Silence.
In the stillness that neither heard nor saw, heat surged. The overwhelming heat at that moment did not take the form of fire. If I were to describe it, it would be closer to a wave of light.
A wave comes crashing. Light floods in.
Everything touched by the flooding light evaporates, crumbles, and becomes charred, ultimately turning into ashes. No, if even ashes remained, that would be considered fortunate. An existence is erased completely, leaving behind nothing.
The wave of heat surges in. Like a disaster.
Even the heat of the cursed sun that rose high above could not compare to this torrent of light.
Chiiiiiiiiiiii!
The cursed lake evaporated.
Transformed into steam, it soared into the sky, unable to fall as rain again. The moisture held by dark clouds evaporated too. All that remained in the wake of the wave of light was merely a parched ground.
An ancient disaster was erased in an instant.
As the risen disaster evaporated and vanished, the wave of light did not cease, stretching forth. In a time infinitely small, worthy of being called a moment, the torrent of light extended to the very center of the temple where the disciple stood.
———!
Part of the forgotten gods encircling the disciple screamed. Despite the distance, where the heat was not entirely transmitted, soot spread over the skin of the gods.
And.
“…Ah.”
Even to the disciple, Gletus.
“…”
She silently gazed at one of her arms. Her skin was burning. The flames quickly extinguished, and the wound rapidly healed… yet the marks of soot remained long. Looking at those marks, the disciple smiled.
…Kelharlem’s life had surely touched disaster.
The life of the superhuman that endured over a hundred years left a scar from disaster. Proving with scars, he stood here. That your prophecy was wrong. That his life was not without value.
However, some might say.
This strike might be inconsequential.
A wound that would soon recover. A scar likely to heal and soon vanish. Indeed, that’s true. If Kelharlem’s final attack, his last resort devoted to his magic, had the purpose of killing the disciple… then the value of this strike might be low.
But.
“The path is opened.”
The purpose of this strike is not to kill the disciple. From the beginning, Kelharlem’s objective lay elsewhere. Though long since relinquished the position of the Grand Headmaster of Artiya, Kelharlem remains an educator and a guiding senior.
The role of an educator and senior is.
“Go.”
To guide along the path to be taken.
To remove the obstacles in front of the children, leading them forward.
“Where you need to be, is not here.”
Kelharlem raised his arm.
Standing on the parched ground, he pointed to the center of the temple. As he pointed, Kelharlem spoke with a lighter voice than ever.
“Your stage is over there.”
Kelharlem did not look back.
There was no strength left to turn back; there was no need to. Just then, someone brushed past him, heading forward.
Thud, as the ground was stomped.
Resti passed by Kelharlem, moving ahead.
She advanced to where Kelharlem had paused. She ran along the path he had opened. The value of Kelharlem’s strike would be determined by none other than her. Watching her silhouette, Kelharlem smiled.
…An child resembling his disciple.
As her silhouette reminded him of Celestia, Kelharlem slowly lowered his hand. No mana remained in his body. With the source of strength that had always been with him for so long vanished, something else had also departed from his side.
The eternity once granted to him.
Immortal life was drifting away from Kelharlem. Stripped of magic, mana, everything as a mage, along with eternity… what remained now was nothing but a mere human.
A mere human, Kelharlem mused.
“Ah.”
He chuckled lightly.
“This should be good enough, Celestia.”
—
The Sword Demon, Draka.
The human’s resentment, long sought for revenge, ultimately broke the chains of the star. Freed from the chains, Draka beheld the stage laid out before him, with his own eyes and will.
At the end of the abyss, the land of Alkeia for the unfaithful.
Before him was the masterpiece summoned by the disciple, along with a tide of summoned beasts crashing in with sewage. Gazing at the slimy muck, Draka recalled the day when his entire territory melted away.
…Ah, Armel.
The image of his daughter flickered before him.
Draka could never forget that day when he lost everything. Chewing on that memory, he grasped his sword. Holding the sword, he walked forward.
“You…”
There stood a young man gazing at him. No, he should now be called a young man. The face of this young man was familiar to Draka. Perhaps he was the boy he had encountered on the northern snowy mountains that day.
Time passed, and the boy had become a young man.
What he sensed from the young man was the aura of a superhuman.
Merely a few years had passed, yet the young man stood at the position of a superhuman, having accumulated such prowess. Watching him, Draka chuckled hollowly. In witnessing that, all he felt was the time he had squandered.
…Years passed.
The time Draka lived as a puppet.
…Decades passed.
The time Draka lived obsessed with revenge.
…A lifetime.
Somebody achieves something, comes to terms, or accepts and passes away with satisfaction or regret. Yet Draka had wasted all that time. Consumed for a single purpose. Wasted.
A single blazing flame. Draka tossed all his time into that flame. The fire still didn’t extinguish and continued to consume Draka’s life.
A flame named revenge.
Before he was engulfed by that flame, his life had shone brightly like the young man before him. There was a time when it shone brilliantly. However, those days were now unrealistic dreams. The days of faded years were no longer clung to by Draka.
“…Ah.”
Draka groaned.
“Truly, the best stage.”
His obsession was revenge. The purpose of his life.
