I loved swinging a sword.

If you asked what I liked so much about swordplay when its ultimate purpose was killing people, I wouldn't have much of an answer. Still, whatever else you might say about it, I loved swinging a sword.

Loving something doesn't necessarily mean you'll be good at it. Luckily, I was as good with a sword as I was fond of it.

As though I had been born to hold a sword and swing it.

* * *

The empire, which had seemed destined to reign forever, began crumbling with the emperor's sudden death. His children turned their blades on one another, each insisting they deserved the throne.

With the imperial family threatening to collapse under its own factional strife, the nobles weren't about to sit idle. Other kingdoms raised armies, coveting imperial territory.

Imperial infighting, noble rebellions, kingdoms declaring war.

As the fires of war spread across the continent, even the Demons beyond the outer sea seized the opportunity to cross over. Other races, driven by humans into the continent's fringes, came pouring back as well. It was, quite simply, the biggest shitshow in continental history.

In this age of war, the word peace was losing its meaning, but the mercenary business was booming. Even small companies never ran out of work.

I was born in a mercenary company to a mercenary father and a prostitute mother.

There were quite a few children around my age in that company. Usually, we did odd jobs, but while the adults were off at war, we played at sword fighting with toy blades.

If you'll let me brag a little, I never lost a single one of those fights. Naturally, I always won one-on-one, and whenever we fought in teams, my side always won.

I could do all that without ever having properly learned swordsmanship, so there was no doubt I had a natural gift for the sword.

I was eight when I finally began learning it.

"You're finally old enough for me to teach you."

My father had corrected my stance with a toy sword a few times before. Now, after feeling my arms and legs and finding their bones sturdy enough, he abruptly put a wooden sword in my hands.

I suffered my first defeat in a sparring match not so different from our play fights. Of course I lost. My opponent was my father, a seasoned mercenary. But that first defeat of my life felt so unfair and heartbreaking that I sank to the ground and bawled.

"Son. You didn't actually think you'd win, did you?"

As my father stared at me in disbelief, I made a vow through my tears.

One day, I would beat him.

Sadly, that day never came.

As I said, it was an age of war. Fighting never ceased anywhere on the continent, and business was booming for mercenary companies.

When I was ten, my father failed to return from the battlefield. The adults told me he'd had the misfortune of running into a knight.

I shed tears for all sorts of tangled reasons that day. My mother had died of illness when I was three, leaving my father my only living relative.

I cried because I grieved his death. Because his death made me furious. And because it hurt to know I would never get to beat him.

"Which... knight... killed my father?"

"I don't know his name... but there was a blue rose on his armor."

House Reverto used a blue rose as its emblem.

The house that had hired our company lost the war and became subordinate to House Reverto. We had to leave for another battlefield in search of work.

'House Reverto.'

As we dismantled the tents and loaded the wagons, my ten-year-old self committed that name to memory.

We had to leave for now, and I was still too weak to do anything. But someday, someday I would kill that knight of House Reverto and avenge my father.

'If I kill the knight who killed the father I couldn't beat, that amounts to beating my father, doesn't it?'

My ten-year-old logic was impeccable.

Five years later, the times hadn't changed, but our mercenary company had gone under.

We'd suffered a crushing defeat. Most of our main fighting force, including the commander, had died, and we could no longer keep the company going.

"Boss, what do we do now?"

As everyone else left to find a way to survive, the mercenaries' children who'd played at sword fighting with me since we were little came to ask me that question. Every one of them had lost his father.

"Should we become bandits?"

Before I could answer, one of them offered a suggestion.

"What about pirates?"

Another chimed in.

Fighting was all any of us had learned, so our career options were limited.

"Forget bandits and pirates. Let's just be mercenaries."

Born a mercenary's son in a mercenary company, I'd always assumed I would become one myself.

"What do we call ourselves?"

"The Crow Mercenaries."

I didn't put much thought into the name. Battlefields were always strewn with corpses, so naturally, there were plenty of crows. In my fifteen years of life, I'd seen more crows than any other animal. Rats came second.

"The Crow Mercenaries? Isn't that name already taken?"

"So what? It's not like there are only one or two mercenary companies with the same name."

And that was how the Crow Mercenaries, a band of fatherless children, came into being. Naturally, I was the commander.

Over the next five years, the Crow Mercenaries grew and flourished. As we made a name for ourselves on battlefield after battlefield, people flocked to join us. We also brought other companies to heel and absorbed them.

I swung my sword every day. On the battlefield, I swung it at people. Sometimes I swung it at other races instead, mostly Orcs.

"Commander, House Reverto's declared war on their neighbors, House Valkane."

