The decision was made without ceremony.
No crowns were worn.
No banners were raised.
The hunt for the Seven Katana Terrorists began in silence.
Rocky stood at the highest balcony of the imperial tower as night settled over the capital. Below him, the empire he had saved slowly returned to life—torches lit streets once blackened by war, hammers rang against stone, and wounded soldiers were carried home instead of to graves.
Peace… but fragile.
Sylvia stood beside him, armor replaced by a simple cloak, her sword still at her waist. She hadn't let it go since Carbrarra fell.
"They don't leave trails," she said quietly. "These ones."
Rocky nodded. His system had been restless since morning. Not louder—sharper.
A new layer of awareness had unfolded within him, not commands, not quests, but pressure. Like seven needles pressing against the fabric of the world.
The Seven Katana Terrorists were not hiding.
They were cutting themselves out of reality.
The first sign came at dawn.
An entire border city vanished.
Not destroyed.
Not burned.
Gone.
Where stone walls once stood, there was only a smooth, circular plane of glassed earth—as if the city had been erased by a single, perfect stroke.
Rocky arrived minutes later.
His summons spread instantly. Slimes poured into the soil, reading residual mana like braille. Elementals hovered, trembling. Even Risha frowned, her demonic senses catching something wrong.
"This wasn't slaughter," she said. "This was… execution."
The Guardian Wolf growled low, ears flattened. Ghost Samurai Yūrei knelt, spectral hands resting on unseen blades.
Then Rocky felt it.
A pulse.
Not mana.
Not intent.
Sword will.
A katana had been drawn here—once—and returned to its sheath.
The system reacted.
[KATANA AUTHORITY — 1/7 DETECTED]
STATUS: ACTIVE / UNSUPPRESSED
That night, the second strike came.
A chosen one from the southern continent—famed for bending storms—was found kneeling in a crater, still alive, katana embedded through his shadow instead of his body. His power was gone. Not stolen.
Severed.
The message was clear.
The Seven were not rampaging.
They were hunting threats.
And Rocky was now at the top of every list.
Days blurred into motion.
Rocky's group crossed deserts where time skipped seconds at random. Forests where sound refused to exist. Seas where reflections attacked the real. Every land bore scars shaped like sword arcs.
Each encounter revealed more.
One katana fed on oaths, turning allies against one another.
Another cut through cause and effect, making attacks land before they were swung.
One erased names, leaving only screaming memories behind.
These were not ordinary weapons.
They were concept blades—artifacts forged to punish gods.
At the ruins of a fallen monastery, Rocky finally faced one of them.
The swordsman waited in the open, robes torn, katana resting against his shoulder. His eyes were calm. Empty.
"You're late, Summoner," the man said.
Rocky didn't answer.
He summoned.
Not an army.
Just Risha.
The swordsman smiled. "Good. I prefer witnesses."
The fight lasted less than a minute.
The katana sliced through spells, summons, even distance itself. Rocky adapted instinctively, copying movements, bending his aura, sacrificing links to survive.
In the end, it was not strength that won.
It was understanding.
Rocky stepped inside the blade's reach.
And commanded.
Not the katana.
The concept behind it.
The swordsman screamed as his weapon shattered into fragments of frozen idea. The system roared.
[KATANA AUTHORITY — 1/7 SUPPRESSED]
The world exhaled.
But far away—too far for sound—six blades were drawn in response.
Sylvia gripped Rocky's arm as the sky darkened unnaturally.
"This is only the beginning," she said.
Rocky looked at his system.
Six remaining.
Six disasters.
And for the first time since destiny chose him, Rocky smiled—not in fear, not in pride—
But in resolve.
If they were cutting the world apart…
Then he would summon it back together.