"... This is a joke, right?"

The human fighters who had gathered to protect Arhan all reacted much the same way.

"Have the dwarves gone mad? What lunatic race sends a sword expert into the Endless Duel...?"

"This is as shocking as that time the orc great chieftain showed up."

The Racial Duels were something of a special event match.

When a great chieftain had previously appeared on the orcs' side, everyone had understood precisely because they were orcs. Orcs were, by nature, an unpredictable race of lunatics. But why would the dwarves, who had so few exceptional individuals to spare, send out someone so powerful?

The human fighters simply could not understand it.

The humans had no chance of winning to begin with, and their strongest fighter was only a sword runner. They had entered merely to attract a little attention; not one of them was seriously concerned with elevating their race's pride or anything of the sort. Naturally, every fighter gathered there lost all motivation.

"Fuck. Let's go."

"What the hell is this...?"

The hesitant fighters all withdrew.

It was not because they were cowards. These human fighters possessed courage worthy of their name. They had the resolve to risk their lives against stronger enemies, had won countless such duels, and had proven themselves as warriors amid fervent acclaim.

But a sword expert?

This was utterly absurd.

Ask them to face a giant made of stone, and they would fight. Give them a spear and order them to wage war against an army, and they would do it. But they could not face that monster.

No fighter, however brave, could defeat a natural disaster. They could not swing a sword against an oncoming tidal wave, stand firm against a raging storm, or leap into an erupting volcano.

Yes, a sword expert was a disaster.

Merciless violence that descended without a word, impossible to resist.

"I forfeit! I'm throwing down my identification tag!"

"You there, get over here too! Hurry—"

Before an impending disaster, all humans could do was pray and flee. Who would dare mock them, even if they fled in disgrace? It was perfectly natural, entirely understandable. Yes, understandable...

"... But why isn't that young man coming?"

And so the fighters could not understand.

"He must have nothing left to live for! Let's get out of here!"

"No, no. That's not what it looks like. That..."

Everyone lost the will to fight and fled. Renowned fighters. Seasoned swordsmen who had reached sword runner.

But...

"He looks as though..."

A novice gladiator who had only reached sword walker—a young man who looked not even eighteen—did not flee.

He simply stood firm, his stance unchanged.

"...he intends to stand and fight, doesn't he?"

Like steel.

* * *

"It is only natural that you, descendant of steel, are at a lower level than I. You have only recently taken up the sword, whereas I, Dwight, have lived through more war than I care to remember since before I could walk."

"..."

"If I move, you will shatter in the blink of an eye. Therefore..."

Dwight extended his fingers and spoke.

"Three attacks, starting now. Whatever attacks you make, descendant of steel, I will neither defend nor move. Nor will I counterattack. So show me everything you have."

"..."

"Let me say this lest you misunderstand: this is not kindness bestowed upon the weak. Nor is it arrogance on the part of the strong. This is purely my own selfish desire."

His blazing eyes were visible through his pitch-black helmet of black iron.

"The ugly desire to experience with my own body, and see with my own eyes, just how extraordinary the blood of steel is—the blood I have heard of only through my ancestors' words."

Yes. What Dwight displayed was not arrogance.

"And as a descendant of steel, you must already understand."

I knew instinctively.

"This is not mercy on my part. Rather, you will find this an even harsher trial than having the fight ended in an instant. A very, very harsh trial."

With my swordsmanship at its current level, I could swing for decades without leaving so much as a scratch on Dwight's body. The gulf I sensed between us was that immense.

"So swing your sword, descendant of steel."

His deep voice rang out.

"Prove how unyielding you are."

His overwhelming presence seemed to crush my body. As my breath grew tight, I understood why Dwight had called this a harsh trial. The hand holding my sword was trembling helplessly.

The rational thinking born of Suspicion was telling me: no matter what I did, my sword could not wound Dwight. Nor would that mighty dwarf ever be satisfied with my swordsmanship. His illusions about the blood of steel would be brutally shattered, and profound disappointment would spread across his face. The insignificance of my sword would be laid bare...

Yes. This was a harsh trial.

I had not even swung the sword in my hand, yet a terrible helplessness was swallowing my entire body. The certainty that I could do nothing tormented my mind. And so I could not swing.

Because although I had not swung it, I felt I had already seen the outcome.

This was more wretched than rolling in the dirt, feeling the full disparity in our abilities. More pathetic than crawling about in disgrace while countless spectators laughed at me.

Looking down at my trembling hand, I recalled an old memory.

Yes, it had been like this then, too.

'... Damn it.'

When that damned swordmaster had come to our estate. When Swordmaster Carlos had glared at me amid the bloodstained earth and desolate manor, holding a sword wet with my parents' blood.

What had I done then?

Nothing. My entire body had gone rigid, as though frozen solid.

Even with the enemy who had taken everything from me standing before me, all I could do was tremble in terror. I still remembered that trembling. I remembered my heartbeat racing with fear, the temperature of the sweat I shed, the metallic smell of blood, and the number of hairs that stood on end.

