On a shattered deserted island.
A ring of Darkness Walls stood around the island, sealing it in.
A longsword floated in midair, surrounded by thick gray mist.
The sword rapidly devoured the mist until not a trace remained.
Once it had swallowed all the mist, the sword seemed to lose its ability to float and dropped straight down, plunging into the ground.
It had fallen under its own weight, yet the entire blade had sunk into the earth. That alone showed how sharp it was.
Its edge was keen, its blade gleaming, and its guard and hilt were simple but extraordinary.
A man lay not far from the sword.
One of his arms was badly broken, and wounds covered his body. His blood had stained the ground around him red.
Darkness. A crushing weight. Werther felt as though something was slowly approaching him.
His eyes flew open. He braced a hand against the ground and tried to leap to his feet.
A muffled groan escaped him. He failed to rise and collapsed back onto the ground, cold sweat breaking out across his face.
The arm he had tried to push himself up with was the broken one. The result was inevitable.
"That hurts. Looks like I survived by sheer luck."
Werther sat on the ground and let out a long breath, then carefully assessed his injuries.
He was on a deserted island, and the island had already broken apart. It could sink at any moment. Once the surrounding Darkness Walls vanished, it would go under.
His left arm was badly broken. His lungs and liver were slightly ruptured, three ribs were fractured, he had lost a great deal of blood, and much of his body was bruised.
The injuries looked frightening, but apart from his arm and ruptured organs, they