Michael's breath caught as his fingers trembled but his eyes didn't flinch.

It's starting.

In that instant, the mechanical precision of his mind switched on like a hidden engine roaring to life.

[Quantum Analysis Mind — Activated.]

A cold current rushed through his neural network. The world slowed to a crawl. The trembling of the table became an eternity-long vibration.

The inspector's voice stretched like molten honey through space. Every dust particle in the air hung frozen in glacial suspension.

Within that frozen second, his consciousness split — one part observing, another calculating, a third mapping out hundreds of conversational permutations.

If I stay silent he'll push harder. He'll think I'm hiding something.

If I sound defensive he'll smell blood.

If I over-explain I'll expose too much about myself.

Every potential reaction played out before his eyes like holographic echoes.

No matter what, I can't let him sense panic. I can't tell him the truth either — no "transmigration," no Divine Weapon talk. Only partial truths, wrapped in logic.

Another mental process activated, cross-referencing tone analysis, facial micro-expression probabilities, and Gileard's breathing rhythm.

He's testing , Not killing to kill me— it's an assessment.

One real-time second had passed. Inside Michael's accelerated cognition, he'd lived through three minutes of deliberation.

He formulated his path:

→ Maintain composure.

→ Divert suspicion through credible explanation.

→ Create a logical anchor — something so mundane it kills doubt.

Perfect.

Another two seconds crawled by. He deactivated the skill.

And the backlash hit like a hammer.

---

Time snapped back to normal — and with it, the S-rank aura crushed down on him with full force.

The sound was sickening.

CRACK.

The chair beneath him shattered.

The invisible weight pinned him to one knee. His lungs screamed for air; his veins felt like they were filled with molten iron. His vision trembled in a static haze.

A droplet of blood slipped from the corner of his lip, bright and defiant.

He coughed once, splat crimson, and muttered between clenched teeth—

"Tch… damn… that pressure… and he's not even serious."

Even as his body protested, his mind was calm. Cold. Watching. Measuring.

The inspector's gaze didn't soften; if anything, it sharpened.

"So, you can endure an S-rank's intent. Impressive. Then let's see how much truth you can endure as well."

---

Michael slowly lifted his hand. His right palm trembled — not from fear, but from strain. The veins along his wrist pulsed with faint black lightning, flickering under the skin.

He inhaled, steadying his breath.

"Darken."

The name left his lips like an invocation and the temperature in the room plummeted instantly.

The air shimmered, folding inward on itself. A dark vortex bloomed from his palm, spiraling in silent chaos until it solidified into the form of a blade.

A sword that sleek and abyss emerged from nothing.

Its ricasso was no mere steel; it was sculpted into the open maw of a dragon, every fang and scale engraved with impossible precision. The hilt pulsed like a heartbeat, faintly breathing with Michael's mana.

Then the eyes of the carved dragon opened — two narrow slits of amethyst light.

The next moment, the weapon roared.

KRRRAAANGG—!

Black energy surged outward, colliding head-on with the inspector's mana pressure.

A violent boom shook the entire room; the air itself screamed.

The mana clash painted the space in storming colors — invisible shockwaves warping the light, sparks of raw mana burning like dying stars between them.

The bottle on the table burst. The table legs split. The very walls groaned.

For a brief moment, two forces mortal and divine stood locked in deadlock.

Then, with a sound like thunder fracturing stone, Inspector Gileard's aura broke.

The oppressive weight lifted. The room fell silent, save for the hum of fading mana.

---

Gileard blinked, his composure cracking for the first time.

He had not been repelled in decades.

"This… this mana pressure…"

His eyes darted to the blade. The air around it shimmered with black-gold vapor, dense enough to distort space.

"Equal to S-rank… no, higher."

The words escaped his lips almost in awe.

He wasn't angry now — he was curious.

His battle-honed instincts screamed that the thing before him wasn't a normal artifact. It was alive. Watching him back.

Michael exhaled shakily, gripping the sword to steady himself. His knees still throbbed, his muscles screamed from the earlier pressure, but he stood. Barely.

Gileard's gaze moved from the blade to the boy.

"Explain. Now."

Michael forced a grin, though his jaw ached.

He knew that tone wasn't a question. It was an order, backed by lethal authority.

He licked the blood from his lip, exhaled, and answered, calm and measured.

"Sir Gileard… this sword is the reason you're sensing dark mana from me. It leaks from it, not me."