Yes, I remembered. In my very bones.

And so...

"Oh?"

That moment must never be repeated.

I would rather die than feel that helplessness again. Rather than flee an irresistible terror and live another day, I would foolishly swing my sword and die today.

"Indeed, the heart of steel was no empty boast."

With difficulty, I stepped forward. I managed to assume a stance, however clumsy.

Dwight's voice reached me.

"To bare your teeth before a sword expert with the heart of a mere sword walker... In all honesty, I am truly astonished..."

"..."

"But there is still more you must show me."

His voice fell, resolute.

"Show me."

At that very moment, I swung the sword in my hand.

"The path you wish to walk!"

I drew a breath as I swung. My mana heart beat, granting superhuman strength to my entire body. The blade cut through the air in a great arc, carrying the wills of all the swords I had taken into myself. I would not hold back merely because my opponent offered no resistance.

『The last thing I remember was a burning manor.』

Needle, the sword of the swordswoman Mary.

『The Free City of Crowd did not live up to its name.』

Fang, wielded in thrusts by a nameless assassin of the Free City.

『The boy dreams of becoming the protagonist.』

Twilight, steeped in the life of my neighbor, the knight Petel.

『There is no paradise where you flee.』

Wildness, embodying the footsteps of the orc champion Berik.

『My life was like a passing breeze.』

Gale, traced by a wandering swordsman who roamed the continent.

"Hah."

The swords of countless people intertwined within me flowed without interruption into a single swing. It was swordsmanship executed perfectly, without a wasted movement.

But...

"Remarkable. It was like seeing ghosts. I cannot even begin to guess how many people's swords were contained in that swing."

"..."

"However..."

None of them reached Dwight. They failed to put even a scratch on the wall before me.

"Are they not, ultimately, the swords of ghosts who vanished without consequence? Insignificant lives that left no notable mark on this continent's history."

Instead, I was the one hurt.

My sword hand trembled. My grip weakened. Dizziness swept over me as though I had been struck hard in the head, and my shaking legs nearly sent me collapsing to the ground. My stomach churned, nausea surging up. My vision clouded.

'Mana shock.'

A phenomenon in which one's Mana was violently shaken by a collision with Mana harder and more intense than one's own. As my entire body shook unsteadily, pain tore through my heart as though it would split apart. My body had already been damaged when I pushed Gale to its limit. Yet I had not stopped there: I had swung my sword again, and with Mana shock added to that, my body was severely overloaded.

It felt as though my flesh and bones would shatter and crumble away.

It hurt.

"Haaah!"

But I could overcome it.

Compared with helplessness, pain was nothing. The agony of my body breaking only sharpened my mind. This pain made me acutely aware that I was alive.

"Stop bringing out the swords of the dead. I do not wish to see other people's swords. I wish to see the sword of Caravan, who ruled an age and held everyone beneath their feet."

Caravan's sword.

Listening to Dwight, I wondered.

Was there such a thing?

"If Caravan's ability amounted only to devouring other people's swords, how could they have risen to the pinnacle of their age? Reproducing the swords of ghosts lost to history is merely one talent. To my knowledge, the blood of steel's true power lies elsewhere."

I had learned much from Master.

But Caravan's sword?

I had never been taught anything about that.

"Show it to me!"

Since I did not know, I showed him what I did know.

I sliced Mana thin to form a line. The path of steel that no one could block.

"A sharp sword for your level. But even this is insignificant compared with the legends!"

The line was blocked with disheartening ease. The path that no one could block was abruptly cut short, belying its name.

Thus my second attack failed.

"Come, show me true steel!"

My sword felt as though it would break.

No, my body felt as though it would break. If my body were iron, it would now be weakened as far as iron could be weakened. It would be in such a pitiful state that even a stone thrown by a child could shatter it, collapse it, bend it.

「Young descendant.」

But I could not retreat. Even if I broke today, I could not permit myself to step back.

「Are you confused?」

I, of all people, could not permit it.

「Are you confused because he demands that you show something you do not know?」

"..."

「Many martial families pass down secret swordsmanship. They have their own unique sword styles, principles steeped in tradition, and swords that symbolize them. Yet all you have learned from me thus far is steel. Is that why you are confused?」

If I did not know, I would first take up my sword. Even without knowing, I would fight the enemy before me.

That much I knew for certain.

「I have taught you only how to become unyielding. I have not taught you our family's own way of swinging a sword, our family's own footwork, or our family's own way of breathing. Nothing was concrete; everything was abstract.」

"..."

「Is that why you are confused?」

My third swing failed to cut through the armor as well.

「Young descendant, there is no need for confusion.」

Disappointment began to spread across Dwight's face.

「Trust what you know and what you have learned. Trust your sword. Trust the teachings bestowed by your great master, who stained the most terrible age with steel. Trust me. And...」

"..."

「Trust yourself.」

His expression alone told me what he was thinking.

