An Unwritten Story [LitRPG, Evil MCs]

“It’s been a while, Duke Viremont.”

A figure wrapped in a heavy black cloak stood entirely unbothered beyond the rain-soaked window. Forked lightning tore across the roiling sky, illuminating the stark silhouette for a fraction of a second before swallowing it back into the pitch darkness.

Duke Viremont rose slowly from his high-backed chair, the wood scraping softly against the stone. Though a flicker of surprise crossed his face, he already understood exactly why the shadow had come.

“So… His Majesty has successfully received the artifact?” Viremont asked, his half-lidded eyes casting downward toward the floor, heavy with an unspoken weight.

“Precisely. His Majesty has personally sent me to deliver it into your hands, Duke Viremont.”

“Why me?” Genuine confusion slipped into Viremont’s raspy voice. He stepped closer to the glass, his brow furrowing. “Surely there are many others who are far more suitable candidates.”

“There are,” the messenger replied calmly, his voice slicing through the steady patter of the storm. “Many who are vastly more suitable than you. But His Majesty chose you because you possess the finest, most loyal knights to protect the high priests and ensure the completion of the oracle.”

The dark silhouette behind the glass shifted, turning slightly toward the raging squall. “If we ruin this chance, Thalaor will face its downfall. Furthermore… it is our shared dream to descend our god and finally bring salvation to this falling land.”

An oppressive silence filled the room, thick, suffocating, and heavy. It was shattered only by a deafening peal of thunder that scraped across the heavens like rusted iron dragged against raw stone.

After an agonizingly long pause—gathering the scattered fragments of his fading humanity to embrace an act so inhuman—Viremont finally spoke, his jaw tightening.

“I understand. I will bear the sins of our kingdom and move it toward glory.”

The moment the fateful words left the duke's lips, the messenger vanished into the driving rain, leaving the artifact resting quietly on the stone ledge behind the window.

Artifacts are anomalies—items that carry conceptual power far beyond the boundaries of mortal craftsmanship. They are treasures capable of igniting wars between entire nations simply by existing. An artifact could not be created by living hands, nor could it be recreated or enhanced by any normal means.

In Duke Viremont’s possession was an artifact capable of summoning a literal deity: Oracle’s Anchor.

Its structural power was immense. It was a weight so massive that a full circle of high priests and the stolen life forces of countless children—those who still bore vast, unspent lifespans—were required to stabilize even an Aether Body for the incoming deity.

***

I need to hurry. I need to stop them from completing this miracle. Noa clenched his teeth, his boots thudding against the stone floor as he pushed deeper into the cathedral. According to what those guys said, none of the sacrificed kids are going to survive. That includes Lina. The others are none of my concern… but Lina—

As he drew closer to the inner sanctum, a knight stepped out to bar his path. The man possessed pure white hair and piercing blue eyes, clad in gleaming Mid Relic-grade plate armor that brilliantly reflected the church's sacred light. With a casual flick of his wrist, the veteran knight signaled the surrounding guards to stand down. A thin, deep scar ran violently across his right eye, adding a brutal edge to his handsome features.

His aura alone dwarfed the collective presence of the other knights behind him threefold, making it blindingly obvious who the strongest warrior was.

They locked eyes in a tense, silent evaluation. Then, without exchanging a single word of warning, both men seamlessly assumed their respective fighting positions.

The white-haired knight raised his blade, pointing the tip directly toward Noa’s throat. One hand rested perfectly near the guard while the other gripped the pommel, his front and back knees bent in a flawless stance of advanced military doctrine.

Noa, on the other hand, moved like something entirely devoid of structure. The iron sword he had crudely stolen from the slaughtered knight outside was held loosely in a single hand, his other arm completely relaxed at his side. He stood with one foot casually forward while the other lagged slightly behind.

“I am Valvakile, the strongest knight under Duke Viremont.”

It was an introduction, but the heavy gravity in his tone carried an unspoken question: ‘What is your name, intruder?’

