The ordinary swordsman has a weapon they favor. Intuitively, this is a reasonable bias. Familiarity with one's blade is a necessary quality for those who who wish to master martial combat, and a minute change in weight and balance can be enough to weaken a swordsman's form.

It follows, then, that the people of Ven Caellan regarded the traveller amidst them as an anomaly. Rather, traveller might be too weak a descriptor for a towering, mobile collection of armaments, a rhythmic, metallic clatter echoing across the walls of the mountainside city with every pace.

As the traveller's path took them to the rearmost structure of Ven Caellan, the people in the city center parted subconsciously, none wishing to venture too close to stumbling distance of the openly displayed array of naked steel. The back of the city housed a temple hewn into the stone of the mountain towering above it, its features in chiseled into sharp relief despite the wear of time. Eight stone sentinels loomed over the traveler's approach, easily ten times the size of their real-life counterparts, identical marble replicas of the same blade gripped in each immobile hand. Predecessors.

At the base of these statues lay a pedestal. As the traveller drew closer, light emitted from runes engraved onto certain items in their possession flickered, then faded to nothingness. Two attendants, their features torchlit, stepped from the side, intercepting the traveller as they approached.

"This is a holy place," one intoned. "No weapons past this point."

"No weapons save one," the other added, indicating the blade embedded in the pedestal's center.

"Look, that's fine and everything," the traveller protested, "but you realize it's gonna take literal hours for me to take off all this shit, yeah?"

"You misunderstand," an attendant replied. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Procuring a dagger, holding it visibly aloft as the cheap iron gleamed dully in the torchlight, the attendant drew ever closer to the pedestal. Ten places closer, then ten again, then...

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The traveller observed the dagger crumble to dust, a fine, rust-red sand billowing to the temple floor.

"No weapon is worthy of its presence."

The traveller's expression, near-indiscernible beneath their collection of arms, brightened visibly.

"Oh, that's frickin' perfect," they said, striding forward, "I can't sell this crap anywhere."

"Surely you'd wish to preserve your most –"

The temple attendant stopped, wordlessly watching the traveller become engulfed in a dense, swirling cloud of rapidly disintegrating metal and leather.

"So," said the traveller, standing upon the pedestal, "how's this supposed to work? Do I say some magic words, just pull it out, or what?"

"If the blade deems you worthy," an attendant replied, scorn audible in their tone, "it will permit you to draw it."

"So... just pull it out, yeah? Righto."

The traveller placed both hands on the hilt of the embedded blade and pulled upwards.

The weapon did not move.

The traveller leaned forwards, gripping the crossguard of the blade, and hoisted upwards with all their might.

The weapon did not move.

The traveller braced their legs against the pedestal, grunting with exertion as they attempted to channel every force their body was capable of producing directly upwards.

The weapon did not move.

"Enough!" boomed one attendant. "The blade ascertains your worth, not your might! You have been found lacking!"

The traveller roared in defiance, willing themselves to expend every drop of strength in the pursuit of unsheathing this legendary weapon.

The weapon did not move.

"I said, ENOUGH!"

There was an audible cracking, a sharp staccato interruption that reverberated through the entirety of the temple.

It's possible that the weapon... may have moved, just a little bit.

Another crack echoed, louder than the last.

The weapon did not move.

But the pedestal did.

You have acquired an item: 

Sep̯t̞e̼m̒ L̒e̶g̵a̸᷁̕t̞̀̉a̷̟͏r̛̗̎ϥ̈᷇̎ͼͧ̍͢Ͽ᷊͒̃ϑ̶̂͡ʹ̛᷉͜ο̠̤̳ϱ̞̀̚ά̜͙᷃δ̴͎͛ϑ̛᷈͡ε̫̃͘ͷ̓᷈́Ͳ̼̗̿ͻ᷇᷆̊Ϫ᷿̻̥ἰ̢̰Ν̩̖͟δ᷆̓͝

 Sacred Sea̽l̹ o̭f͊ Pͥr͒ĭm̄o͎r̾dͨיְ֖֑֨֠ץׄזַָֺֽ֚דֳָ֗֓֙ט֦֭֜׆ִֺ֖֗֙ךְִ֪֚֮זֿיֻלֿֿ֦֣֓ײׅמְ

Stø▧ne Cl◎▻ub (C؟؟ol▣ssal)

"Ehn, this is fine, right?" asked Klei Galliard, panting for breath, uprooted mass of stone hoisted over one shoulder.

Understandably, nobody stopped her when she left.