Chapter 182: The Cost of Neglect (4)
A year later, Tyron found himself seated with his back against a rough, sun-warmed rock in a strangely new world.
The grass beneath him was a deeper green than any field on Kalpa, soft and slightly damp from recent rain, while the sky above stretched in an unfamiliar shade of pale blue streaked with thin, high clouds.
Across his lap rested the Laughing Sword, its green-and-black blade catching the light in shifting patterns that almost seemed to smirk.
Tyron’s fingers rested lightly on the hilt as he stared down at the weapon.
"All right," he said aloud, voice still rough from the long unconscious stretch.
"I have been out for an entire year according to my status... I woke up in a field I do not recognize, with a sword that talks...."
"Do you care to start explaining? What exactly happened inside that ruin?"
A soft, amused feminine laugh drifted from the blade, curling through the air like smoke.
"My, my. Straight to the point. How refreshing," she said, pausing briefly before going on.
"Well, I’m not entirely sure what happened myself. But that’s hardly surprising. This is the Era of Khaos, and we live in Pantheos... random occurrences are anything but rare."
Tyron’s brow knit in thought.
The presence within the metal felt sharp, ancient, and undeniably female, yet her words all sounded way too foreign.
’The Era of Khaos?’ The thought circled sharply. ’Is she talking about the Golden Age?’
It was common knowledge that most of the inhabitants of Kalpa, and even the Orin Star System, had never learned the true name of this Era—the Era of Khaos—which carried far more significance than a simple Golden Age.
He opened his mouth to ask, but Loki seemed to catch the confusion in the silence.
She paused, then let out a low sigh that melted into a chuckle of pure disbelief.
"Don’t tell me..." she murmured, the playful edge sharpening with genuine surprise. "I haven’t found myself trapped inside some minor existence, have I?"
Hearing those words... that were just as foreign as before, Tyron’s frown deepened.
"What do you mean by that? What is the Era of Khaos? And what is Pantheos?"
She hesitated before replying, and when she did, the amusement in her voice was back... softer now and hidden just enough to make it hard to read.
"Those are questions for another time, little trickster. You’ve got more pressing concerns right now."
He shoved the strange words aside for later, focusing instead on the unease that came from not knowing where he was, the uncertainty of the place weighing heavier than the unfamiliar names.
"Well... can you at least tell me where I am, then?" he asked, frustration bubbling in his voice.
"I can tell for sure; this isn’t Kalpa... and I don’t want to waste my divinity."
This time, the pause that followed stretched longer, carrying a hint of contemplation.
"That," Loki admitted with a light, easy sigh, "I... don’t know. I’ve been sealed inside this blade for several tens of thousands of years beyond whatever fleeting glimpse of history you witnessed in those ruins.
This world is as much a mystery to me as it is to you."
Tyron stared at the laughing faces etched into the green-and-black steel, frustration and curiosity warring behind his eyes.
After a moment, he asked the question that had been circling since the first word.
"Then... who the hell are you? I can tell you are a woman, but that is all."
The voice that answered was silk wrapped around a blade.
"Fufufu~ I am Loki. That is all you need for now. My true title would burn through a soul as weak as yours before you finished hearing it. Consider the single name a kindness."
She continued without waiting for him to press further, the tone shifting into something smoother, almost dark.
"I was sealed into this sword after a betrayal... one carefully orchestrated by those who ruled my home," she said.
Over the year Tyron had spent unconscious, she had clearly delved into his entire existence before making her choice.
She knew full well about his ambitions, and even that he was the Constellation of the Trickery Blade—which, all things considered, made it perfectly fitting for him to end up with the Laughing Sword.
"You, Tyron Alabaster, will be the key to setting me free. When the moment comes, I will return to Asgard... to Valhalla... and I only hope it won’t be too late."
Tyron’s brows knit into a hard frown.
The thought of being used settled uncomfortably in his chest, pride sparking sharp and fast.
"I’m not a tool."
Hearing those words, a soft chuckle escaped.
"Right... of course you’re not." Her voice lowered, intimate and persuasive.
"But what if I protect you every step of the way? I’ll make sure you don’t die before you reach the peak of your true potential.
And in return... I’ll help you prove every last one of them wrong. Tell me, Tyron—don’t you still want to kill that Lord Dream?
In that instant, Tyron fell silent.
It became clear to him that this woman—Loki—was obviously far stronger than he was, especially since she already knew so much about him.
But that wasn’t what mattered in this moment.
In his mind, the name rose with all the weight it had carried for years—Lord Dream, the figure who had risen so quickly that the Academy itself bent around him.
Memories of being overlooked, of carefully spoken half-truths, of watching others receive the recognition he had fought for surfaced one after another.
The old resentment burned clean and familiar.
When he finally spoke, the words came edged with a sharp, almost exhilarating shock.
"You... you can truly help me do that?"
Loki’s laughter rang bright and unrestrained from the green-and-black steel.
"Of course. I am certain there is not a single being in this Minor Existence I will have to worry about."
She went on without missing a beat, her tone dripping with casual confidence.
"Not only that... the sword you hold is far from ordinary," she said.
"Even if you can’t see its rank—since Cosmic Rankings don’t show in Minor Existences....
You’re carrying the five-thousand-sixty-seventh ranked weapon in all of Pantheos. That alone is more than enough to let you dominate any minor existence you choose."
Tyron’s gaze dropped to the blade resting across his lap.
The laughing faces etched into the shifting green-and-black metal seemed to watch him in return. Shock held him motionless for several long heartbeats as the weight of the claim settled over him.
Loki’s voice returned, lighter now and threaded with open amusement.
"However, I will turn you into the finest trickster right underneath myself. So, tell me, Tyron Alabaster... do you accept becoming my disciple?"
He did not hesitate.
"I accept."