The rain had stopped only moments before the ceremony began, leaving the marble courtyard slick with silver reflections and damp banners that snapped heavily in the wind. Thousands had gathered around the ancient stone pedestal at the center of the royal plaza, craning their necks toward the legendary sword embedded within it. According to every tale taught in the kingdom of Valedorn, whoever pulled the blade free would unite the fractured realms, restore the crown, and usher in a golden age.

According to the Royal Historical Preservation Office, however, the monument was also over nine hundred years old and protected under seventeen separate cultural heritage decrees.

Edrin did not know that second part.

He stood in soaked boots at the foot of the dais while priests muttered blessings over him and nobles whispered behind jeweled sleeves. The sword gleamed despite the cloudy skies, its silver surface untouched by rust, its crossguard shaped like wings. Every failed challenger before him had strained, screamed, or prayed before giving up. Edrin simply looked tired.

“You may approach,” declared High Priest Malovar, his voice booming across the square. “Should destiny find you worthy, the age of division shall end.”

Edrin glanced nervously toward the crowd. “And if destiny doesn’t?”

“Then the next fool in line tries.”

A few nobles laughed politely.

Edrin climbed the steps slowly, placing a hand on the hilt almost apologetically. The stone was warm despite the cold air, etched with ancient runes and ceremonial gold inlays that had survived centuries of weather and war. He gave the sword an experimental tug.

The blade slid free instantly.

For one glorious heartbeat, the world froze.

Sunlight broke through the clouds as though commanded by heaven itself. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers while bells rang from every tower in the capital. Priests dropped to their knees. Soldiers saluted. Somewhere in the distance, someone released doves far too early, and the birds collided with a banner pole in a spray of white feathers.

Edrin stared at the sword in disbelief. “Oh. I actually did it.”

Then came the screaming.

“SEIZE HIM!”

The shout cut across the celebration like an execution bell. From the edge of the plaza, a dozen officials in dark green robes shoved through the crowd carrying clipboards, measuring chains, and rolled legal documents. Their leader, a thin woman with iron-gray hair and spectacles sharp enough to cut glass, pointed furiously at the empty pedestal.

“By authority of the Royal Historical Preservation Office,” she barked, “that man is under arrest for irreversible structural tampering of a protected antiquity!”

The cheering died in confused waves.

Edrin blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Two armored preservation officers marched up the stairs carrying evidence bags.

High Priest Malovar looked horrified. “Director Selvine, this is the Chosen One.”

“Yes,” snapped Director Selvine, “and he has just destroyed the single most important archaeological artifact in continental history.” She climbed the dais, circling the empty slot in the stone with visible fury. “Do you people have any idea how old this site is? The original carvings are now exposed to open moisture contamination!”

“The prophecy literally says someone would remove the sword,” Malovar protested.

“That does not exempt him from permit requirements.”

The crowd murmured uncertainly while scribes frantically scratched updates into history books.

Edrin lowered the blade carefully. “I can put it back.”

“You absolutely will not,” Selvine hissed. “Do you have any concept of proper artifact reinsertion procedures? Were gloves used? Was a stabilization team present? Of course not.”

A young historian nearby fainted at the sight of rainwater dripping into the empty groove.

King Aldric himself rose from the royal balcony overlooking the plaza. “Director,” he called cautiously, “surely this moment outweighs procedural concerns.”

Selvine turned with the slow fury of a volcano preparing legal action. “Your Majesty, this monument predates the kingdom itself. It survived three invasions, two earthquakes, and the reign of King Theobald the Incompetent. And now some farm boy has yanked a nationally protected relic out of its calibrated resting position without filing a single form.”

Edrin looked genuinely distressed. “There were forms?”

“Thirty-seven.”

The newly freed sword began glowing faintly in Edrin’s hands, humming with ancient power. The clouds overhead spiraled ominously as though responding to the awakening magic. Several priests backed away in awe.

Selvine barely glanced at it. “Also, that weapon now counts as an unregistered magical armament.”

One preservation officer carefully wrapped the pedestal in yellow warning ribbon while another sketched diagrams of the damage. Nearby citizens who had arrived expecting the birth of a legend instead watched historians arguing over moisture exposure and stone erosion.

High Priest Malovar rubbed his temples. “Director Selvine… the prophecy states he is destined to save the kingdom.”

“Yes, wonderful,” Selvine replied. “He can do that after his hearing on unlawful excavation and cultural vandalism.”

Edrin looked down at the sword, then at the approaching officers with paperwork. Around him stood priests proclaiming destiny, nobles whispering politics, and historians demanding restoration funding.

Very quietly, the Chosen One sighed.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “the dark lord might be easier to deal with.”