“Noa. Just a brother.”

“A brother?” Valvakile’s chin twitched slightly as he scrutinized the blood-splattered youth. “Can a brother be so cold?”

“I’m adopted, that’s all. Though, I still love my little sister.” A playful, unhinged smirk danced along Noa’s lips despite the gravity of the room.

“Your stance… it’s wrong. Completely wrong. How did you even manage to slaughter the knights outside with that kind of skill?” Valvakile’s gaze sharpened into needles, studying Noa's lack of form. “Who taught you swordsmanship?”

Noa narrowed one eye, lifting his face backward a bit as if genuinely caught off guard by the question. “…Myself. Why?”

Impossible. No one could butcher that many elite knights without formal training, Valvakile thought, a surge of disbelief threatening to break his composure. But then again… those dark purple eyes don’t look like they’re lying.

Step.

Noa took a single forward step—though to the untrained eyes of the surrounding knights, it looked as if he had simply vanished from reality. The moment his foot left the stone for a second time, he materialized directly in front of Valvakile, his stolen blade already tearing through the air in a vicious, angled slash.

Steel rang through the sacred church with a violent, metallic clang, colliding aggressively against the rising backdrop of chants and prayers. Noa immediately followed up with another strike, and then another. Sparks danced wildly between their clashing weapons like frantic fireflies drawn to a lethal flame.

He possesses incredible raw speed, but he’s using it incorrectly, Valvakile analyzed internally, his muscles executing flawless parries as they traded rapid blows. …Yet, somehow, against all logic, it works just as effectively as a master's style.

Valvakile executed clean, mathematical diagonals, maintaining a disciplined tempo rooted in centuries of knightly tradition. Noa responded with an entirely chaotic methodology. He didn't block in a textbook fashion; instead, his blade fluidly bent around incoming strikes, effortlessly sliding off angles that should have completely trapped his weapon.

Valvakile circled half a step clockwise, his back foot pivoting with perfect grace while keeping his shoulders completely square. Sensing an opening, he struck diagonally with disciplined efficiency, his heavy blade falling rapidly toward Noa’s right flank.

Noa completely separated his left hand from his sword, using his bare, unprotected fist to violently punch the flat side of Valvakile's incoming blade. The sheer force of the punch forced the knight's weapon to slide off its intended trajectory, missing Noa's flesh by a hair's breadth.

Twisting his upper body dynamically, Noa allowed the redirected blade to pass right next to his ear. Utilizing the kinetic energy generated from the sudden rotation, he swung his own sword back in a devastating counter-strike.

—!?

Though Valvakile’s reflexes allowed him to avoid a fatal injury, Noa’s blade aimed right to his pristine armor’s gap, carving a thin, bleeding laceration across his stomach.

…

The two continued their deadly dance of swords beneath the heavy canopy of the priests' chanting. The duke and the remaining knights watched the spectacle unfold, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and delight.

Sparks trailed downward in slow, glowing arcs. Noa was visibly sustaining more injuries than Valvakile, the fresh crimson from his nicks mixing with the dried blood of his previous victims. Yet, as the seconds bled away, Valvakile began to feel the true terror of his opponent.

The angling is entirely wrong. Physically, that parry shouldn’t even exist, Valvakile thought, staring at a shallow cut he had just managed to land on Noa's shoulder.

The knight followed up with a sweeping horizontal strike. Noa simply leaned slightly off-center, tilting his body as if gravity held absolutely no sway over his flesh. The razor-sharp steel passed so close it cleanly trimmed a loose strand of his black hair.

On the other side of the clash, Noa was experiencing something else entirely.

This… holy shit, this is actually fun. Heheheh… Noa exchanged another heavy blow, his muscles tightening under the immense strain, but the manic smile never left his face. Huh…?

After a rapid succession of continuous attacks, Valvakile suddenly leaped backward, creating distance. Noa watched in genuine confusion as the knight raised his sword high toward the vaulted ceiling, angling the steel toward the sky before closing his eyes in deep concentration.

