Luther stared at the mirror, blinking once… twice… then again just to make sure his brain wasn't finally snapping. He had been through too much already — first learning his teacher,the terrifying witch of envelon had actually been a saint to be, then realizing her father was the Father, then finding out the "Saint" position had been dumped on him like some cosmic joke by an idiot God who didn't want his name to be ruined.

Now, apparently, his jewelry was talking.

The voice from the sword — which until now had been resting quietly as a necklace on his chest — let out a long, dramatic groan. "Ugh, finally! I thought you'd never stop staring at your reflection. Do all mortals admire themselves this much?"

Luther blinked again, too tired to even panic. No, not today. No screaming. No fainting. Just… acceptance.

"Great," he muttered under his breath. "Now I'm hearing voices again. Perfect. Maybe next, the furniture will start offering advice."

The pendant glowed faintly, then pulsed — and before Luther could move, the light expanded, swirling around him in a spiral of deep red and black. The air hummed as the necklace stretched and lengthened, the glow hardening into steel.

With a metallic clang, a full sword now rested on his bed.

The demonic sword.

It shimmered faintly, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat, and then it spoke again in a tone that sounded far too smug.

"Ahhh. That's better. Finally out of that cramped little prison. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be worn as jewelry?"

"Says the one who didn't want to stay in the belt"

Luther stared blankly. Then sighed. Then face-palmed.

"Of course. Of course this is happening."

He dragged himself toward the bed and flopped down beside it, resting his chin on the pillow as if utterly done with existence. "Can't anything normal happen for once?" he muttered.

The sword twitched. "Excuse me? That's all the reaction I get? Not even a scream? A gasp? Maybe a kneel of respect?"

"Respect?" Luther echoed, voice muffled in the sheets. "You're a sword."

"I'm not just a sword! I'm a being of ancient demonic—"

"Good for you," Luther interrupted flatly.

The sword froze mid-sentence. "…Are you mocking me?"

Luther gave it a blank stare, then raised one leg and kicked it off the bed.

The sword hit the floor with a loud metallic clang!

There was a long pause.

"…Did you just—"

"Yes," Luther said. "Now shut up."

He yanked the blanket over himself and turned away, burying his face into the pillow. The sword trembled where it lay, pure disbelief radiating from it.

"YOU—INSOLENT—MORTAL—"

"Snore," Luther muttered.

The sword's red glow flared. It shot up into the air, hovering over the bed like an angry wasp. "Wake up! You dare ignore the great—"

Thud!

It smacked him on the head with its hilt.

"OW! What the—!" Luther sat up, clutching his skull. His hair was a mess, his eyes half-lidded with irritation. "I swear, I am this close to throwing you out the window!"

"Good luck! I'll just fly back in!" the sword snapped, its voice dripping with sarcasm. "Honestly, are you always this pathetic, or is today special?"

Luther glared at it. "I'm not pathetic. I'm tired! Do you have any idea what I've been through?"

"Oh, please. You humans always say that. 'Oh, I'm tired.'" The sword floated closer. "You're sitting in a divine temple, chosen by a god, wearing a holy robe, and you're whining. Meanwhile, I've spent the last century sealed away in a gloomy cave next to some dusty relics and a pair of old socks!"

"And when I finally get out, I'm strapped to a f**king tree!

Luther groaned. "I don't care."

"You should!"

"Shut up!"

"Make me!"

Luther's hand twitched. His golden aura flickered instinctively.

The sword froze midair as its dark energy clashed faintly against the holy shimmer of his magic. Sparks danced in the air, crackling with tension — and then the sword grinned.

"Oh-ho, feisty, aren't you?"

"Feisty?" Luther muttered. "I'm restraining myself from snapping you in half."

"You can't. I'm older than your entire bloodline."

"Tempting to test that theory."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me."

A blinding flash later —

Whack!

The sword flew across the room again, crashing into the wardrobe and clattering down in a heap.

Luther sighed, rubbing his temples. "Great. Now I'm arguing with furniture."

Maybe I should've just stayed unconscious, he thought bitterly. At least then, I wouldn't have to deal with sarcastic kitchen utensils.

The sword shot back up, trembling with rage. "You insufferable little—!"

"Quiet," Luther cut in.

He pulled a cloak from the bedpost and tied the sword to the holy staff that was leaning against the wall. The demonic blade wriggled and cursed.

"Unhand me! This is blasphemy! Do you realize what you're doing?!"

"Yes," Luther said calmly, knotting the final edge. "I'm securing my peace and quiet."