"Fucking finally!"

Mercenaries were the ones called to war, not the ones who started it.

"We're siding with House Valkane."

"Uh... but Commander, Reverto's army is at least twice the size of Valkane's."

"Winning when we're outnumbered two to one will feel fucking amazing, won't it?"

Praying House Valkane wouldn't lose too quickly, I rode there in a mad rush. The head of the house greeted me with a gloomy face.

"We don't have the money to hire a company as famous as yours..."

"We'll fight for half price. If you don't have even that much right now, you can pay afterward."

"Wh-what? Why?"

"I've got a serious grudge against House Reverto. Just promise me one thing in return. Leave every last Reverto knight to me."

Of course, things on a battlefield don't always go the way you want, so I couldn't have every Reverto knight to myself.

But they had so many knights that I didn't need anyone to save them for me.

"Did you kill a mercenary named Hans in the Cameron territorial war ten years ago?"

I asked plenty of knights that question, but not one ever answered yes. In truth, mercenaries were a dime a dozen in this age of endless war. What knight would remember the name of a mercenary he'd killed ten years earlier?

On the day we burned House Reverto's banners after a month of fighting, I made a vow.

"I need to become more famous."

It saddened me that not a single Reverto knight remembered my father's name.

"Famous enough that people recognize me on any battlefield. Famous enough that beating me or killing me would be something to brag about for the rest of their lives."

"Commander, do you really need to work at that?"

"Our company's already fucking famous, and you're even more famous than we are."

They had a point. The Crow Mercenaries, under my command, had been instrumental in winning the war for House Valkane despite being outnumbered two to one, and in wiping out House Reverto. Of course we were famous.

"No. It's not enough."

I understood that, intellectually, but I shook my head.

"I'm telling you, it's not enough."

What wasn't enough?

Fame?

The Crow Mercenaries' reputation had grown enormously after that war. Now countless mercenary companies came crawling under our banner without us even having to draw our swords.

It wasn't just noble houses anymore. Kingdoms aspiring to become empires sent letters seeking our friendship. Quite a few even offered us titles and a place as their knightly orders.

"It's not enough."

Gathering the letters pouring in from every direction, I burned them all and muttered those words again. Before the roaring fire, I finally understood my thirst. It wasn't fame I craved.

It was the emptiness of having fulfilled the revenge I'd dreamed of for ten years.

I'd worked so hard with my sword for this day, yet now that it had come, there was nothing much to it. I didn't know which Reverto knight had killed the father I'd never once beaten, but of the 117 Reverto knights I'd cut down, not one had given me that dizzying thrill.

What now? I'd fought my way through battlefield after battlefield. Should I take a break? Accept a title, turn the company into a knightly order, and strut about a little? Or should I retire and settle down somewhere? I'd made more money than I could spend.

None of it appealed to me. As the flames I'd been watching for so long began to die down, I drew my sword. The gleam of its blade, tinted orange, was just as it had been when I'd first held a real sword.

No, even before that, when my father or another mercenary had drawn theirs to show me. That impression had remained vivid since an early childhood I could barely remember.

Swords were beautiful, and I loved them.

"It's nowhere near fucking enough."

Get strong, and fame follows.

At twenty, I already had more than enough fame, but I still felt lacking.

Not in fame. In strength.

"Who's the strongest swordsman on the continent?"

Not me, at any rate.

"I want to be the greatest swordsman on the continent. But the Crow Mercenaries have gotten so big they're getting in the way."

The next morning, I gathered my drunken officers and made my announcement.

"So, as of today, I quit being commander. Wibel, you're taking over."

"What? W-wait, Commander. Have you lost your mind?"

"You're the strongest in the company after me. You won't do as well as I did, but you'll run it just fine."

"No, no, Commander! This is too sudden—"

"From now on, I'm going to roam the battlefields without even getting paid. Want to come along for that madness?"

"..."

"You can't, can you? Then don't try to stop me."

"Commander..."

"I've worked hard all these years, so I'm taking a horse and some money as severance pay."

Saying goodbye hurt a little, but I had no regrets about leaving.

Looking back, I'd loved the sword, not life as a mercenary. I'd loved battlefields because I loved swinging a sword, not because I loved money.

From that day on, I sought out battlefields every day.

Alone, I was far freer to move than I'd been leading a company. Without a contract, I had no obligation to stick to any one side.

I simply fought whichever side looked stronger. If, while fighting them, I spotted someone stronger on the other side, I charged straight at him.

"Have you heard? The former commander of the Crow Mercenaries has completely lost his mind."

As I kept doing things even I considered insane, I heard people talking about me more and more.

