The Madman, Kelharlem.
A certain mage, who had lived for more than a century, gazed ahead. What blocked his path was an ancient calamity, a colossal pillar of water that soared into the sky. Each raindrop that touched Kelharlem’s skin made a chiiiing sound.
Raindrops that stole the given time.
A cursed lake that steals time and hastens the end all living beings shall face. However, that lake could not even gift Kelharlem death.
“That’s right.”
Kelharlem muttered to himself. As he murmured, he took a step forward. Splash, a black droplet jumped into the air.
Kelharlem is a being of immortality.
The blood of spirits, Kelharlem’s madness and hatred, the screams of students flowing like sewage, and the last wish of a disciple. All of that was mixed together to create a curse that darkened Kelharlem’s soul a century ago.
Eternal life, the life of immortality.
That day, time for Kelharlem stopped.
Time halted, like a broken clock. Kelharlem could break that clock whenever he wished. The curse that darkened his soul was immortality, not invincibility.
A life that could be ended at any time if desired.
A hell from which freedom could be attained whenever wished.
“I shall live this endless life solely for you.”
However.
“I shall devote my life to keeping my vow.”
He did not escape the hell bestowed upon him. He did not find peace in death. He continued to walk the path laid before him, living a hellish life stained with madness. Just, endlessly.
Splash.
Because he had to keep his promise.
Splash.
Even if everything in Artiya crumbled and was forgotten in ashes… as long as he kept fighting, as long as he, the Grand Chancellor of Artiya, chose to move forward, he could believe those children’s lives had not come to an end.
Splash.
And finally, Kelharlem arrived here.
Kelharlem stopped walking and looked back. Behind him lay the path he had walked. At the beginning of that path stood someone.
“……”
A girl staring at him.
A girl resembling the disciple he failed to protect that day. Of course, Kelharlem knew that this girl was not his disciple. Their appearances and talents coincidentally matched, but their backgrounds and personalities were completely different.
Even knowing that fact,
Kelharlem saw the traces of Celestia von Arta overlapping with Resti Elenoa. The words he had said to that girl floated in his mind.
“Just as you’ve always done, believe in the star. The star is your guide that will illuminate your path. It will be a reliable companion on your journey.”
How much he had regretted those words.
The fate of the girl who had believed in the star until the very end was utterly horrifying. Remembering that terrible memory, Kelharlem couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Yes, such a thing must never happen again.
“Resti Elenoa.”
The girl who resembled his disciple.
However, a girl destined to walk a different path than his disciple. As he looked at her, Kelharlem opened his mouth. Amidst the surging cursed lake, he spoke.
“Believe in yourself. Move forward, believing in no one but yourself.”
Kelharlem smiled.
“The way to do so.”
The teacher chuckled.
“I shall pave it for you.”
That would be the role of a mentor and a senior.
Kelharlem turned his head. Splash, he took a step forward. Gazing at the overflowing lake, Kelharlem slowly, very slowly closed and opened his eyes.
…A path that cannot be pierced.
What that girl is looking at lies beyond this path. The place where she can shine is also beyond this lake. This is not the stage for her.
So.
“Balance.”
This place, is my stage.
—
An army of beasts surging across the horizon.
Lac’s expression hardened before the beasts crashing like waves. The beasts pressed on with sheer numbers. And all of it was the handiwork of the traitor.
…The situation is dire.
While he could manage to deal with the encroaching beasts, the existence of the ‘King of Beasts’ commanding them made it a tricky endeavor. Being cautious of that existence while facing the beasts would be exceedingly difficult.
“Moreover…”
Lac looked beyond the King of Beasts.
There was a place he needed to go. An enemy he must defeat was there, and he couldn’t afford to be stuck here. Grinding his teeth, Lac stomped his foot down.
Boom!
The sky opened, and the ground shook.
From beyond, in the center of the temple, a tremendous roar echoed repeatedly. Everything felt like it was urging him on. Anxious, Lac swung his sword with all his might.
Kachang!
The blade unleashed a wave of cutting energy that swallowed the beasts. Blood from the torn-apart beasts splattered everywhere, but as that blood splashed, more new beasts charged in. It was the moment when the endless surge of beasts bore down on Lac.
Shing, shing!
A sharp slicing sound whispered by Lac’s ear.
A line shot out behind him. A strike that passed by Lac slashed the beasts long. The net of sword energy spread out, mowing down the beasts.
Whoooosh!
Blood erupted forth.
Amidst the scattered bits of flesh, a light footstep echoed in Lac’s ears. A light step, as if someone was walking without applying much force.
“Hey, newbie.”
A cracked voice resonated in his ears.
“Putting your all into every single strike is what a knight must strive for. But in a situation where you’re up against many, that’s foolishness.”
Tap, tap, something nudged Lac’s shoulder.
“Seek efficiency.”
As whatever nudged Lac’s shoulder moved forward, it passed by him and stood in front.
“In the end, it’s all about how you wield the sword.”
The figure lightly swung his sword.
What burst forth from the swung blade was a whip-like stream of sword energy. A technique devised to face many opponents.
Chaos Blade, a net of swords.
The beasts caught in the net were ripped apart. Blood gushed forth, and the field filled with a mist of blood. Amidst the stench of blood filling the plains, Lac stared at the figure standing before him.
“You?”
Lac looked at the swordsman in front of him.
The Sword Demon, Draka.
A superhuman of the sword, turned into a puppet after losing his reason and self through a contract. Yet, in this moment, he looked far from a puppet.
