Chapter 295
Chapter 295
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 295
Chapter Title: [Thousand Stream Emperor Side Story] Sharpening the Blade (1)
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Sharpening a sword and honing its edge follows a steady, methodical process.
You lay the blade down. Place the whetstone flat. If the edge is badly nicked, use a coarse one with a rough grit. Otherwise, one just gritty enough to catch under your fingertips.
Dampen it with a bit of water, then apply even, rhythmic pressure. You shed a fragment of what was once the keenest blade in the world, only to make it sharp once more.
To the Thousand Stream Emperor, that was how human life worked, too.
“Mercenary King. Sword Ghost. Hiltless Blade... My, my. Famous folk like you sure rack up the nicknames. Isn’t it ridiculous? People just love slapping grand titles on anything noteworthy. Stack enough empty praise, and folks need to know what you actually do just from hearing the name. Swordsman—that alone should suffice. If not, maybe one more to set you apart from the rest. That’s plenty, wouldn’t you say?”
Instead of answering, the Thousand Stream Emperor raised his sword toward the man standing before him. A nameless blade, one he couldn’t even recall where he’d gotten. Unlike the overflowing sword aura bursting from him, it was caked in dried blood and rust—a look that simply appealed to him.
“...You talk too much.”
“Heh heh heh... Ha ha ha ha! Fair enough! Two swordsmen with blades drawn—no need for chit-chat! But... for a fool who’s ground himself down along with everything else, I’ve got a pointer or two. This time, I’ll play the blabbermouth and let you have the first move.”
Shing.
On a bleak highland plateau, beneath a sky where the dawn stars were just fading. A man with beast-like gleaming eyes drew his sword.
“Argalian Sword. The one they say has no equal left to match blades with.”
“...Thousand Stream Emperor.”
...Crunch.
Argalian Sword—the blade said to have cleaved the heavens, split mountains, and felled gods and dragons—tucked the last fragment of root he’d been chewing between his molars.
“I don’t hate scum like you. But I’ve got my own ties to uphold. Like this weird root I chew whenever food tastes like shit.”
“...”
“El-Parna. That was her name. An elf with a commoner’s name, but swing a hammer first whenever she got pissy. How’s she doing...? As a warrior?”
He didn’t know the name. But amid the slowing breaths and sharpening focus, the Thousand Stream Emperor recalled a similar scene. Elf. Warhammer. Forest. And the sound of crunching roots.
‘A woman who hones her edge without a care where the tip points. Intent on slicing the world itself, without purpose or aim.’
A small elf village he’d encountered in Blueline. Unlike the other elves who offered no thrill in the fight, the elf warrior woman who’d driven him to the brink of death. To commemorate that rare clash, he’d even pocketed a souvenir from that day.
Thud!
When the Thousand Stream Emperor pulled a battered warhammer from his pocket dimension pouch, Argalian’s face stiffened for a moment.
A sigh. A smile. A feral grin baring all his teeth, and a sword gripped as if to crush it.
.
.
.
.
Crunch!
—Kreeeeeenng!!
Like savoring an old memory, with the crumbling root in his mouth as the signal. The swordsman called the continent’s strongest clashed blades with the one dubbed Sword Ghost.
The sheer shock snapped thick trees in concentric waves, as if swept by a tsunami.
As the earth cracked, unable to withstand the repulsive force of the two swordsmen.
Amid the sword flashes and flames, the shock and killing intent, the Thousand Stream Emperor felt ecstasy.
The gut-rattling impacts hammered him, the chilling sword aura shaved at him—like grinding away life’s rust, pushing faint memories to the surface.
‘Ugh, is this a house or a pigsty?’
...Throb.
“Ma! People gotta live by a routine!”
‘That’s all you’re good for? No need to worry about career choices then. Stick to one thing and you’ll get by.’
‘No name? What kinda bullshit... Oh, sorry. Yeah, shit like that happens. Good thing. Might as well make up something badass.’
‘...Thousand Stream Emperor! Holy shit, that’s fucking cool! When someone asks your name, while they’re all like Deok-su, Jimmy, Callum, you hit ‘em with [Thousand Stream Emperor]! Hey! Cough up the cash! This is worth paying for!’
Throb. Throb throb!
‘...Do it. Before it’s... too late.’
‘Don’t... go back to that pathetic shit without me. Ryu-je. Sorry for asking... this of you.’
.
.
.
.
.
Slice.
Like a sword that grows stronger with each strike, sharper with each honing.
Amid the pain and killing intent, a inner blade emerged—one that screamed just to behold. The Thousand Stream Emperor couldn’t hide his smile.
At twenty-one, he’d learned that even flawed, impure scrap iron, if hammered and tempered, could pierce a man.
‘For a human life is like a sword.’
Fwoosh!
In the spray of blood from a glancing blow that grazed his skin. Amid the onslaught of sword flashes, the Thousand Stream Emperor slipped back to the past—to his days as one of countless drug addicts on the streets of Cracolandia.
