The Outcast Boy Pulled the Ancient Sword, but the Mercenaries Demanded His Life

The Myth of the Monolith

The wind howled through the narrow mountain pass, carrying a bitter chill that bit at the skin of the men gathered around the ancient monolith. For centuries, the fractured black stone had stood as an unbreakable vault, holding a legendary sword that defied the strength of every champion who dared to challenge it. Today, the mountain was hazy, enveloped in a thick shroud of gray mist that made the high-stakes atmosphere feel almost sacred.

Borin, a stout, red-bearded Caucasian-American mercenary clad in dark steel breastplate, stepped forward. He was a man built like an oak, famous across the valleys for his unmatched physical power. Spatting on his calloused hands, he gripped the cord-wrapped hilt of the blade. He pulled. The muscles in his back strained against his armor, his face turning a deep crimson as he poured every ounce of his legendary strength into the effort. The sword did not budge. Defeated and gasping for breath, Borin released his grip, facing his companions with a bitter grimace.

"If I couldn't pull it out, no one can," he grumbled, his voice dripping with wounded pride.

Among the crowd of seasoned fighters stood Arthur, a slight, soot-faced young Caucasian-American man dressed in a rough-spun shirt. While the giant warriors muttered in agreement with Borin, Arthur felt a sudden, quiet pull in his chest. He stepped forward, leaving the safety of the shadows. The mercenaries watched him with amused contempt, but Arthur kept his eyes fixed on the monolith.

He stood before the ancient stone, looking up at the pommel. The air grew still, the howling wind dropping to a whisper as he spoke with quiet resolve.

"I am Arthur. And I am going to claim you."

With a weathered, dirt-stained hand, Arthur reached out and firmly grasped the hilt. The moment his fingers closed around the leather, a low hum vibrated through the cold mountain air.