Without hesitation, Draka threw the remaining time towards the flame. Fwhoosh, the flame blazed fiercely.
Draka raised his sword.
He was still a knight.
A knight speaks with his sword.
—
The wave of beasts surged in.
As he watched the coming waves, Draka began to walk. Moving forward, Draka saw the King of Beasts standing at the end of the wave. Draka walked toward him.
Swing, Draka’s blade sang long.
…Draka van Harokut.
Sword Demon, Draka.
Having lost everything and designated only by his name, Draka began to be called by the alias of the Sword Demon. Because he did not hold back for the sake of his purpose, people regarded him with fear.
Condemned and criticized, they would point fingers at him.
Draka’s life was flawed, and it could never be deemed right. A life that could not be packaged in any form. Draka himself knew well this fact. He hadn’t committed evil because he didn’t know.
Even knowing it was unforgivable, he still committed evil.
He lived like trash. For the sake of his purpose, he killed countless people. He pushed comrades who believed in him and followed him into the abyss with just a single finger. Only seeking efficiency, Draka trampled on the lives of others.
He lived that way.
He treaded only the path of revenge.
In the pain, trials, and adversities of such a life, Draka felt no need to beautify his own life. He felt no need to deny his life even more. Why should he?
Kiiyiyiying!
Draka’s sword trembled long.
Along with the surging blade’s energy, Draka’s eyes caught sight of the path of the sword. That path looked crude. It was rough. Rather than smooth and neat, it was a chaotic path.
That was Draka’s life.
Before his eyes, he faced the path he had drawn. A path reeking of horror and blood, but that path was drawn by Draka himself. A knight must believe in his own path.
Draka does not deny his life.
He swings his sword along the path he drew.
Swish!
As Draka swung his sword, he advanced. From the tip of the swung sword, a net of sword energy spread out. The net captured the surging beasts. It slaughtered them. Blood splattered in all directions as Draka swung his sword.
Shraaak!
A fog of blood arose.
As he cut through the waves of beasts, Draka moved forward. Every time the beasts bled, a smile spread across Draka’s lips. His mouth stretched wide as he laughed.
“Come.”
He grinned.
“Come at me as much as you want. Tear me apart as much as you want.”
The beasts lunged at Draka. In an attempt to taste his flesh, Draka seized one and burst it apart. He swung his sword to shred them. Drinking in the cascading blood, Draka swung his sword.
More beastly than beasts themselves.
Amidst the beasts, Draka, now like a single beast, was truly akin to a ghost wielding a sword. The ghost was tearing through the beasts.
“—————!”
Draka let out a wild roar. It could be considered a laughter or a scream. The eyes of the laughing Draka looked upon the path of the sword unfolding before him.
…Draka knows.
He has little time left.
He knows he is walking towards his end. Aware of it, Draka willingly chooses to burn away all his remaining life right here.
He always did so.
By any means necessary, Draka yearns for revenge. Even if it costs his life, it didn’t matter. Draka no longer calculated efficiency. Without looking back, he burned away all his remaining life.
Fwhoosh!
With his life as fuel, the path of the sword ignited.
The path of the sword unfurling before him began to change slowly. The path, shaking and beginning to burn, seemed to question Draka.
Is this path correct?
Is this twisted and bent path truly right?
To that question, Draka can only give the same answer as before. Why should I deny it? This is the path I have walked. Even if it’s flawed, this is my path.
Ka-bling-bling-bling!
Draka’s sword rampaged wildly.
The sword let out a sound as if it were scraping with a saw blade, slicing in all directions. Beasts touched by the sword energy experienced terrible pain as they perished. Screaming, writhing, they died.
Boom!
Curse me as much as you wish.
Scoff at me as much as you wish.
Point fingers, condemn, criticize, curse me to your heart’s content. My life is a life well deserved. I know it better than anyone.
‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’
Draka swung his sword.
‘I walk my own path.’
Faster than before, more chaotically. Each swing of Draka’s sword swept away muck. Covered in blood, he continued forward.
The burning path of the sword grew clearer.
Having given his life for it. Because he only focused on one purpose. Because he did not deny himself until the very end. Because he had gazed toward his end without hesitation. Thus, Draka’s sword is completed.
A sword completed through determination.
The completed path of the sword is not perfect.
It is crude. It is not smooth and is rough. It is not straightforward and sometimes twists, becoming chaotic. When someone sees the trajectory drawn by his sword, they would not claim it to be beautiful.
That is Draka’s sword.
That is Draka’s life.
Though twisted and broken, though not righteous, Draka has lived according to his beliefs. He has not attempted to disguise himself nor sought understanding from anyone.
The Sword Demon, Draka is such a human.
Where a human walks a brilliant and noble path like Galahal, somewhere in the corner of the world, there walks a human tracing a twisted, rotting path reeking of filth. Thus, a human who clings to a single path reaches his end.
Draka.
Sword Demon.
The ghost wielded the sword.
The ghost wielding a sword did not have eyes of a human. With a crimson glow scattered around, the ghost slashed everything that came within its purview. Along with a sea of blood, the ghost smiled.
Look upon, Gletus.
Am I still a pathetic human?
