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EP.483 Lac von Grace(2)
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Don’t get tied down, to anything at all.
Walk your own path.
A path that is solely yours, unfettered by anything.
‘Don’t be bound by form, weight, or anything.’
Lac gripped the hilt.
The moment he exhaled while clutching the hilt, what Lac held was not a hilt. It was not the Holy Sword. Perhaps, it wasn’t even a sword.
The First Holy Sword, now dimmed.
Holding onto a pride that had lost its form, Lac took a step forward. He settled into position. No brilliant starlight, no torrent of mana, nothing wrapped around him anymore. Standing here was merely a young man.
Not a hero inheriting the legacy of the gifted with starlight, nor a successor of the First Hero’s pride, let alone a warrior from the North… just a mere human. All he had left, after laying down everything, was his name. Chewing on his own name, he opened his mouth.
“Come.”
Lac.
“The blow that broke my sword. Your strongest blow. Come at me again with that.”
Lac von Grace shouted.
“This time, I’ll smash you head-on.”
*
“This time, I’ll smash you head-on.”
At the declaration of his rival, Barta’s gaze quivered. Barta silently stared at the human before him. A human who had come back from death. With a pale complexion that seemed on the verge of collapsing any moment. A human standing at the threshold of death.
A human had said this.
To show him that technique once more.
To show him all his strength. This time, he’d break through head-on. Words like bravado, audacity, and arrogance flitted through Barta’s mind. After those words were swept away like sandstorm, one word remained.
‘Pride.’
Barta’s mouth opened.
What escaped from those opened lips was an uncontrollable laugh. It was definitely not a mocking laugh. Nor was it a hollow chuckle. Barta felt elated.
Thud.
His heart thumped wildly at the sight of his rival declaring that the fight was not yet over. Matching the rhythm of his heartbeat, thud, Barta slammed his foot down.
Crack.
The floor of the temple cracked. As shards of the temple scattered in the air, Barta raised his sword in response.
‘Fine, show me all you’ve got.’
Barta would never back down from his rival, who had shown pride. Even if he could win just by dragging out the time, he could turn his back, but… Barta chose not to.
What lay before him was everything he possessed.
His power, which is, in turn, his life.
He did not need simple wins. He certainly did not need a shabby half-baked victory sewn together by cunning tricks. What Barta longed for was a victory achieved by clashing all of his best, his full power, with his rival.
Only that makes his heart race.
‘So, show me your best as well.’
With a heart pounding fiercely, Barta swung his sword. He settled into position. At that moment, the rocky shards that had been propelled into the air froze, as the raging storm suddenly halted. In that frozen moment, Barta moved.
In a world where sound had vanished. A world that had come to a standstill.
As if cleaving through everything, Barta’s sword moved. With every inch the blade cut through, tick, tick a sound echoed as if something was shattering. What the sword sliced through was space, time, distance, everything.
As he swung the sword, Barta questioned himself.
…What is a sword?
Having stood atop the apex of beasts and monsters, the King of Beasts, Barta had seen countless humans. Countless beasts. At times, through the lens of beasts, at other times, through the eyes of humans.
Because he belonged to neither side, paradoxically, Barta could objectively view both.
Beasts sharpen their fangs and claws to hunt their prey and protect themselves. And humans do the same. Humans wield swords to face beings stronger than themselves, they wield weapons.
By honing their swords to sharpness, by training in swordsmanship, they swing their blades again and again to confront the strong. Ultimately, for humans, a sword is akin to a part of themselves.
Though not originally a part of their body.
But through training and effort, it becomes something they handle as if it’s part of them.
That is the meaning a sword holds for humans. The beast who longed for humanity, the beast who had become human after yearning, gained enlightenment from their lives. Barta chewed on the realization he had obtained.
‘To me, a sword is…’
Barta chuckled.
‘A sword is a part of me.’
My being, I am the sword.
In the very moment he swung his sword, Barta felt as if his arm had elongated. Cutting through the air, cleaving space, all sensations were astonishingly vivid.
The sword is me, and I am the sword.
Unity of Body and Sword. As he became one with the sword, Barta accelerated. Barta’s sword, or perhaps Barta himself, swung through time as it split apart.
Smash.
The moment the sword was swung, the nearby space burst apart as if a beast had bitten into it. Yet, the incoming sword thrust was eerily silent. A sword that was both beast and human. The very strikes embodied Barta surged toward Lac.
Boom!
A strike that ripped apart the space.
Ignoring the distance, the blow sought to engulf him. Lac’s body slowly began to move upon seeing it. In that moment, Barta’s eyes widened.
The human had not reacted just moments before.
He was a human who could not even move an inch in the halted time.
Yet now, that human was moving at the same speed as him. Moving along the same scenery. At that sight, Barta felt ecstatic. Swinging his sword, he dashed towards Lac.
The earth split apart. The landscape shook. Space was torn apart.
In a time sliced down to a fraction, two humans swung their swords.
Everything was visible.