The inspector's brows furrowed.

"A weapon with this much mana stored inside it? Impossible. Even Mythic-grade artifacts can't replicate that level of self-sustaining resonance. What are we looking at here Legendary?"

Michael stayed silent for a beat, staring at the black blade, its dragon eyes slowly dimming.

In his head, however, his thoughts churned like a storm.

'it's not Mythical or Legendary it is Divine Grade Weapon'

His lips twitched faintly, suppressing a humorless smile.

If I say that word out loud, I'll be dead before lunch. Someone will blast my head off before I can even shout "plot armor."

He lowered his gaze slightly, pretending to consider his answer while his mind raced.

'There are twelve known Divine Weapons. Twelve relics the world acknowledges each tied to a civilization's legend, each tied to an SSS-ranked being.'

' If I remember correctly some Divine Weapon holders were mentioned in the game, The Dwarf King holds the Divine Grade Weapon Mjölnir, The mermaid king have the ocean Trident, The Mage tower have the Grimoire of Knowledge, The sword of Light, the first hero weapon is in the William Family, The staff of Apomyius is with the Demon king Beelzebub, The Artemis Divine Bow is with the Elven Queen, The Soul bracelet is with the king of Denmard and lastly the life Crystal is with the Holy Church '

' from the 12 Divine Weapon this known to the people,but in the future the Holy Sword a divine grade weapon will choose Leon Lionheart and with me there it make 10 Divine Grade Weapon that will appear before the eyes of the world'

So basically eight known. Four hidden. And now, this sword Darken is the thirteenth, the forbidden one.

He remembered the in-game lore: Divine weapons could choose their wielders. Some were dormant for centuries until a soul with compatible essence awakened them.

Darken had chosen him.

Lucky? Maybe. Suicidal? Absolutely.

If anyone finds out… if the Empire learns I hold a thirteenth Divine Weapon, they'll cut me open just to see what makes me tick.

He sighed inwardly. So yeah, time to bluff.

---

He raised his eyes and spoke again, tone firm but respectful.

"It's not that high-grade, sir. Just an Epic weapon. I found it before the Academy entrance exam — in a small E-rank dungeon. I was weak back then… G-minus."

A flicker of self-deprecation softened his tone.

"I thought I was going to die there. But when I touched the sword… it poured mana into me. Like it was alive. My body changed, my limits expanded. That's why my growth rates have been… unusual."

He shrugged faintly, as if embarrassed.

"So yeah. Not demonic influence, not contracts. Just dumb luck."

---

Gileard stared at him for a long moment, unblinking.

The silence stretched.

Finally, the inspector walked forward, slow and deliberate, stopping a meter from the blade. The faint wind stirred his hair as the weapon's aura hissed like quiet thunder.

His own mana surged faintly but this time, without hostility. Just probing.

He closed his eyes for a moment, sensing.

Then his expression shifted.

"The dark energy… it is bound to the weapon."

He opened his eyes again, studying Michael with a mix of suspicion and reluctant respect.

"You realize how dangerous it is to keep something like this unregistered?"

Michael managed a wry smile.

"Would you believe me if I said I was too busy training to file the paperwork?"

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly, a low chuckle escaped Gileard.

"You've got some guts, boy."

Inspector Gileard's chuckle echoed faintly through the interrogation room, low and rough like the grinding of old steel. The oppressive tension that had filled the air moments ago began to thin, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

He leaned against the table, crossing his arms. His eyes were sharp, yet no longer predatory — they carried the analytical gleam of a veteran appraiser sizing up a rare find.

"An Epic-grade weapon that floods its wielder with mana… hm. That's unheard of."

His gaze drifted to Darken, whose surface rippled faintly, as though the sword were breathing. The carved dragon's eyes glimmered for a moment, like distant embers refusing to fade.

"But then again," Gileard murmured, half to himself, "the world is full of strange relics. The dungeons throw out things scholars still can't explain. Maybe this… is one of them."

He straightened, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor, and circled the table like a predator inspecting his prey from all angles.

Michael, meanwhile, remained kneeling, breathing slowly but measured, hand still gripping Darken's hilt as if it were an anchor keeping him from collapsing entirely. Sweat clung to his forehead, and every breath felt like it scraped against his lungs.

But despite his exhaustion, his gaze stayed level. Calm.

(To be Continue)

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