fingers fidgeting at her chest like shy moths. Um… could you help me first?

What?

I’m hungry, Lilith said, blushing like a peach in summer.