“Watch closely… this is the next stage you will eventually climb to.”

Noa’s purple irises widened slightly as a pristine, brilliant white glimmer of energy sparked violently near the guard of his opponent's blade—a manifestation of power he had never witnessed in his life. As Valvakile snapped his eyes open, the light slowly crawled upward, enveloping the midsection before igniting the very tip.

An energy of pure, pristine white wrapped itself heavily around the weapon, refracting the ambient light like a perfect crystal prism—vibrant rainbow hues flickering wildly within its core.

[Aura Blade]

Aura Blade—the technique of infusing one’s weapon with their raw aura. An aura was the combined manifestation of an individual's collective strength—be it derived from an active Skill, a legendary item, or the sheer density of muscle itself. The distinct color and latent effects of the aura altered drastically depending on the nature of the wielder, perfectly mirroring their underlying personality.

“What the fuck—”

Clang!

The downward strike descended like a holy judgment. Valvakile had crossed the distance in a fraction of a second, appearing directly in front of the stunned youth with a ridiculous, reality-defying burst of speed.

“Ghah—!”

Noa managed to bring his sword up to block the strike, but the sheer weight of the aura violently repelled him. He was sent skidding across the stone floor, blood spilling from his lips from the sheer concussive force of a single blow.

He forced his knees to lock, pushing himself back to his feet while placing a hand flat against his aching chest.

This time, they were no longer operating on an equal playing field.

“What the hell is that?” Noa asked, a curious but inherently mischievous smile breaking through his bloody mouth.

“Aura Blade,” Valvakile answered, his voice steady. “A technique to infuse your aura into a weapon to strengthen it. Eventually, you can also learn how to coat your entire body in it to enhance your physical parameters.”

Looking at the shimmering weapon, a sudden, burning urge to try it out took hold of Noa's soul. “Let me try that real quick.”

He narrowed his eyes, his breathing shifting into a careful, rhythmic pattern for the first time since the fight began. Deep within his core, he felt a strange, deeply familiar sensation—as if his body was already entirely accustomed to this feeling. He reached out and aggressively grabbed hold of that feeling.

Slowly… I just have to drip this stuff onto the blade, right? Noa asked himself, entirely unsure of the mechanics but recklessly doing it anyway for the hell of it.

“Valvakile! What are you doing idling around?! Finish him off—!”

Viremont raised his hand, gesturing for the other knight to remain silent. Just like Valvakile, the duke himself was now deeply enticed, eager to see what this anomalous young man was truly capable of achieving.

It won’t work that easily. You need years of trainingto unlock it, Valvakile thought, staring intently at the space around them, at something invisible. And you won't even receive it as a skill because something is preventing skill usage. Is it an effect of the artifact? But it only has one function—

Swoosh~

“Is it something like this…?” Noa muttered, raising a singular eyebrow as he looked down at his weapon.

A dense, dark purple energy suddenly flickered along the length of the iron blade like a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated rage. It was uncontrolled, jagged, and deeply malicious—a perfect mirror of the chaotic entity he had become since stepping foot in Mythara.

“—?!!” Valvakile’s blue eyes widened.

It was nothing like his own radiant, ordered aura. Noa’s aura was corrupted. It didn't shine to illuminate the room; it actively consumed the light, swirling like a famished, monstrous beast of wind.

Crack!

“WHAT?! Wait, it’s breaking?!” Noa’s eyes snapped wide as a prominent crack spider-webbed across the stolen sword.

He learned it just by watching it once? What a corrupted aura. Meanwhile, Valvakile’s mind was diving into an abyss of disbelief.

Adjusting his stance, Valvakile immediately tested Noa with a lightning-fast thrust.

Clang!

Noa twisted his wrist with fluid grace, stepping directly inside the line of attack. Their swords slid aggressively along one another, dark purple aura scraping violently against pristine white energy, throwing off a blinding cascade of multi-colored sparks.