****
“Theca! You lazy pig!!!”
Theca. Tin Can.
Somehow, it had become his name.
Having a name was a good thing. In these streets littered with junkies like trash. For kids born from the scraps of beast-like rutting and somehow surviving, parents with the wits to give them names were rare.
Having a name meant, at least, you were useful enough for someone to bother calling. Even if it was Tin Can, Pig, or Trash—it carried weight enough.
“You damn bastard! I told you it had to be done by today! You know how much you owe for that dope?!”
Thwack!
“Urk...”
So, being called Tin Can, Pig, or Trash was a good thing. It meant the bar for “good” here was that low.
Rustle—
The worth that had earned him this lavish “name” was his knack for working metal.
“...”
Still hazy from the drugs, Theca groped groggily for where a blade might be. He hadn’t finished the knife. The rhythmic clang of hammering metal shook his head, and in his daze, he’d craved more dope mid-work and passed out.
He was searching for a weapon because of Matteo, the man snorting like a wild boar and kicking him. Once that guy started beating someone, he’d get even angrier and wouldn’t stop till they were dead. Theca had seen plenty like that.
“That thing...? Looks pretty, but unfinished? Hey, you know El Centio’s temper. We’ve cut you all the slack we can—if you hand him this half-assed piece as a ‘gift’—”
“...Just needs... finishing...”
“Finishing, finishing—three fucking days of that shit! Grrr! Junkie pig... Four hours! You get four more hours! If it ain’t done by sundown, I’ll drag that half-knife and your head to El Centio! Gotta cover my ass—slap on a label like ‘final work by Cracolandia’s Tin Can’ or some shit!”
“...Hic. Hic...”
“Fuck. This is why I hate dealing with junkies. Ptoo!”
Theca knew his laugh would piss Matteo off, but he couldn’t stifle it. Threats in these streets boiled down to “I’ll kill you.” Brain-dead. After a year running this alley, and still clueless.
Theca tossed the half-finished knife into the forge—not out of fear of dying, but to quiet his noisy head. Like swatting tiny bugs clamoring for dope from his hole-riddled brain, this was best.
Clang—clang—
Beneath the sunlit ground’s crust. Dark, damp, a roofless den for the homeless sewers. In Theca’s five-meter stretch of passage, the hammering echoed through.
Clang—clang—
This rhythm. Only when gripping the hammer did his hands steady. Swing hard, strike the metal lump; it rings the anvil, the rebound shakes his body and mind. Shake the head, and the bugs screaming for dope quiet a bit. In this moment, the drug-thirst, bizarre hunger, fear of empty time—all vanish.
Keep pounding like this. Someday, will my holey head, dope-soaked body, shed their scum and reborn human—like this gleaming metal?
Clang—clang—
Even junkie dreams of miraculous escape faded in the vibrating haze.
He hammered relentlessly till the scavenged electric forge’s batteries died.
****
Clang—clang... thunk—
“...Urk.”
The unpleasant vibration crawling up his fingers snapped him from his metal trance. Bad sound. No artisan pride, but in this drug-den slum, watching scrap transform into a beautiful blade brought some solace. This noise meant disaster.
Blinking eyes half-blinded by the forge’s glare, his work gleamed in the dim sewer. Crude but refined iron. Polished metal’s beauty. Sleek spine marred by an ugly hammer mark.
Glancing at the forge, the heater’s power was way down. Got the biggest battery as last payout, but Matteo must’ve scrounged some cheap used crap.
Theca’s brow furrowed at the warped blade-spine. Fire weakened. Blade ruined.
“...Hey...”
Irritated, itchy, ravenous hunger, parched throat. No cash to fix it all—gotta revive the fire, salvage the hunchback blade. If only some dope left...
“Hey... over there... anyone... helloooo...”
...Clang!
Today’s head-noise worse than ever—Theca hurled the hammer. No good. Loot a downed guy’s pockets, beg Matteo—eat something, score dope, or he couldn’t work—
“Sounded like it came from here... Ah, light! Hey! You there! Hey!”
...Hallucination?
At the skinny pale guy running from his claimed passage’s end, Theca wondered if he’d waited too long for his fix.
An East Asian in Cracolandia. Clean clothes, hat, pricey camera. And not yet screaming like a pig getting slaughtered.
“Anyone! Help me! I’m a reporter from Korea covering mixed electronic drugs! Some lunatics chased me down outta nowhere...”
“...Lunatic.”
Theca greeted the moron who’d walked into this hellhole with the perfect title.
****
“What? Can’t leave? Why not?”
Han Seo-ho. Didn’t kick out or sell off the idiot name because...
Crunch crunch!
“Water.”
“Look, I get you’re hungry, but this is life-or-death!”
“Water.”
“Sigh. Here, take it!”
Gulp gulp!
First, the guy’s huge backpack overflowed with water and food.
“Help with the story after I eat? If the article blows up, I’ll wire extra cash.”
“...Upfront. Half.”