"It's the Sword Demon!"

"The Sword Demon's here!"

After about three years of that madness, people called me by my nickname more often than my real name.

"Stop! Stop!"

"The Sword Demon's here!"

"Kill the Sword Demon first!"

Five more years passed, and armies that had been fighting each other sometimes joined forces to try to kill me first.

That suited me even better. More opponents, without the trouble of choosing them.

Another two years passed, and battles stopped at my mere arrival.

"You, you, you, and you. Everyone I pointed at, step forward."

I was thirty now and had acquired a certain dignity, so I restrained myself from barging into battles and stirring up trouble indiscriminately.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you. Let's just fight a little. It's not a duel or anything. We'll keep it light and have some fun."

Two years later, people began coming to me, wanting to try fighting me, without my having to seek them out.

Three years after that, some started hanging around, calling themselves my followers. They wouldn't listen even when I told them to piss off.

Time and again, I shook them off and fled. I'd wander off to an entirely different battlefield, stay there a while, then run again when I acquired more followers. That was how I lived.

Of course, I didn't always win.

The world was vast, and there were plenty of strong people in it. Several times, I nearly died.

Each time, I swallowed my frustration and ran. It was ugly, but what choice did I have? Rather than lose and die, I wanted to survive, grow stronger, and fight again to win.

"You spared me last time, so I'll spare you this time."

Whenever I returned after fleeing like that and won the rematch, that was what I said.

"I didn't spare you! You ran away, you insane Sword Demon...!"

"So you want to die?"

"Yes! Kill me!"

"No. I won't. I ran away and came back for another go. You can do the same when you think you can beat me."

After three years of living like that, the struggle for the imperial throne ended.

It had lasted a full forty years.

In truth, partway through, all the imperial heirs had grown sick of war, and the imperial territories had become fairly peaceful, just without an emperor. Admittedly, that peace also meant war had become part of everyday life.

The seven heirs had split the empire into seven pieces and ruled them, calling themselves the King of This or the King of That. Nobles who rose against them declared their own lands independent and started calling themselves kings of whatever, too.

Anyway, the world was still a shitshow, and so was the empire. Still, things had somehow been muddling along.

Now that shitshow was finally over.

The imperial territories had long since settled into their own chaotic stability, without any particularly fierce wars, so I hadn't thought to visit.

In fact, the rest of the world had been much the same for about ten years. Ruined by war, it had somehow kept going with warfare as an everyday affair. Truly fierce wars were rare anywhere.

Even so, I'd diligently gathered news of wars and followed it wherever it led. By now, I was getting irritated at how few battles could set my blood boiling. So when I was suddenly told the struggle for the throne was over, I could only gape in the middle of my meal.

"Ruin Alastor? Who's that?"

According to my follower, that one man was the reason the succession struggle had ended.

He had appeared out of nowhere and beheaded six of the seven imperial heirs fighting for the throne.

The sole survivor was the fifth prince. He had survived because the territory he ruled was at least more livable than those of the other heirs.

"No one knows who he is. They say he was a man training in seclusion in some corner of the empire... Apparently, he came down from the mountains saying he couldn't stand it anymore."

"And the heirs' knights? What were they doing while their lords were getting their heads cut off?"

"They say everyone who stood in his way died."

"What?"

"It's true. Anyway, the succession struggle is over, and the fifth prince has become emperor."

The wars had begun with the struggle for the imperial throne. Now that it was over, the empire would gradually stabilize, and from there, the rest of this wreck of a world would slowly follow.

I loved swords, and I loved swinging them. But I wasn't a lunatic who wanted the world to stay at war forever. Peace? I liked it too. After seeing so many battlefields, even I was starting to get sick of war.

At the end of forty years of war, the times had already been changing for several years. The people I knew, my surroundings, and I myself had changed a great deal.

Fortunately, the Crow Mercenaries I'd founded hadn't gone under. They'd settled fairly comfortably in the west.

The followers I'd found so annoying and tried so often to shake off now lingered around me as a matter of course.

Because I had accepted them.

"Where are you going? You haven't finished eating."

"To the empire."

"Pardon?"

I couldn't sit still.

One man had suddenly appeared and ended forty years of fighting over the throne. He'd cut through the countless troops guarding the princes and beheaded six imperial heirs.

They called me the Sword Demon, but even I had never done anything that insane. Yet some swordsman whose name I'd never heard, who'd been swinging a sword in the mountains, had gone and done it.

I was curious. I wanted to fight him. I wanted to see with my own eyes just how strong he was.

So I went straight to the empire without a second thought, vaulted over the imperial palace wall, and shouted the name Ruin Alastor.