「Trust the self your father, tormented by madness, protected to the very end. Trust the self your weak, insignificant mother sought to protect to the very end. Trust the steel flowing through your body.」

Was this all there was to the legendary Caravan? Had it all been an empty reputation? Was this the end?

「Even tarnished steel does not break.」

But I did not care whether Dwight was disappointed, whether his illusions about Caravan were shattered, or what legends the dwarves believed.

「The sword is not technique. How you swing a blade, how you step, or how you draw a breath is not what matters. What matters most is the person swinging the sword.」

I was still standing on my own two feet. My stamina was exhausted, but I still had strength to swing my sword. My vision might be clouded, but my eyes were still open.

Then I had to fight.

「Think of the summit you wish to reach. Once you stand there, what will you wield? What do you need to face the swordmaster you hate beyond measure?」

"..."

「What do you need to set this broken world right? What sword must you hold to cut down a world that always gives unreasonable answers, that thinks nothing of stealing the happiness you were given?」

THUD.

Dwight took a step.

The heavy reverberation traveled beyond the ground and sent a shudder through my body. His cold gaze bore down on me. But I was not afraid. I did not retreat. I simply faced him, sword in hand.

"Your three attacks are over. More disappointing than I expected."

I was not concentrating on Dwight's voice. I was concentrating on the questions surging within me. At this moment, it was not Dwight standing before my eyes.

A sword expert. A fighter in black-iron armor. A general of the dwarves.

None of that mattered.

"Perhaps the trial was too harsh."

What was my sword, the sword that could cut down everything tormenting me? The moment that clear question arose, a clear sky unfolded before my eyes. In the deep blue sky were pure white clouds and chirping birds.

"I hope that the next time we meet, you will show me something less disappointing."

It had been the same on the day I lost everything. Even the horrific scene of slaughter had ultimately been confined to the earth. My father's head impaled on a flagpole, my mother who had died as peacefully as though asleep, my father's brutally shattered helmet and armor—all lay bound to the ground.

Even on that terrible day when everything I had was destroyed, the sky was the same as ever. It was deep blue, and the rising sun marking the end of dawn glittered with cruel brilliance. The sun shining upon tragedy was the same sun that shone upon everyday life.

As that day's scene returned to me, the sun born in my mind was quite different from the real one. It was not a sun that merely shone quietly upon the world. The sun hanging in my mind's sky was far too large. The flames surrounding it were far too violent. That blazing sun burned cruelly, as though it would set the whole world alight.

"I truly pray that you—"

The instant I imagined it, tremendous heat erupted through my body as though I had caught fire. For a moment, I felt I had become flame. Flame that could burn and melt anything.

"...?"

Was what I held a sword? Or a streak of flame?

"What is this...?"

I could not tell.

But whatever was in my hand was too hot to hold still. If I merely held it, my hand, my body, and my heart would burn and melt away. There was only one choice if I was not to vanish myself. Before I melted away, I had to burn the things tormenting me.

My enemies. Those I sought vengeance upon.

And...

「At last, you are somewhat worth watching. Congratulations, young descendant.」

This unreasonable world that had taken everything from me.

「From this moment on, you have stepped into the world of the arcane.」

* * *

"The duel has ended!"

Amid the silence that settled over the battlefield, Dwight stood blankly.

"The winners of this Racial Duels are the little folk of the Sky Mountains—the dwarves!"

Identification tag 444 lay in his hand. Cheers rose in the distance.

But Dwight paid none of it any mind.

"In the decades-long history of the Racial Duels, how long has it been since the dwarves last won? Everyone, give this glorious victory all the praise it deserves!"

Dwight looked at the fallen young man. He looked at the blade in the young man's hand. It had shattered into pieces that rolled across the dirt. The sword, gleaming silver, had broken helplessly.

But...

"The legend... was no empty boast."

The scattered fragments of iron were not embedded only in the dirt. Dwight brought a trembling hand to his armor. His invincible black-iron armor, which neither an eminent elven elder nor a mighty orc champion had been able to scratch. Its hardest section, protecting his heart.

There...

"Our ancestors spoke the truth. The truth, I tell you. You poor little folk."

The tip of the sword—the blade's sharpest fragment—was embedded there.

A sword walker's sword had pierced a sword expert's armor.

No, perhaps that was not the right way to describe it.

In the final instant before the boy fell, Dwight had seen it clearly.

"It isn't over."

The sword the boy swung, his face fierce with venomous resolve. Beyond the crude blade, behind his shoddy helmet and armor, something had faintly spread out. It was terribly incomplete, yet it had unmistakably unfurled.

It was a form Dwight had never seen in his life, a sight he had never imagined since first taking up a sword. Yet recognizing it was not difficult.

Yes, those were wings.

"The Age of Steel... wasn't over yet."

The greatest wings Dwight had ever seen in his life.

Wings of steel...

* * *

「Name: Gale」

「A broken sword steeped in the life of a wandering swordsman of the Great Land.」

「It holds the arcane power of wind.」

「Digestion complete.」

.

.

.

「The blood of steel is hungry.」

「Consume a new sword.」