“That’s all I’ve got now... Aaa! Why the rush! Not now, but one big scoop to HQ! If it’s legit, bonus pay hits quick! Local coverage means expense reimbursement too! I’ll cover the rest then! Deal? Help each other out!”
...Thud.
“...Sandwich. One more.”
The guy looked like a way to buy new batteries.
“Man. Packed for days of reporting. You eating it all?”
Never dealt with addicts, from his talk. They get weirdly ravenous without a fix. Didn’t even know that after a day nearby—never been near junkies. Guts to come here?
For new batteries, Theca decided to help a bit.
He shoved scattered paper bags aside, dragged over a trash-pile “chair.” East Asian Han Seo-ho plopped down like he’d waited forever, hit record on a tiny machine.
“Alright. Few questions. I hear São Paulo’s Cracolandia is such a drug hell even the government gave up. How do folks here get into drugs? Why ditch jobs, families for street life—”
“What you need to know... ain’t that.”
Theca cut off the clueless East Asian fool, pulled an empty baggie from his pocket.
Faint yellow powder residue in the tiny plastic scrap.
“Siloram. This street’s god... devil... everything. Folks here don’t stand on this land. They live on scraps like this.”
Outsiders wouldn’t get it. But he’d entered now—might as well tell.
Theca left the eagerly listening East Asian, pulled back the tarp hiding his sewer nook.
Too foul for words. Better show and feel.
****
“...Matteo.”
“Hm? What’s up. I do dope today? Hallucinating? Tin Can out his hole. With... an outsider tagging along.”
“Goods... delivery.”
“Even finished? Hey, Theca. You’re not dying tomorrow, right? Got three backlogged orders for me. Big cartel cash—Capone, El whatever. You croak, I’m screwed.”
Theca ignored fat Matteo’s banter, shoved the near-failure metal lump forward. Failure to him, but to cartel goons who couldn’t tell flat iron from a blade, same diff.
As expected, Matteo beamed at the dented blade-spine flop.
“Oho. Still top craftsmanship. But why bother coming out? Ah, that guy beside ya. Selling him? Eyes darting—fresh meat untouched. I don’t traffic people, but know guys who do. Hand him over. East Asians rare—fetch premium.”
“I need him, butt out... Wait. Heading to market...”
“You? Eh... Fine. Sun’s setting—watch the ‘line.’ You’re local, you’ll manage.”
“Yeah.”
Matteo—one of the mafia running this junkie street—opened the door opposite his cramped office.
“If you’re keeping him, train him good. He bolts and outsiders bitch, middlemen like me suffer.”
Theca waved dismissively—buzz off—dragged the dazed East Asian moron out.
“A street blacksmith selling knives in a drug zone... Definitely a killer story.”
“Knives... just get made. Pass to anyone before they rust.”
“Local, huh? Born here? Where’d you learn smithing?”
“Most who stick around born and bred here. Metalwork from prison. Only place here to learn anything.”
Nothing fancy. Not a normal prison, but another society where anything goes if you don’t leave.
Inmates could bring family—this “prison” just let government claim they isolated criminals. No reform or punishment anywhere.
Shops sold dope, burritos, hookers. Prove your use or become “cushion”—prison slave caste. Theca spat the job he’d overheard entering.
‘Uh, I, I can work metal...’
‘Hm? Kid, for real? Spot open.’
Prison society’s “metal needs”? Spoons, finger-length junk blades. Spoons not fitted—hold drops of water, powder, boil. Wooden prison spoons useless.
Hammer scrap roughly, make rusty lumps a few times. Still just weed and smokes then, Theca honed survival skills hard. By release, known as metal guy.
Of course, full addict by end of five-year stretch.
Seo-ho nearly tripped when a bony wrist grabbed his shoulder mid-crime-flick tale.
“Whoa, talk it out! Don’t just stop like—”
“Here. The line.”
“Line?”
“Government drew it. Folks here—step out, you die or get dragged.”
Cracolandia a junkie street over 30 years. First too annoying. Then overwhelmed, abandoned.
Government tried clearing the city eyesore—they used their filth as weapons to defend. Clear street, chase addicts—they swarmed prime nearby spots, sprawled mid-avenue. Rich scenic neighborhoods became beggar-and-corpse dumps. Clearing one alley sparked citywide riots—government cut losses, left it as their zone, isolated from outside to keep city peace.
“Mafia-government pact... Manage trash so they never step out... Exclude from patrols... Crime-free zone perfected...”
“S-so, can’t leave doesn’t mean dope pulls ‘em back...”
“Physically can’t. Lost tourist or kidnapped passerby—tossed in, you’re cut from the world...”
Theca sighed bitterly at the paling face, hype deflated.
‘Dope made me dumb. Wasted effort.’
Government and mafia both cut outside ties. Reporter or not, no way to send stories out.
Theca eyed the stunned East Asian before the vivid yellow paint—sole bright spot in this decrepit hell—wondering when he’d nod off on the street.
Legs buckling already—maybe two days tops.