Preparing the Stage

Noon faded into afternoon, and then, several months passed.

"...Whew."

Click.

Still kneeling, I sheathed Cheonram. The moment the blade slid completely into its scabbard, the lingering wind over the battlefield settled low. The turbulent air, which only moments ago had swirled with the stench of blood, demonic energy, and rotting breath, died down all at once, as if suppressed by an invisible palm.

The dust settled. The tattered banners stopped fluttering. Even the dark red blood pooling over the corpses of the demons ceased to ripple. It was as if, now that the master of all this chaos had sheathed her sword, the wind itself had to return to its proper place.

I slowly raised my head. The surroundings were choked with the corpses and blood of countless demons. Black blood. Blue blood. Rotting, greenish blood. Liquids of hues entirely alien to red human blood flowed along the battlefield floor, merging to form a bizarre river.

From afar, it resembled a river. But up close, it was a path paved not with water, but with flesh, blood, and shattered bone. A river of inverted colors. The waves that should have been bright were dark; the current that should have been clear was turbid. With every passing breeze, ashes and fragments of demonic scales floating on the blood drifted slowly away.

And in the very center of that river stood I. The hem of my Eastern-style robe was untouched by blood. Though a bit of dust clung to it, the red and black fluids strangely veered away from my feet. It was as if the lingering currents left behind by Cheonram formed a thin barrier, pushing the blood away before it could ever touch its master.

I slowly rose from my kneeling position. My long, silver-white hair cascaded over my shoulders as my eyes quietly swept across the battlefield I had just cleaved. No demons survived. To be precise, there were those that tried to stay alive. But the wind left by Cheonram brooked no such stubbornness.

Tiny currents of wind continued to swirl inside the severed flesh. Every time the flesh attempted to knit back together, a turbulent current sharp as a razor pushed the new growth away. Whenever their mana circuits forced a connection, invisible lines of pressure twisted the flow. If the blood tried to clot, the spinning air inside the wounds tore the membrane anew. The very fact of their bisection remained in constant flux. The storm raging inside the wounds endlessly disrupted the demonic flesh from reconstructing itself.

Watching this, I let out a short breath.

"I believe I have finally grasped the feel of handling Cheonram."

It was neither pride nor bluster. It was merely the statement of a swordsman confirming the sensation in her own hands. Yet, hearing those words, Arsel Libern's expression shifted.

"...'Grasped the feel'?"

He slowly scanned the surroundings, his face pale with dismay. And with good reason. What he was looking at was not a training ground. It was not a single target cleanly sliced diagonally. Nor was it the pristine testing field outside his laboratory. The entire battlefield looked as though it had lost its way after being struck by three colossal blades.

The ground was split in three directions. There was no visible light, no flames, yet the demons who had stood along those lines had all collapsed in the exact same direction. Carapaces splitting open belatedly. Severed horns. Wounds that continued to widen deep inside their torsos. It was as if an invisible tempest had swept through in a straight line, half-severing everything in its path from the fabric of the world itself.

Arsel's jaw tightened.

"...It seems you have completely tamed it."

I lightly stroked the scabbard of Cheonram with my fingertips.

"Not yet."

"Not yet?"

Arsel's voice pitched higher, a beat too late. He looked around once more. On the battlefield lay a demon missing its arms. Another was reduced to nothing but a head. Some had their upper and lower torsos resting in entirely different places. Flying demons, their wings ripped from their bodies, were piled in a corner like a swarm of insects that had crashed into an invisible wall. And every single one of those severed surfaces was still actively churning with wind.

He barely managed to steady his voice.

"Commander-in-Chief."

"Speak."

"Normally, this is what we call perfection."

"On the battlefield, it is insufficient," I replied flatly. "The second strike just now was slightly too wide."

Arsel was momentarily struck speechless. Too wide? Where the second strike had passed, some three hundred demons had collapsed simultaneously. No, it might not even end there. Because of the turbulence inside the cuts, it was difficult to tell where one corpse ended and another began. Yet the Commander-in-Chief judged it as "slightly too wide."