"THIS—IS—SACRILEGE!"

"Goodnight."

The day went on, till the night moon appeared.

luther sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the sword with one eyebrow raised. His left eye still faintly glowed from healing the bump on his forehead. "Are you done screaming yet?"

The sword vibrated furiously. "Do I look done? You tied a demonic artifact to a holy relic! That's like pouring wine into holy water! I should explode!"

"Please do," Luther muttered. "It would save me trouble."

The sword gasped. "You monster! I should've stayed sealed!"

"You should've."

"Ungrateful brat!"

"I'm seventeen, not five."

"Mentally, you're two!"

"…Okay, that one's fair," Luther admitted quietly.

He leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. "Why does every divine thing I touch turn into chaos?" he murmured. First the Father, then Mariana, now a talking sword… I'm cursed, aren't I?

"You are cursed!" the sword agreed loudly. "By stupidity!"

"Fantastic," Luther groaned.

He raised a hand to untie the weapon again, mostly because the sword's shrieking was starting to give him a headache. As soon as the last knot came loose, the sword zoomed to the ceiling in a blur of red light, sticking itself there like a stubborn cat.

"You tried to kill me!" it accused dramatically. "You tied me to a divine relic! That was agony!"

"I tied you to shut you up!"

"You're cruel! You're vile! You're—wait, what's that?"

Luther looked down. The holy staff he'd still been holding was glowing faintly, reacting to his irritation. The golden light flickered brighter until the air around it began to shift.

"Don't," Luther warned it. "Don't you dare—"

The staff shimmered.

The glow condensed — and then, with a soft ding, the staff transformed.

Into a crown.

A delicate, gold-and-white crown shaped like petals, with faint blue gems embedded between the ridges. It gleamed beautifully in the lamplight, radiating purity and elegance.

Luther stared at it.

The sword fell silent.

The room was quiet for a full three seconds.

Then, from above, came a wheezing laugh.

"Pfft—BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Luther's eye twitched.

The sword was spinning in the air, laughing so hard its aura flickered like a flame. "A crown! A flowery little princess crown! The holy weapon obeys you, oh chosen lady saint!"

"Shut up."

"Oh, no, no, this is golden!" The sword kept cackling. "I expected maybe a smaller staff, but no — the gods decided to make you royalty! Maybe you can command tea parties now!"

Luther's patience snapped.

He hurled the crown at the sword. "I said SHUT UP!"

The crown flew across the room with surprising force, smacking the sword mid-laugh.

THUNK!

It hit the window and slid down slowly, leaving a faint line before collapsing onto the sill like a defeated fly.

"Worth it…" the sword mumbled weakly, its voice faint and dizzy. "Totally worth it…"

Luther exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. Gods, why… why did you make me a saint?

He leaned back against the bedpost, muttering to himself, "This is my life now. Babysitting cursed metal and arguing with holy artifacts."

A groan escaped him. "I should've just stayed in that stupid garden."

From the bed, the sword muttered faintly, "Even the roses would've been quieter."

"Keep talking," Luther warned, "and I'll turn that crown into a frying pan next."

The sword wheezed weakly. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

They glared at each other in silence — man and sword — like two exhausted roommates after a long night.

Luther's head finally drooped, fatigue winning over irritation. He let out a low breath, eyes half-closing. "I swear, if Mariana walks in right now, I'm moving to another continent…"

And as if fate had a sense of humor —

Knock. Knock.

The door creaked open.

Luther froze.

Mariana stepped in, her hair glinting in the candlelight, eyes immediately scanning the chaotic room. Her gaze fell on the dented wall, the broken wardrobe… and finally on Luther — sitting on the bed, half-covered in blankets, with a delicate golden princess crown still perched crookedly on his hand.

The demonic sword was lying dramatically across the sheets, faintly glowing like it was pretending to be dead.

Mariana blinked once. Then twice.

"…Luther."

"...Yes, ma'am?"

She folded her arms. "Do I want to know what I just walked into?"

Luther hesitated. "…Probably not."

The sword snickered weakly.

Mariana's eyebrow twitched. "Was that—?"

Luther quickly kicked the sword under the blanket. "Nope. You didn't hear anything."

The corner of her mouth curved — not quite a smile, not quite a scowl. "We'll talk in the morning."

Then she turned and closed the door with a soft click.

Luther sat in silence for five full seconds.

Then he groaned into his pillow. "I'm never living this down."

The sword's muffled voice whispered from under the blanket. "Princess Saint."

"SHUT UP."

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