A long time ago, humans have been praying.
To the heavens. To higher beings. To humans superior to themselves. Even sometimes to someone extraordinary, humans would express their wishes. Hoping that they would be heard.
Wishes became prayers.
Desires turned into faith, and earnestness caused miracles. Thus, religion was born.
Therefore, in the primordial age, the most earnest among humans regarding their wishes were referred to as priests. Those who convey prayers.
Now, after countless years, the meaning of priest has changed.
The church has become corrupt, and humanity has forgotten its past. The definition of language has altered, straying from its essence. Today’s humanity considers praying a sacred act, but the true essence of prayer is not faith.
Prayer is desire.
A heartfelt wish.
Hoping that the voice reaches someone.
Even just that gives prayer its power.
Even if the recipient is not a god, if that voice reaches someone…
“…I hope.”
Saint Natida reached out her hand.
A sword stuck in the Grave of the Sword. Natida grasped the hilt of the sword wielded by the most feared calamity.
Shwing!
The moment she grasped the hilt, her finger was severed. The sword’s lingering killing intent clawed at Natida’s hand. Blood spurted from the severed fingertip and her palm.
“Please, I hope.”
Natida extended her remaining hand to cover her bleeding wrist, as if offering a prayer. Her torn fingers. Blood flowed from the hilt of the sword. In the agony of torn flesh, Natida closed her eyes.
For an outstanding knight, a sword is said to be as important as one’s own life. The moment Natida grasped the Death’s Blade, she felt extreme fear.
When her eyes were closed, she saw the gaze watching her from the darkness. Death was staring at her. In front of the greatest calamity, Natida trembled with fear. But she would never let go of the sword.
I hope for a miracle.
What she saw in front of Death was a determination.
A will that does not bend, even trembling with fear.
Natida spoke her wish. Whispering to the Death’s Blade with her desire. I will be your justification. There is someone here who wishes to duel with you once more. As a knight, you must accept that proposal, right?
And death answers.
Whether it responded to Natida’s wish or her whisper, it is unclear. But one thing is certain: death conveyed its response.
From deep darkness, death began to move.
*
The King of Beasts gripped the sword with his left hand.
The moment he adjusted his grip, the flow of battle changed.
The air trembled. The flow knelt before the king. Of course, this wasn’t a cataclysm like when the Death’s Blade adjusted its grip. Barta showcased his swordsmanship with his right hand as well. All that changed was the atmosphere.
A perfected stance, and an unwavering sword tip.
Kalt watched as Barta steadied himself.
Barta’s form no longer wavered. A breeze blew through the stillness. The wind carried the stench of decay. The scent of death. Just like Ganikalt.
…It’s coming.
A strike that could rival the Death’s Blade is approaching.
Kalt saw numerous futures shatter.
Now, with all futures broken, only the present remains.
The tremor in the air. The rubble rising to the sky. What Barta is about to unleash is surely the best strike he can muster.
“Thank you.”
As if honoring the knight who taught him, Barta aims to showcase his best strike.
‘…I must endure that blow.’
And Kalt steeled himself.
Lac said to hold on for ten seconds. Kalt understood why Lac said that. Behind Barta’s shoulder, Natida was grasping the Death’s Blade, praying.
…Whatever may happen, one can never know.
‘If I endure, a path will open.’
A way will open where there was only death.
But how?
His fingers were broken. His muscles were torn. His body had long reached its limit. With this body, he could only swing the sword one more time. He had to parry that blow with that single swing.
Can he do it?
To his own question, Kalt answered.
No, he had to.
“…Hoo.”
Kalt exhaled deeply.
As he breathed out, he stepped forward. Standing one step ahead of Lac, Kalt took his position. Looking back at Lac, who was watching him, Kalt said.
“Lac.”
Kalt smiled.
“I will open the path.”
2.
The rubble soaring into the sky.
The shaking air and trembling earth. Amidst everything shaking, the sword in Barta’s hand remained still.
Boom!
The moment Barta took a step forward, the ground erupted. A sunken earth. Rocks soared up. Putting strength into his stepping foot, Barta swung his sword. The tip of the sword no longer drew the flow. It didn’t pull the air either.
It simply severed everything.
The thrown rocks split in half.
The air cracked with a sound.
The disrupted flow spun chaotically. Barta’s swordsmanship surged, cutting through everything in its path. The blade tore into the ground as it raced towards the human wielding it.
The blade rushed toward a mere human.
Kalt gazed ahead with squinting eyes. He saw the approaching strike, shattering every future he envisioned. In the ever-slowing perception of time, while everything seemed frozen, only that blade was in motion.
It’s coming, death.
A blade that cannot be parried by a human body.
Kalt saw the fragments of the splintering future.
Every future pointed towards his death. Nothing he possessed could repel that strike. Acknowledging this, Kalt’s sword continued to move.
Recall. Your experiences.
Find the path towards victory.
Blood flowed from his eyes. From his nose, mouth, and ears, blood flowed as well. Spitting blood, Kalt remembered. He had once endured the blade swung by the King of Beasts before.
It was before he became superhuman.
Surviving the strike of the Death’s Blade.