To cut to the chase, I lost.

It wasn't my first defeat. In my thirty-six years, I'd lost well over ten times.

Except for my father, who'd died before I could beat him, I'd repaid every one of those defeats. One loss, one win. That meant my only true defeat in life had been at my father's hands.

Now there were two. This time, I couldn't retreat after losing as I had before.

Ruin Alastor's sword.

His sword... Ah, how should I put it? It was the kind of sword that made me unwilling to retreat even when I knew I would lose.

"Wow."

I'd swung a sword my whole life and fought countless battles. I'd suffered a fair number of defeats, and far more victories—so many that counting them was meaningless.

But never in my life had I faced anyone like him. Someone I wouldn't retreat from even when I knew defeat was coming. Someone I wouldn't retreat from even when I thought I might truly die if I kept fighting.

Someone who made the simple act of crossing blades so much fun. Someone who made me lose all sense of time. Just a little longer. Just a little longer. Someone who kept me swinging with that thought in my mind until the moment retreat became impossible.

This was the result of fighting for a long time—probably a long time. My sword arm, my right arm, had been severed and fallen to the ground. My chest had been deeply slashed.

Only after seeing all of that with my own eyes did I realize I'd lost, that our wonderfully enjoyable fight was over, and that I was about to die.

"Wow..."

I was awestruck.

I felt wonder. Even now, with my arm severed, my chest slashed, blood pouring out, and death racing toward me, I was more captivated by the sword of Ruin Alastor, the man who'd killed me, than affected by my defeat.

I couldn't stay on my feet any longer. I slumped to the ground and looked up at Ruin Alastor.

Blood-red hair. Golden eyes.

He had to be human, just like me, but to my eyes now, he seemed the very incarnation of the sword.

I'd always thought I was born to hold a sword and wield it.

Because I loved swords and loved swinging them.

Because the sword had loved me as much as I loved it.

The man before me made me realize just how arrogant that belief had been. To be truly loved by the sword—that was something only a being like him could claim.

"Let me ask you one thing."

It was hard to breathe, hard even to speak, but I barely managed to force out the question.

"Of all... the people you've cut down... where do I rank?"

"For now, you are the strongest."

Dizzy, I forced my eyes wide and looked at Ruin Alastor. I wanted to burn a clear image of him into my eyes—the man who had ended my life and my swordsmanship.

Ruin Alastor wore a curious expression. He looked almost disappointed, almost impressed, almost regretful. Something like that.

"For... now?"

"There are still many I must cut down."

"Should've... come... a little... later, then."

I chuckled at words I didn't mean.

"Raikal, the Sword Demon."

Ruin Alastor spoke my name. Good thing I'd become famous, I thought. My father hadn't been remembered by the man who killed him. But I would be remembered by mine.

"I will remember you."

I wanted to answer, but I couldn't. My vision darkened, and all the strength drained out of my body.

I was dying. I accepted that. Things I still wanted to do—

There were many. Far too many.

I didn't want everything to end in defeat and death. I wanted to fight Ruin Alastor again. I wanted to win.

Why had I lost? Had I not trained enough? Probably. If I trained more, grew stronger...

Ah.

For all my lingering desires, I had just as many regrets over what I'd miss. Fighting Ruin Alastor had been so much fun that I hadn't wanted to run even when I'd sensed defeat. But if possible, I wanted to fight him another time.

I'd probably lose again. That was why I wanted to keep challenging him.

Until I won.

'Ahhh... '

Why did death have to be the end? Why couldn't I enjoy this again and again? As I lay dying, I sincerely wished there could be a next time.

I'd wandered the world for over twenty years. I'd swung my sword on every kind of battlefield and earned the name Sword Demon.

Even as the world settled into some measure of stability, I'd never put down my sword. Always. Always, I'd felt something lacking. I wanted to fight more. Grow stronger. Wield my sword better.

Just look.

A man whose name I'd never once heard in the forty years since the wars began had brought the era to an end. That was how vast the world was.

It hurt so much to leave it behind.

A sword.

Something touched the fingertips of my dangling left hand. My sword. The hilt of the sword that had fallen to the ground with my right arm. I moved my hand one last time and gripped it.

'My sword...'

I had as many regrets as lingering desires.

I felt I'd let my sword down. If only I'd done better. Loved it more. Worked harder at wielding it. Then I wouldn't have let it fall and lost like this.

If I could hold a sword again, I would love it more.

If I could hold a sword again...

"Woooow!"

An excited voice.

"He grabbed my finger!"

The hand that had gripped my sword's hilt was holding someone's finger.