“It feels lighter now.”
Draka exhaled a long breath and muttered.
The binding of the star that had constantly shaken since entering Alkeia had finally been severed at this moment. The star could no longer hold onto a human’s obsession for revenge.
Freed from the binding was the phantom of the sword.
A swordsman who reached the realm of the superhuman solely with determination, a ghost who yearned for vengeance. He knew his thirst had yet to be quenched. To fill the unquenchable thirst and his pierced soul, he raised his sword.
With the sword lifted, he beheld the stage where he was to stand.
The stage set by that audacious Ashen Mage.
A horde of beasts stretching beyond the horizon, a temple filled with traces of the traitor. The traitor awaited beyond that. Draka sighed as he surveyed the surroundings.
“Ah.”
The Sword Demon laughed out loud.
“Truly, it is the best stage.”
—
Clang, Kaaah!
Swords clashed, sending sparks flying. Each stroke of the sword tore up the ground, and the air twisted along the path traced by the blades. Thus, in a stormy wilderness, two swordsmen swung their swords.
Sword Saint, Kuntel.
Sword Saint, Kalt.
The two men, bestowed with the title of Sword Saint (劍聖), which is given to the most noble among those who have inherited Galatrick’s swordsmanship. What resides in their blades is not just their own lives. The history of the place where they now stand, the Kirmelt Canyon, is embedded within.
…Galatrick style.
The swordsmanship left by the founder who created the sword canyon.
Every swordsman who trained in the sword canyon learns this swordsmanship. Although each branch may differ slightly depending on the master and sect, tracing back to the roots means there’s a single swordsman.
Now a forgotten swordsman, Ganikalt van Galatrick.
The most proud and noble swordsman in human history, whose martial arts left a legacy that has passed on through the superhumans of the canyon.
“Galatrick style. The swordsmanship left by the greatest Sword Saint. But, do you know that? Kalt.”
As he wielded his sword, Kalt recalled what Kuntel had once told him.
“Galatrick style is excessively difficult. It’s not a realm reachable by mere training. Even now that I have become a superhuman, I still don’t fully understand the Galatrick style.”
“The most I can wield is merely from the 1st to the 5th forms. It took my entire life just to learn this.”
Galatrick Style Form 1, First Strike.
The rapidly swung swords clashed, producing a long Kaaah! sound.
“It is the swordsmanship of the greatest being in human history. A mere swordsman, let alone a superhuman, could never catch up to what he achieved.”
“Yet, the warriors of the sword canyon have longed to follow this swordsmanship.”
“That’s why they researched and studied it endlessly.”
Form 2, Phantom Blade.
Invisible swords clashed in the air. Chak!, the ground was long split apart.
“The 2nd Sword Saint tidied up the basics of the Galatrick style. He had a talent for organizing things. He summarized the initial moves and shared them with the warriors.”
Form 3, Cutting Edge.
A sword energy that cuts everything it touches collided, even slicing through space. A sound of bending space echoed aloud.
“The 3rd refined that further, and the 4th established a way of teaching, while the 5th offered a new interpretation…”
Form 4, Form 5…
“In that way, the Galatrick style has been passed on.”
“Numerous superhumans fixated on the Galatrick style.”
“They vowed to complete this technique and carry on the legacy of the great first Sword Saint.”
“And so they mixed their swordsmanship with the Galatrick style, adding their realizations, continuously developing it for an extended period.”
Clang.
“Thus, hundreds of years have flowed by.”
“Now, what we learn as the ‘Galatrick style’ may be far from what the first Sword Saint wielded. It could have taken on a completely different form.”
“But that’s what makes it the Galatrick style, isn’t it?”
Clang!
“A multitude of warriors who passed through the sword canyon.”
“Numerous superhumans birthed from the canyon.”
“The swordsmanship born from the lives of those who learned in the Kirmelt Canyon…”
Clang!
“That’s why.”
“It is the Galatrick style.”
As Kalt murmured that, he chuckled.
Galatrick no longer refers to just one swordsman named Ganikalt van Galatrick. Galatrick has become a term that represents the Kirmelt Canyon.
Thus, within the Galatrick style,
Kalt’s blade carries the lives of all the swordsmen who passed through Galatrick. He walked the path of the sword they had honed with their lives. And upon that path…
“You are there too.”
The former Sword Saint is present as well.
Standing atop the path left by the last survivor of the sword canyon, Kuntel, Kalt stands. Breathing heavily, shedding blood, Kalt smiled.
“So the Galatrick style is a swordsmanship that evolves as time passes. While Galatrick could maintain it, now it may not be possible.”
“And that’s why I’m here to teach you.”
The laughter of Kuntel echoed in Kalt’s ears.
“Wishing this swordsmanship doesn’t end.”
“Wishing this beautiful swordsmanship, laden with centuries of history, continues to the next, and the next.”
Kalt gripped his sword tightly.
“Wishing for the swordsmanship that I have honed to develop further in each of your hands.”
With a long breath, Kalt released Kuntel’s sword. As he let go, Kalt shifted his stance, which would be unfathomable to Kuntel. It could not be any other way.
‘This is a form created to confront you.’
Galatrick style, Reformed.
Kalt’s sword gleamed with moonlight.
In the Kirmelt Canyon, where he set foot, Kalt swung his sword. Having walked the path left by Kuntel thus far, for the first time, Kalt stepped one step forward, surpassing Kuntel.
Form 6, Moonlight Shadow.
Kalt’s sword scattered moonlight.
