The helicopter hummed with quiet power, its sleek black frame cutting through the clouds as England drew closer beneath them. Yet, Omega Heinriel’s eyes remained narrowed, fixed not on the approaching land, but on the impossibility of their vehicle.

  He finally broke the silence. “Yukio… how exactly are you maintaining Mach 10 in the atmosphere? Aerodynamically, this should tear the craft apart. The friction alone—”

  Yukio smirked, as if expecting the question. “Ah, that,” he said lightly, leaning back in his seat. “The Church doesn’t operate with ordinary technology, Omega. This helicopter isn’t a conventional aircraft. First, its frame is conceptually reinforced, meaning it’s bound by a continuous metaphysical structure that prevents physical stress from exceeding its design limits. Second, it’s powered by thaumaturgical propulsion. Think of it as a fusion of magic and physics; the engines manipulate air, temperature, and energy flow directly, bypassing the limitations of combustion or turbines. Finally, we employ bounded-field aerodynamics—an invisible sheath that stabilizes airflow around the craft at any velocity. In simple terms, the helicopter doesn’t actually touch the air at Mach 10; the field manages the resistance for us.”

  Omega’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I see. So this isn’t a violation of physics—it’s… metaphysics.”

  “Exactly.” Yukio’s grin widened. “And yes, it makes you feel like you’re riding a rock through clouds, rather than flying at impossible speeds. Enjoy the ride.”

  Omega exhaled, but he did not relax. Even knowing the mechanics, the implications were staggering. The Church had invested centuries into weapons and vehicles that blurred the line between science and divine magic. And yet, despite all its sophistication, it still relied on people like Yukio to operate it—people capable of thinking faster than most could comprehend.

  After what felt like minutes, though in reality was nearly two hours of silence, the English countryside finally sprawled beneath them. Rolling green hills and winding rivers stretched toward a distant forest, where smoke still rose from scattered wildfires. Yet in the clearing below, the center of attention was unmistakable.

  A jagged stone pedestal sat in the middle of the field, and upon it, Caliburn glowed with golden light, its blade piercing the morning mist. Surrounding it were twenty mages, all appearing no older than seventeen to nineteen, their robes fluttering lightly in the wind, eyes fixed with intense anticipation on the sword.

  Yukio’s eyes scanned the group. “Hm,” he murmured. “Interesting… some familiar faces. Knights, aren’t you?”

  From the edge of the formation, one of the Church’s own, a young knight with a calculating smirk, stepped forward. “Curious, isn’t it? Even the Church sends emissaries to collect a relic of this magnitude… yet here we stand.”

  Yukio tilted his head. “Why are you here? Surely your duties in other sectors are more pressing than chasing an Arthurian relic.”

  The knight’s smirk deepened. “Because Caliburn is not a weapon for scholars or observers. It’s a prize to be claimed. We intend to secure it for ourselves.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Omega Heinriel’s lips thinned. A heavy sigh escaped him. “Of course,” he muttered internally. Some things never change… greed and ambition. Even here, with the weight of history pressing down, they see only a tool.

  Yukio’s hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, though his eyes were sharp. “Then we’ll see about that,” he said, almost playfully. “Thomas, isn’t it?”

  “Careful, young man,” Thomas replied, an arrogant smile curling across his lips. “You may find that bravery alone is not enough.”

  Omega Heinriel’s hand shot up, stopping Yukio before he could engage. “No. Wait. We cannot begin fighting among ourselves,” he said firmly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command. “Everyone will approach the sword individually. One by one. We determine who may wield Caliburn without needless bloodshed.”

  Murmurs of irritation rippled through the crowd. One mage scoffed. “You’re seriously suggesting we follow the legend? Pull a sword from a stone like foolish children pretending to be King Arthur?”

  Omega’s expression darkened, his eyes locking with the dissenting mage. “Yes. What choice do we have? Unless you wish to murder each other in a senseless feud, this is the only solution.”

  A tense silence followed. Slowly, almost begrudgingly, the twenty mages stepped aside, forming a loose circle around the pedestal. Yukio stepped forward first, his fingers brushing the golden hilt.

  Caliburn remained unmoved. The sword did not shift, tremble, nor acknowledge the attempt. Yukio, however, gave no sign of frustration, nor effort. He straightened, letting go of the hilt, indifferent.

  Omega Heinriel’s brow furrowed. Why? he thought. Why would he treat this with such… apathy? Something about Yukio’s composure raised a subtle suspicion in his mind—an awareness that there was more at play than even Yukio let on.

  One by one, the mages approached, each attempting their own method. Some muttered incantations, others drew glyphs in the air, channeling spells meant to enhance strength, reality, even time itself. Every single attempt failed. The sword did not budge.

  Even the Church’s young knights tried, gripping the hilt with both hands, muscles straining, only to recoil in frustration. One yelled in despair. “It won’t move! It’s… impossible!”

  Finally, all eyes turned toward Omega Heinriel. The field went quiet; the tension was almost tangible. He stepped forward, his hand hovering over the golden hilt.

  The moment his fingers grazed Caliburn, the world seemed to hesitate. Time itself appeared to slow; the rushing wind turned to silk against his skin, the fluttering robes of the surrounding mages stretched in slow motion. His heart raced, but he could feel every beat in exaggerated detail, every thrum vibrating in tandem with the sword’s pulse.

  A strange resonance hummed through his very being. So this is Caliburn… Omega thought. It is more than a sword. It is… alive. Connected. And it calls to me.

  But before he could exert the slightest pull, a chill descended over the entire landscape. A dark mist unfurled like a living shadow, swallowing the clearing, obscuring the golden radiance of the sword.

  Two figures emerged from the mist, and immediately the air itself felt heavy—thick with dread. Even the most seasoned mages shivered, their skin crawling from the aura that radiated from these beings. Omega Heinriel’s knees threatened to buckle as a cold, unnatural fear gripped his heart.

  What are they…? he thought, trembling. Their presence… feels like absolute death. What kind of entities are they?

  One of the figures removed a mask, revealing pale ash skin and eyes that gleamed with malice. His lips curled into a cruel smirk.

  “My name is Azravael Karture,” the Dead Apostle said, his voice carrying with unnatural clarity. “I am the fifth subordinate of my master, the Dead Apostle Ancestor Roanoke. He has ordered the deaths of all of you.”

  Before any of the mages could react, Azravael moved. In the blink of an eye, he was behind Omega Heinriel, delivering a single, brutal kick that sent him flying through the air. He slammed into Yukio, sliding across the dirt, blood streaking his face.

  Shock and horror froze the assembly. No mage had seen him move; no Knight could react in time.

  Azravael Karture took his place in the center of the clearing, standing sentinel over Caliburn, his aura radiating death itself. Every mage and Knight present felt the weight of their mortality pressing down, their hearts hammering in synchronized fear.

  Omega Heinriel, bloodied but unwavering, gritted his teeth. Bypassing him… is the only way to reach Caliburn.

  He rose slowly, eyes narrowing, resolve hardening. The resonance of the sword within his hand pulsed, as if calling him forward despite the encroaching darkness. Whatever trials awaited, whatever horrors this Dead Apostle unleashed, Omega Heinriel knew—he alone, perhaps, could hope to meet the sword’s challenge.

  The wind howled around the clearing, the dark mist swirling with an almost sentient malevolence. Caliburn gleamed, a solitary beacon of hope in a world where the shadow of death had fallen across the land. And there, in the center of the storm, the struggle for the legendary sword was about to begin.

  Chapter 17 ends with Omega Heinriel poised, bloodied, facing Azravael, while Caliburn waits in the stone, the mages and knights frozen by dread.