Magical Soul Parade-Chapter 261: The Errant’s Weapon

The soul mass in Chamber 12 was a sword.

It stood upright in the center of the chamber with no visible means of support, point down, hovering a finger’s width above the floor. Pure white from tip to pommel, light coming off it in a steady, sourceless glow that filled the chamber evenly. Even from the doorway he’d walked through, before he’d taken a single step toward it, Finn could feel it assessing him.

And unlike the curious assessment of the hearthstone, this one was undisguised judgment. The sword was judging him, evaluating him against criteria that were already fixed, and the feeling coming off it rubbed him the wrong way. For a second, it made him feel as if he was in the wrong... as if he needed salvation.

But the feeling didn’t last for more than a second.

Finn snorted and shook off the sensation, then watched as the sword’s aura flinched slightly in response.

It actually tried to judge me...? Interesting...

He walked toward it and stopped at a reasonable distance, studying it properly. The sword was extraordinary. The power in it was immediately apparent — ranked 11th in his future soul inventory, this was genuinely one of the most powerful things he’d assimilated or would assimilate below the single-digit ranks.

The light it radiated wasn’t simply for decoration. It was the fundamental nature of the thing, and that nature was purity in the most absolute sense. Truth. Justice. The annihilation of anything that didn’t belong in purity — as was defined by it, that is.

In a weirdly familiar way, it felt like the Sun God.

Finn was fairly certain that was exactly what it was. A weapon that had belonged to the Rank I divine entity at some point, lost or discarded or left behind under circumstances he had no information on, sitting in this temple long enough to develop its own consciousness and its own very firm opinions about what kind of being was worthy to wield it.

The problem was obvious.

What the sword was and what Finn was sat at opposite ends of everything. He was Error. Structural flaws in reality. The thing that shouldn’t exist. Invalid made manifest.

The sword was the Sun God’s instrument. It stood for purity, truth, the clean burning away of everything that didn’t belong. If it could perceive what he actually was, and it clearly could because the judgment rolling off it had sharpened considerably since he’d walked in, then by every criterion it operated on he was precisely the kind of thing it was designed to annihilate.

He wasn’t going to wield it as it was. That wasn’t even a question. Wielding it in its current state would be like asking a devil to wield the sword of an angel. There was no way that would work.

He needed to rebuild it. He needed to take the sword apart at the level of its soul essence and reconstruct it from the ground up as something fitting for the Errant. He would use the hearthstone’s endless material to reshape what it was into what it needed to become. The difference between forcing a tool to do something it wasn’t made for and making the right tool for the job.

He reached for the hearthstone’s capacity within his soul and felt the material begin generating immediately — prime soul material, endless and responsive, the best grade of forging resource available to anyone in this world or any other.

Then he reached toward the sword and began.

The sword fought him.

The moment he touched its soul essence with intent to reshape it, the light coming off it intensified and the judgment he’d been feeling sharpened into active resistance. It pushed back against his reach with the conviction of something that knew exactly what it was and had no interest in being made into anything else. He pressed. It pushed harder. He pushed harder still and the sword simply refused, its purity functioning as a kind of structural integrity that made it extraordinarily difficult to get a grip on.

He stepped back and let the contact drop.

Then after a while, he tried again from a different angle — reaching for the edges of its soul essence rather than the core, looking for somewhere less reinforced. The sword rotated slowly in place and its resistance met him from every direction equally. There were no edges. The purity went all the way through.

He failed four more times for what felt like a day.

Each attempt taught him something. The sword’s resistance wasn’t uniform. It was highest when he approached with intent to overwrite, and lower when his intent was to understand. He spent the time between attempts walking the perimeter of the chamber and thinking through what he’d felt during each contact. Mapping the sword’s structure carefully. Turning to something like a forger himself. Someone looking for the best way to shape a weapon into what he wanted exactly.

Surprisingly, the experience made him think about Casmir.