Noa’s execution of the [Aura Blade] was remarkably crude compared to Valvakile’s highly refined, veteran control, but strangely, their raw swordsmanship matched step for step. Yet, they remained complete, fundamental opposites: one was a masterpiece refined through decades of rigorous study, while the other was a disaster born entirely from abnormal, monstrous instinct.

His sword style functions like a small child imagining how to swing a blade, Valvakile thought as he parried another wild slash. There are countless openings in his form… yet, simultaneously, there are none at all.

“Who taught you that swordsmanship, truly?” Valvakile demanded between heavy clashes.

“I already told you once, you fucking idiot,” Noa hissed, a heavy layer of genuine annoyance bleeding into his tone. “I’m just swinging it however I see fit!”

“What?”

You cannot fight at this level without proper training… unless… Valvakile's mind reached a terrifying, logically impossible conclusion. If someone fought through thousands, perhaps millions of life-or-death battles… if raw combat experience accumulated across countless years… it could forge something like this. An unpredictable, formless swordsmanship that moves entirely through pure instinct.

But he violently dismissed the thought. Noa didn't even know the proper name of the Aura Blade until a minute ago. It was impossible. Yet, a deep, unshakeable doubt had sparked within Valvakile’s mind, only making him hyper-invested in this anomalous 'genius.'

“Now, try channeling that aura into your limbs, just like this. Surely you can learn that as well!”

Clang-clang-clang!

Valvakile accelerated his assault, his movements blurring: a heavy vertical slash, a rapid horizontal sweep, followed immediately by a piercing thrust.

“I never imagined a duel with a teenager could be this exhilarating,” Valvakile let out a quiet, amused breath, a trace of childish joy flickering beneath his stern knightly exterior. “Tell me, what is the name of your sword technique?”

A name? Mmmm… I need something that sounds cool… Noa briefly lost himself in thought for a few seconds, ducking under a strike before twitching his chin upward with a confident smirk.

While their blades clashed in a final, heavy deadlock, Noa muttered:

“Formless Sword.”

— Formless Sword: Origin (Unsteady Dawn) —

A concentrated amount of dark purple aura gathered aggressively at the shattered edge of Noa’s blade, balanced precisely so the fragile steel wouldn’t break completely. As Valvakile instinctively stepped back into a defensive position, Noa unleashed a diagonal swing.

A violent, crescent slash composed entirely of pure, corrupted purple aura ripped through the air, completely detaching from the physical blade as it surged toward Valvakile like a sweeping wave of destruction.

Thus, an entirely new sword technique was born into the world of Mythara: Formless Sword.

Valvakile twisted his body with elite instinct, forcing his reinforced heavy armor to face the brunt of the impact instead of his exposed flesh.

Slash.

His thick chestplate was cleanly split open, the purple energy tearing straight through the metal into his flesh, carving a massive, gaping wound across his stomach that spilled fresh blood across the sacred altar floor. The corrupted aura clung stubbornly to the edges of the wound, biting deeper into his vitality. Agonizing pain flared through his nervous system—but along with it came an overwhelming surge of something else:

Excitement.

“Very good… Noa Ravel!” Valvakile wheezed, his breathing growing noticeably heavier as he stabilized his stance. “Show me how far you can go!”

His white aura intensified into a raging bonfire, his snow-white hair waving wildly under the pressure of his own energy as he assumed his combat stance once more.

This was no longer a battle Valvakile knew he would comfortably win. It had officially transformed into a true death-match—either he would perish on these stones, or the young monster standing before him would.

Let us see how beautifully a wild flower like you can bloom.

“Hell yea—”

Noa started to roar, his blood pumping with adrenaline, before a sudden, icy realization violently slammed into his brain.

The primary reason he had broken into this damn church in the first place had been completely forgotten because he had gotten way too carried away by the fun of the fight. The oracle was actively reaching completion, and Lina’s life was ticking away by the second.

