The battle stretched on. While Meredith and Jasper stayed safely at the outskirts, closer to the Sundered Spire, Auren—showing no regard for his life—dived deeper into the mass of Cursed Creatures, weaving an endless and deadly dance of cold blade.
His Sword Art—he wasn't sure what to name it yet. But there was no better time to hone it, no better place to forge its principle than now.
Auren tried to remember the final note of destruction that Polypheme's sword had ended with. And in truth, it wasn't hard.
The weight of that memory still pressed down on him, hanging over him like death's breath on his neck. It was difficult to forget what it felt like to stand at the receiving end of such a flawless Sword Art.
It made him wonder—if that was just one of them, what would the rest be like?
And on that wondering, a realization struck.
'Wait!'
He had their swords.
If he could read all the sword memories, wouldn't he be able to glimpse the Sword Arts of all the Polyphemes?
