The obsidian blade lay across Yechan's lap, its surface reflecting the flickering light of his small apartment. The runes etched into the metal pulsed with a rhythmic, maroon glow, looking like a heartbeat made of dark light. It was silent for a few minutes until a sharp, feminine voice vibrated through the hilt, echoing directly into Yechan's mind with the force of a physical slap.
「Are you going to stare at me all night, or are you going to actually do something with those useless hands? You're holding me like I'm a piece of scrap metal you found in a dumpster. Adjust your grip, you peasant!」
Yechan jumped, nearly dropping the sword onto his toes. "I'm trying! You're heavy! And you're a sword! How am I supposed to 'do something' when you're literally a piece of hardware right now? I thought you were a Demon King!"
