It is said this world holds twenty-three sacred artifacts.
They are believed to be the fragments cast off when the Sword God and the Demon God destroyed each other in the final clash of the legendary Great Sword-and-Demon War.
The Twenty-Three are named as follows:
1. Caliburn, the Divine Sword
2. Yggdrasil, the Sacred Tree
3. Chronos, the God-Arc
4. Uranus, the Sky Demon
5. Agni, the Divine Fire
6. Flamberge, the Divine Sword
7. Indra, the Divine Sword
8. Water Princess, the Divine Sword
9. Bloodwork, the Magic Sword
10. Sharuul, the Divine Sword
11. Gaia, the Divine Earth
12. Daidal, the Divine Water
13. Thor
14. Sanatus, the Suspicious Sword
15. Kuzuryufu, the Demon Dragon
16. Blood Dragon, the Demonic Dragon
17. Zanzas, the Divine Horse
18. Hogyoku, the Magic Bead
19. Elwin, the Divine Wind
20. Ge Bolg, the Divine Spear
21. Afra, the Divine Light
22. Harperia, the Divine Sword
23. Scourges, the Divine Ice
Those recognized by a relic—those it accepts as its bearer—receive its protection and become superhuman. Everyone covets that power. Yet through centuries of imperial schisms, wars, and reunifications, many of the Twenty-Three have vanished from record.
The Empire once ruled over half the continent. Within its borders stood two ducal states, called its twin lances. One of them was the Principality of Laguna to the west—a nation of magic governed by the ducal House of Laguna. The Laguna line had produced great magician for generations, and their supremacy was bolstered by the custody of one of the Twenty-Three.
In this world, a child's innate gift—Talent—usually manifests around the age of ten.
Shin Laguna turned ten that year. He stood in the center of a great hall, face carefully blank.
"Let's begin," said Zink Laguna, his grandfather—the former head of House Laguna—his voice carrying the weight of habit and power.
At Shin's side, the current head, his uncle Karl Laguna, watched with an impassive expression. Three cousins and several senior retainers observed from the periphery, their gazes keen.
"Master Appraiser, if you will," Karl said.
In a corner, a white-haired examiner, an expert who had assessed tens of thousands of children, gave a solemn nod. The ceremony to determine Talent would now begin.
"Now then, young master. Please don't move," the old man murmured.
Shin obeyed. Let this be over quickly, he thought, weary of empty ritual.
The appraiser raised a hand. Mana swelled—a calm, practiced tide—and washed over Shin.
"…"
"…"
The silence stretched. The old man's brows knit, then knit further.
"Teacher?" Karl prompted.
Still, the assessment continued. The examiner's eyes flickered between Shin, his tools, and some private calculation.
"Teacher, what about Shin?" Karl asked, voice steady, edge sharp.
No response.
"Teacher."
"The… the amount of mana is extremely large. Th-this is…"
A stir ran through the onlookers. The late Shin's father had been called a genius in his youth. Shin's mother hailed from the illustrious ducal House of Galarhorn. Expectations had not merely been high; they had been inevitable.
"As expected of my elder brother's son," Karl said. "Certainly, Father?"
"Hm," Zink grunted, satisfied—for a heartbeat.
Then the appraiser's face soured, the color draining from his cheeks.
"…Hmm. But…"
"But what?" Karl's tone cooled.
"It's… difficult to say."
"Spare us the theatrics."
The old man swallowed. Then, with all the courage he possessed, he spoke.
"Unbelievable as it sounds… Master Shin possesses no Talent whatsoever."
The words struck the room like a bell.
"What?!" someone blurted.
"No matter how many times I check," the appraiser pressed on, voice shaking, "there is nothing."
Karl's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is this a lie? A joke?"
"I-I would never…" The old man's breath came short. He knew a single falsehood uttered before a house like Laguna would be the end of him.
The hall erupted—shock, disbelief, offended pride. It wasn't just that a scion of Laguna lacked Talent; it was that the very idea of a child born without Talent was unheard of.