Arsel took a slow breath. To a researcher, observation is paramount, not emotion. The same held true for a magic swordsman. He forced himself to view the carnage before him not as a horrific scene, but as raw data. The second strike. It was indeed wider than the first. The spread of the wind had been slightly larger, knocking down even the demons that strayed from the center line.

Yet, compared to Baekil, the collateral damage was ridiculously minuscule. The surrounding rocks were sliced but not melted. The trees were torn but not burned. The ground was split, but everything outside the sword's path remained perfectly intact. Only a wave of pressure had reached the rear where their allies stood, and even that was at a level the squad members could easily withstand with their shields raised.

Arsel had no choice but to nod.

"It is true that the spread was wider than the first."

Roen's pen moved. Scribble.

Roen was as composed as ever. However, his fingertips moved a fraction slower than usual. It wasn't to the point of dropping his clipboard, but the aftermath of this battle was clearly not something he could take lightly. His face wore the look of someone holding back a comment.

I looked at him. "Is there a problem?"

"None," Roen replied swiftly. "If there is a problem, it lies with my common sense."

Arsel interjected, "Do not record that."

Roen stared at him for a moment, then refrained from writing it down. Arsel let out a very quiet sigh of relief.

With Cheonram resting at my hip, I walked through the center of the battlefield. The blood parted beneath my feet. The low wind left by Cheonram was forming a paper-thin boundary around me. This wind was not violent; it was entirely different from the flesh-tearing turbulence. It was a gentle layer enveloping its master, an airflow that seemed to separate the swordsman from the filthy battlefield outside.

Arsel narrowed his eyes at the sight.

"Did you intend for that just now?"

"What do you mean?"

"The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blood isn't touching you."

I kept walking. "Is that so?"

"It is not just 'is that so.' A thin layer of airflow is actively maintaining itself around you, Commander-in-Chief."

I looked down at the edge of my sleeve. Indeed, not a single drop of blood had splattered onto it. Despite having just cleaved a battlefield, my clothes were practically pristine. A very low breeze was circulating near Cheonram's scabbard.

"It seems the sword has grown comfortable."

Arsel's eyes widened slightly. The sword has grown comfortable. He swallowed hard.

"The blade is aligning itself to your flow, Commander-in-Chief."

"Then it is a good thing."

"Yes. It is a good thing."

Arsel looked around once more. The cleaved demons. The wounds that refused to regenerate. The black river of blood. And the Commander-in-Chief, walking spotlessly above it all.

"...A very good thing indeed," he murmured, his voice laced with a touch of hollow disbelief.

He had dedicated ten years of his life to analyzing Cheonram. He likely still remembered the day he first laid hands on it. The dusty, old storage box. The subterranean vault where not a single draft blew. Yet, there had been a strange silence, with the dust around the scabbard pressed flat.

The moment Arsel first saw Cheonram, he knew instantly that it was no ordinary magic sword. From then on, Arsel had picked Cheonram apart. Of course, not literally. Had he tried, Cheonram would have cleaved him on the spot. Magic swords, as a rule, detested any hands attempting to dismantle them.

Well, I'll have to test it out today.

After all, I needed Cheonram for my suicide.

"...Hmm."

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared at Cheonram, which was propped against the wall. The room was silent. This was my private bedroom, situated right behind the Commander-in-Chief's office. During the day, it was a space filled with the sound of Roen's footsteps, the rustling of turning reports, and the low murmurs of the adjutants. But as the night deepened, it became strangely quiet.

Outside the window, the night watch lanterns of the Sword Order Headquarters flickered sparsely. From the distant training grounds, the faint, muffled sounds of squad members swinging their swords late into the night drifted in. But before me, only one thing remained. Cheonram. Its dark gray scabbard, adorned with patterns resembling ancient clouds. Even though it was merely leaning there, a peculiar stillness hung around it, as if the surrounding air had settled deep into the floor.