Lac looked forward with his own eyes. He recognized the incoming sword strikes. Unlike before, when he had been swept along without understanding. With wide-open eyes, Lac saw everything.
Tick, tickity tickity tick.
The strike Barta showed. That blow was gnawing, breaking everything it touched. Space, earth, sky, anything it met was being shattered. It moved forward without being tied down by any principle.
‘That’s why it’s broken, right?’
The Holy Sword that never breaks.
Even the sharpest First Holy Sword was shattered before that strike. It couldn’t be helped. There was no value in the sword itself. It must have felt far too light.
As Lac observed the incoming strike, he started to move.
Thud, a sound of something breaking echoed. His body was already wrecked. Every movement he made caused blood to erupt from the wounds tearing open on his body. His bones and muscles screamed in agony. An instinct warned him that he could not fight in this body.
Lac brushed aside all of that.
Can’t fight with this body? His body shatters with each move? He couldn’t muster power? What does any of that matter? Ignoring every alarm his body rang, Lac moved. After all, there was no need to be bound by such concerns.
There was no need to cling to form.
Do not obsess over perfection.
Let go of everything, all of this, that, everything.
Rebuilding his tower, Lac realized.
He had been bound by far too many things. He had clung to unnecessary things. He was caught up in the obsession that he had to become like Ganikalt van Galatrick, like Kyle Toven.
It’s ridiculous, Lac chuckled.
Their lives were different. Their paths were different.
Even if he admired them, he should not aspire to become them. The problem was trying to mimic the heights they had reached. Kyle Toven and even Barta before him had not merely imitated their own interpretations of heights.
The paths walked by the seniors were merely signposts.
They only indicated direction but did not draw the path.
In the vast wilderness, it was solely his responsibility to chart the way. So, how should he draw that path? The answer lay close at hand. Lac thought of the tower he had built. His life.
‘I, my life, myself.’
The hilt he griped was enveloped in sword energy. No, it wasn’t sword energy. It was raw energy that had not yet taken form or direction.
‘I am the boiling flame.’
The pure energy bubbled like fire.
‘I am the never-cooling steel, forever tempered.’
A flame that would never cool, blazing eternally wrapped around the hilt. Not a fiery red flame, but a snow-white flame roared up fiercely. The blazing flame held no tangible form.
Not a blade, not a spear, nothing with a specific shape.
Ultimately, iron is just that.
Depending on how you wield the hammer, how you temper it, depending on the situation, it can change in countless ways. Therefore, form was not what mattered. Lac swung what he held, his life.
The sounds of time splitting apart, the sounds of space tearing were nowhere to be heard. All he could hear was the sound of iron being hammered.
Clang, clang, clang, clang!
With each sound that rang out, flames erupted.
The iron glowed white hot. As the white-hot flame drew in the pride that had been shattered, it collided with Barta’s sword energy.
Having no predetermined form, it was formless.
With no set mold, it was shapeless.
Even if it breaks, even if it sever, even if it rusts, it will be reforged once more, glowing red hot… eternally tempered steel.
CRACK!!
At the moment of impact, a thunderous sound echoed.
Even before Barta’s strike, which shattered everything it touched, Lac’s broken blade did not break. Each time the flame wrapped around the broken Holy Sword clashed with Barta’s sword energy, clang, clang the sound resonated like a hammering.
Zrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!
What rang out along with the clang was the sound of burning. Lac’s sword pushed back Barta’s sword energy, tracing a perfect trajectory. At that moment, the flame held within the blade erupted forth in an instant.
The blazing flame unleashed.
The trace of what seemed like hot molten metal sprayed everywhere.
Scattered molten metal took on their own shapes. From forms wielded with weight, swings containing intent, piercing strikes, breaking through, all the techniques Lac had trained surfaced in the form of flames. The heated sword strikes absorbed Barta’s released sword energy.
BOOOOOM!!
Finally, Barta’s sword energy shattered.
At the moment the sword energy broke, a roaring sound accompanied it, and the torrent of power it held surged forward. Splintering beams of light. A raging storm. Swirling clouds of dust.
THWACK!
Piercing through it all, Barta appeared right in front of Lac. Ground shattering, he closed the distance and swung his sword toward Lac.
As if he had known he would do just that.
As if he had trusted Lac to do it.
With the fierce sword energy clinging to his blade, he swung down like an axe. Just like the first time they met. And this time too, Lac did not retreat.
BAM!
Rather, he took a step forward, twisting his wrist that held the broken hilt. The rising flames entwined around the hilt formed… the weapon shape he was most familiar with. The very first weapon he had wielded.
In the shape of an axe.
The moment the axe and Barta’s descending strike collided, a thundering sound erupted, shaking the area. Splintering, cracking, spaces that had been devoured could not withstand the shock and shattered like glass. Completely separating them from the world.
In their own space, the two completed their respective strikes. A rustle, then CRACK. The two sounds resonated simultaneously.
The blood of beasts met the blood of humans.
