They found the center by accident.
Not because it was hidden—but because nothing else in the city led anywhere. Streets curved inward without intention. Paths ended gently, as if designed to guide without command. And at the heart of it all, where a grand plaza should have stood, there was only—
A patch of land.
Barely wider than a small courtyard.
Perfectly smooth.
The ground reflected the sky like a mirror of stone, untouched by cracks, moss, or debris. No rubble intruded upon it. No ruin dared to cross its boundary. Even the wind seemed hesitant, skirting the edge rather than passing through.
Netero stopped the moment his foot reached the border.
So did everyone else.
No one said why.
They simply knew.
At the center of the smooth surface stood a sword.
It was planted straight into the ground, upright, unwavering. No altar. No pedestal. No adornment. Just stone, mirror-flat earth, and steel.
A sword.
Unsharpened.
Unassuming.
Complete.
Nen surged instinctively among the Hunters—Ten tightening, Ren threatening to flare—but the moment it touched the space, it faded. Not suppressed. Not repelled.
Acknowledged.
The air was thick with something immeasurable. Not hostility. Not malice.
Will.
So vast it pressed against the chest without aggression, like standing beneath an immense mountain that had no intention of falling—but absolutely could.
Someone swallowed audibly.
"This place is guarded."
Netero nodded slowly.
"Yes," he said. "But not against us."
They advanced carefully.
Each step toward the sword felt heavier—not physically, but existentially. Memories surfaced unbidden. Regrets. Paths not taken. Futures that could have been lived, hovering just out of reach.
Nen users felt it most sharply.
It was as if the ground itself asked:
*What are you willing to give?*
Halfway across the space, the pressure was immense. Some Hunters faltered. One knelt, breathing hard, tears welling without knowing why.
"I feel like I'm intruding on a funeral,"
she whispered.
Another shook his head.
"No," he said softly.
"This feels like a promise."
And then—within arm's reach of the sword—Everything changed.
The vast, crushing presence receded. Not vanished—refined. Condensed into something barely perceptible, like a candle flame at the edge of vision. No fury. No warning.
Only a solemn, unyielding resolve.
The kind that did not threaten.
The kind that endured.
Netero extended his hand slowly, stopping just short of the hilt.
For the first time since arriving on the Dark Continent, he felt something unmistakably human.
Protection.
Not of territory.
Not of power.
Of the world itself.
Up close, the sword revealed its truth.
The blade bore no inscriptions—except one.
Near the base, just above where the blade met the ground, a single shallow mark caught the light.
It was nothing more than a line.
And yet—
Every person present felt it settle into their bones.
This has happened once.
No explanation followed. None was needed.
One of the researchers stepped back abruptly.
"That mark"
"That's not a count," he said, voice trembling.
"That's a grave."
Nen flowed strangely here.
Attempts to examine the sword with Gyo produced fleeting visions—overlapping silhouettes, collapsing possibilities, a horizon filled with endings. The images vanished the moment they formed, leaving only a lingering ache behind the eyes.
One Hunter reached forward unconsciously.
The sword did not react.
Did not resist.
Did not welcome.
It simply waited.
Netero finally lowered his hand.
"It won't move," he said.
"Because it doesn't need to," someone replied.
The old Chairman smiled faintly—not in amusement, but in recognition.
"No," he said.
"Because it already did."
They left the sword untouched.
No seal was placed.
No guard assigned.
None were necessary.
The city had already given everything it had. The blade remained not as a challenge, nor as a weapon to be claimed—but as a reminder.
A proof.
That once—just once—humanity chose to end a god, even if it meant erasing itself to do so.
And as the expedition withdrew, none of them noticed the way the smooth ground subtly reflected their retreat——as if ensuring that, for now,
the world was still worth protecting.