Using that experience, Kalt searched for a path. Through a vision tinted red from burst veins, he saw numerous futures. In those futures, Kalt had died many times. He had failed countless times. Amidst the repeated deaths, Kalt moved forward.
…A superhuman is like an unquenched forge.
At the crossroads of life and death. The brink of death. In agony and trial, a superhuman is continually tempered. Sharper. Stronger. More beautiful. Like forging hot steel, like crafting a legendary sword. Thus, a human stripped of impurities begins to shine.
The tip of Kalt’s sword glimmered.
In the end, the sword’s aura is both the spirit’s energy and a reflection of the soul. It’s determined by the life one has lived and the body that has been honed. The shining sword aura of Kalt, stripped of impurities, is the moonlight.
Swish.
The moonlit aura swayed like a reflection of moonlight glimmering on the sea. The glowing blade surged forward, merging with the present moment. The path drawn by Kalt’s sword was unique—one that had never existed before. The lone answer found within the failed futures.
The moonlight drew the sword’s path.
Gently, obliquely, as if it were seeping in.
Kalt’s sword slipped into Barta’s drawn path. The moment the moonlight touched the incoming strike, change occurred.
Barta’s sword aura rippled.
The line, once straight, bent. Twisted. Following Kalt’s swing, Barta’s path was altered.
Whoosh!
Kalt’s sword, swung in a crescent arc, plunged into the ground. Shink, gently slicing the earth as Kalt’s blade surged back into the air. The final destination of the sword tip was straight ahead. From a crescent to a full moon. Drawing a perfect circle, Kalt swung his sword upward.
Traced along Kalt’s path, Barta’s released sword aura moved.
Like a circle, the curved blade returned to Barta.
Zzzzzziiinnnnn!
Barta’s gaze momentarily faltered upon seeing the returning aura. In that instant, Barta felt astonishment. Stunned by the skill displayed by a human, he swung his own blade towards the incoming aura.
However, what returned was Barta’s own best strike. He could not fully withstand his own swordsmanship, and he staggered backward. His stance faltered. Blood gushed from Barta as he revealed an opening.
Seeing that, Kalt smiled.
The exposed gap. But it was not his place to exploit that opening. With no more strength left, Kalt slowly began to collapse sideways.
“Go, Lac.”
Kalt stepped off the stage.
Filling that spot was Lac, who stood behind Kalt. From the Holy Sword, brilliant starlight began to rise.
Boom!
As he stomped down, Lac swung his sword.
His heated body. The blizzard swirling from Lac wrapped around the Holy Sword. With the swirling blizzard, Lac etched one spell. If Raniel gathered the ashes to completely blow away the area…
Lac decided to use the remnants of the swirling mana ‘like this.’ The spell inscribed into the blizzard was simple.
Shock.
The raging blizzard transformed entirely into shockwaves. The shockwaves struck the back of the Holy Sword’s blade continuously. Lac’s sword accelerated, generating afterimages. From the accelerated tip of the blade erupted the pinnacle of the Grace style.
The rough blade etched diagonally across Barta’s body.
From Barta’s unsteady shoulder to his right side, a line was drawn. Blood welled along that line. Immediately after, blood burst forth like a fountain. Barta twitched sharply and staggered back several steps.
Barta gazed at the blood flowing from his body.
Seeing the wound that a human had marked on him, he felt a sharp pain from the unhealed injury and burst into laughter. As if enjoying it more than ever.
Even more teachings.
Even more, techniques I’ve never seen before.
Just as Barta was about to swing his blade again in exhilaration, Kalt, fallen on the ground, unwittingly laughed. It was not the laugh of a resigned human.
“Ten seconds.”
The allotted time has run out.
“It’s coming.”
Kalt’s gaze turned toward Barta’s back.
“The most feared calamity is.”
A shiver.
In an instant, every hair on Barta stood on edge. Barta’s head whipped around. Turning back, Barta beheld a human fallen beside the great sword embedded in the ground.
And.
A hand stretching from the splitting space.
“The Death’s Blade, Ganikalt is coming.”
It was the hand of a beast.
The right arm Barta had lost. The moment he saw the image of his own half-body, lost for over centuries, Barta’s body trembled. Barta’s gaze wavered. Not in fear, but in ecstasy.
“Oh, ohhh.”
Barta groaned.
“Ohhh, ohhhhhhh!”
The beast’s hand grasped the great sword.
As that moment arrived, the space that had been torn just enough for one hand to pass through split with a crack. From beyond the split space, he emerged.
The most feared calamity.
The knight symbolizing death.
Boom.
In that instant, the air of the canyon grew heavy. A fierce wind blew in. A wind holding the scent of death. A colossal presence pressed down on the canyon.
“……”
The Death’s Blade, Ganikalt, drew the sword embedded in the ground. Swish, a soft ringing of the blade. The sword of death echoed.
At that moment, dozens of swords imprisoned in the Grave of the Sword began to tremble as if resonating. It was like they were either shaking in fear under the impending death or bowing their heads. It revealed one undeniable fact.
The Grave of the Sword, Galatrik.
The master of the desecrated land has returned.