“Sorry, I don't have time for this.”

Saying that, Noa abruptly reversed his grip on the hilt, raising the cracked blade high beside his ear with the tip pointed directly forward. Slowly, deliberately, he began to concentrate every single remaining fragment of his chaotic aura into the tip of the sword.

— Formless Sword: Trace (Lingering Afterimage) —

“Thank you, Valvakile,” Noa muttered.

It was a rare, genuine expression of appreciation toward the man who had willingly taught him the mechanics of Aura Blade.

With a powerful snap of his arm, he threw the sword forward.

The resulting explosion of intense purple light completely outshone the holy radiance of the artifact and the magic circle, violently altering the illumination streaming through the stained-glass windows as it traveled.

There was no loud, explosive flash—only a silent, terrifying distortion in the fabric of the air, as if reality itself remembered being cut a fraction of a second too late.

In that stretched, fragile moment, everything became crystal clear to Valvakile. It wasn't the future he saw, but the physical trajectory of the throw: the blade wasn’t aimed at him at all. It was heading straight for the circle of priests behind him.

“No!”

With a desperate roar, Valvakile forced his legs to move, violently leaping his body directly into the path of the incoming projectile.

The corrupted purple aura collided with the shining steel of his armor once again, and just like before, the defensive metal was torn through as if it were nothing more than wet parchment. The tip of the sword ripped cleanly through his chest, the immense pressure causing blood to spray from his eyes.

He had willingly sacrificed his body to act as a human shield—but raw sacrifice alone was simply not enough.

The sword pierced completely through Valvakile’s torso, maintaining its terrifying momentum as it exited his back, flying straight toward the altar without slowing down.

The chanting priests finally noticed the incoming weapon. The head priest blinked, his fanatical mind completely refusing to process the anomaly; the second priest tried to desperately step backward, but his legs folded beneath him before his brain could comprehend why; the third priest's sacred rosary slipped from his trembling, sweaty fingers.

Then—chaos struck.

Before the surrounding knights could even take a step forward to intervene, the sword flew into the thick of the circle. Without hesitation, the sword pierced through the head priest's skull and continued onward, skewering the priest behind him, then another, then another.

A heavy spray of crimson spilled across the golden artifact resting in the middle of the altar. The physical sword finally embedded itself deep into the stone wall behind them, the purple aura seemingly vanishing upon impact.

For a few fleeting seconds, a deceptive stillness hung over the room. The surviving priests who had avoided the direct path of the blade let out a collective sigh of profound relief, believing the danger had passed.

But—

Suddenly, the stone ground beneath the path the sword had traveled began to violently spider-web and shatter. The true, delayed impact of the ‘trace’ technique finally detonated. The shockwave tore through the room, aggressively widening the gaping hole inside Valvakile's chest before expanding outward to reach the circle of priests.

Swoosh—Boooom!

The violent after-effects of the compressed aura erupted in a sonic wave. The elite knights rushing toward the altar were forcefully shattered and blown across the hall like loose leaves in a hurricane. Simultaneously, the bodies of all the remaining priests were instantaneously disintegrated into nothing but blood by the residual purple aura just as they turned to flee.

“Seems… I was not the… only one holding back…?” Valvakile whispered, his body collapsing heavily onto the blood-slicked marble. He stared blankly at the ruined altar, his voice fading. “The… the future of Thalaor…”

Noa stepped closer to the dying knight, his own breathing incredibly shallow and ragged, clearly pushed to his physical limits. He looked down at the veteran with a quiet, grounded respect.

“Goodbye… teacher. I’ll see you around.”

Valvakile’s vision blurred rapidly, his screaming muscles turning completely numb as the cold embrace of death took hold. He stopped fighting, a simple, peaceful smile touching his lips. Closing his eyes for the final time, he looked at the image of the young man he had just taught, leaving one final, lingering thought:

A terrifying flower… blooming without permission.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!