"If there's no Talent for magic," Karl forced out, "what of the sword?"
"…Nothing. No sword, no magic. Nothing at all," the appraiser whispered.
In the Empire, Talent and lineage carve one's fate. To have neither was to be less than ordinary.
"Truly nothing?" Karl asked, the words tight. "Not even a non-combat aptitude?"
The old man only bowed his head.
"What a cruel turn," Karl murmured, a sheen of grief beneath the frost. "My brother's child… But such people do exist…"
Watching his uncle's disappointment, Shin lowered his eyes. If he felt any anger, it was at himself.
"Father, this is serious," Karl said. "Unprecedented."
Zink's hawk-like gaze rested on his grandson's calm, empty face. He considered. Then he stood.
"Where are you going?" Karl asked.
"If he has no Talent," Zink said, cold as steel, "then he is no child of Laguna."
The room fell into a suffocating silence. No one spoke.
And so, the boy who had been expected to become the next head of House Laguna became Shin, the Worthless.
◇ ◇ ◇
From that day, Zink's word—still absolute despite retirement—became Shin's fate.
He was expelled from the manor's inner quarters to a run-down hut on the far edge of the estate. His meals were poor, his clothes coarse. It was a life reduced.
Servants, terrified of angering Zink or Karl, avoided Shin as if he were a curse. His cousins visited now and then—not to see him, but to jeer and strike him, to use him as a practice target for their small magics.
Shin did not lash out. He could not. In his mind, this was simply the price of being born talentless. If he was angry at anything, it was at his own helplessness.
Ignored by all, the ten-year-old found a single companion: books.
Forbidden from the main house, the clever child learned the rhythms of patrols, the blind spots, the doors that creaked and the ones that didn't. He slipped into the library like a shadow and read whatever he could carry.
One day—
"Damn it! Where did that worthless brat go?!"
"Brother! This way!"
As he fled his cousins through familiar corridors, Shin slid into the library's deepest aisle and hid beneath a dust-caked shelf, breath held, back pressed to cold wood.
…And there, further under the sagging shelf, his fingertips brushed a book.
He drew it out, compelled by a hush he could not name. Its cover was worn smooth, its binding tired but carefully stitched. The script within was not Imperial Common.
This is Eastern, he realized, eyes widening.
He could read… some of it.
His mother had taught him what she could from her own mother—a grandmother from the distant East. Those lessons, half-play and half-prayer, surfaced now like stars after dusk.
"How to Use Magic," one heading read. "The Magic Formula," another.
The rest was dense, tangled, difficult.
What should I do? Shin's heart pounded. He knew stealing was wrong. But leaving it here, lost and rotting under a shelf…
I'll borrow it, he decided. I'll return it—after I've read it.
He tucked the book beneath his clothes and slipped out as quietly as he had come.
◇ ◇ ◇
From then on, Shin lived in the margins between pages.
He read until his eyes burned, until he fell asleep face-first in the strange, stubborn text. Bit by bit, guided by the faint trail of his mother's lessons, he began to understand.
And what he understood overturned his world.
In the Empire, the law was iron: Magic cannot be used without Talent. Talent is inherited.
But the book whispered something heretical.
I can't use magic because I have no Talent, he thought. But this says… if I channel mana through a formula, I can.
He sprang up, tripped over the rickety stool, and cracked his shin.
"Ow—ow! Ow!" He clutched his leg, grinning through the pain. "But… if this is true…"
Perhaps he could use magic. Perhaps his grandfather and uncle would calm. Perhaps—most of all—he could forgive himself.
Shin read harder. He never let the book leave his side. He studied, traced, and tested the shapes of sigils in the air until his fingers learned the paths and his breath learned the cadence of hidden circuits.
Make sure you can use magic. Then surprise them. Surprise them all.
It was a small ambition, but it burned hot enough to light his nights.
And so, five years passed.