The Space Transcendent, one of the people Finn had more reason than most to resent, had been able to create artifacts. The only one among the Transcendents who could work with inert material and put effects into it, translating intention into permanent physical change in an object.

And that was while using mana too, which as Finn had found out so far, was the weakest possible medium of all the kinds of powers he’d learned to use.

That simply went to prove just how much of a genius Casmir had been, though Finn still hated the Transcendent to the bone and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him on sight.

Perhaps it was the same reason why over time, as he kept chipping away at the sword, he felt a need to not just subvert it or simply strip its nature and replace it with a fixed effect — attuning it permanently to some single application of his Error powers the way a craftsman might enchant a blade with one property and call it done.

Rather, what he wanted was a framework. Not a program but a programming language. A sword that didn’t carry a single attuned effect but was itself attuned to him... to Error, to his nature, to whatever form his power took in any given moment. Something that could carry any application he chose to run through it rather than one he’d locked in at the forge.

The difference was significant, and the difficulty was correspondingly greater.

He worked on it for days. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

The sword fought him through every attempt. Its purity was the resistance, a fundamental incompatibility between what it was and what he was trying to make it become.

Every time he made progress it would reassert its nature, the light flaring and the structure snapping back to its original configuration, and he would have to start again from whatever point he’d managed to hold.

On the fourth day he found the first stable point. A small section of the blade, near the base, where he managed to hold a change through three full cycles of the sword’s reassertion.

He stopped and examined what he’d done there specifically, understanding why it had held when the rest hadn’t. The material he’d used from the hearthstone had been shaped differently there — less like an overwrite and more like a conversation, the new material working with the sword’s existing structure rather than replacing it.

He built from that point outward.

Slowly, with the sword fighting him the whole way, he extended the stable zone up the blade. The sword’s resistance didn’t decrease, if anything it intensified as he covered more ground, the light flaring in sharp pulses each time he pushed into new territory.

He thought periodically about the Sun God. About whether a Rank I divine entity could feel its lost weapon being taken apart and rebuilt by someone who was, by every definition that mattered to a being of pure light, a fundamental error in reality.

Probably yes. And probably the Fog of No Return was the only reason anything hadn’t descended on this place already. The protection it offered against divine detection was apparently strong enough to cover even this.

So he kept working.

On the eighth day something changed in the sword’s resistance. It had been consistent since the beginning — firm, steady, rooted in absolute certainty about its own nature. Then during one of his sessions it shifted. The resistance was still there but it had a different quality to it, less like a wall and more like something actively struggling. The sword was fighting harder because the fight had become less certain.

By the twelfth day he had rebuilt enough of the blade that the original configuration couldn’t fully reassert anymore. The sections he’d remade held against the sword’s attempts to revert them, the hearthstone material stable and settled, the new structure integrated deeply enough to resist the pull of the old one. The sword’s light had changed color — no longer the pure white of sunlight but something with a slight green cast at the edges, barely visible, more a quality than a color.

The final section was the core. The deepest part of the sword’s soul essence, where its identity was most concentrated and its resistance was at maximum. Finn sat across the chamber from it and looked at it for a while before approaching.

Then he walked over and began.

The sword threw everything it had at him. Every bit of purity and light and righteous resistance available to something that had been a Sun God’s weapon. The chamber went white with it, the intensity enough that even Finn’s enhanced perception had to compensate.

He held his ground and kept working, the hearthstone generating material at a rate that matched the sword’s resistance, and he remade the core the way he’d remade everything else, restructuring it with the new framework sitting inside the old one’s space and expanding until the old one simply had nowhere left to be.

Eventually, like it was inevitable, the bright light dimmed, then finally went out.

The sword hung in the air in the cold darkness of the chamber, no longer glowing. Then Finn reached for it and spoke the edict in just three words.

"Will..."

"Phasma..."

"Subjugate."

Immediately, the darkness was lit up with an eerie, green glow. It wound and twisted around the obsidian black body of the sword. The light glitched like an aberration, stuttering between solid and phase-through states, as if the blade couldn’t decide if it was a physical thing or not.