The lamp's flame did not flicker. The window was closed. The door was closed. Inside the bedroom, there was only the sword and me. Yet, Cheonram was slowly, imperceptibly drawing the room's currents toward itself. The tip of the lamp's flame tilted ever so slightly toward Cheonram before returning to its upright position. I stared at that tiny movement for a long while.

It was the exact same property I had observed on the battlefield today. The cleaner the path of the sword, the greater the wind grew. And even after sheathing the blade, the lingering wind did not completely vanish. That was the problem. No—it was an opportunity.

I placed my hand on Cheonram's scabbard.

Click.

A tiny sound echoed from inside the sheath. It was the same sound I had heard on the battlefield.

The moment a demon, reduced to only its upper torso, tried to crawl toward me while clawing through a pool of blood, I hadn't drawn Cheonram. I hadn't even looked back. I had simply given my wrist a quick flick. The tip of the scabbard pointed backward, and the residual airflow snapped low. The demon's neck snapped.

Arsel had been unable to speak for a while after witnessing that. And understandably so. Manipulating the residual wind without even drawing the blade. Maintaining a thin layer of airflow around the scabbard. Repelling blood, demonic energy, and pollution, and converting it into a brief strike when necessary.

Arsel had laughed hollowly. 'A very good thing indeed.' His voice had carried both the genuine acknowledgment of a positive development and the sheer despair of seeing his ten years of research overturned in a single instant.

I had found his expression a bit amusing then. But now, I couldn't bring myself to smile. Earlier, I had smiled so brightly—a rarity for me—that Roen had nearly dropped his clipboard. Yet now, the smile was gone.

All my work was finished. The reports were cleared, the adjutants had dismissed themselves, and no one would call for me until tomorrow morning. It was a rare moment of solitude. Yet, I had only one thing on my mind. Cheonram. No, to be precise, what could be accomplished with Cheonram.

I muttered softly, "Why did they let a weapon like this go to waste in the original story?"

The original story. Those were words I could never utter to anyone in this world. The way this world was originally meant to flow. Who dies, who survives, and who makes their entrance far too late. I knew it all. Well, not everything. The world was already shifting, bit by bit, because of my actions. But the main trunk of the narrative remained intact.

The Owner of the Holy Sword will appear. The Sword Order will rally around him once more. True to his role as a shounen manga protagonist, he will arrive late, grow at an explosive pace, draw people to his side, survive near-death battles, and ultimately reach the Demon King. That sequence of events was about to begin.

The question I asked every morning: Has the Owner of the Holy Sword still not appeared? Until now, the answer had always been the same. But it wouldn't remain that way forever. It was time. Soon, the protagonist would make his entrance. The appearance of the Zodiacs foretold the awakening of the Holy Sword.

I knew this to be true. Once the Owner of the Holy Sword appeared, the focal point of this war had to shift. He had to stand at the forefront. The Sword Order had to acknowledge him. Humanity had to unite once more around the Owner of the Holy Sword.

But what would happen if I remained alive, standing at the very front? The answer was obvious. People would look to me. Instead of looking at the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Owner of the Holy Sword, they would look to the Commander-in-Chief of the Sword Order. When the Demon King's Army invaded, they would call for me. When a Zodiac appeared, they would wait for me. If the front lines collapsed, they would believe that I would come to save them.

The same went for the Sword Order. The Captains would do their parts, but they would always carry the comforting knowledge that I was standing behind them at the very end. That faith was strong. Too strong. And I knew exactly how dangerous such absolute faith could be. My presence allowed people to endure, but it also allowed them to lean. If we need an end, the Commander-in-Chief will come. If we are cornered, Baekil will unleash. In the end, Ena will solve it. That was how it would go.

The original storyline must have progressed that way too. That was why the original Ena stood at the front until the very end. A glorious demise. Beautiful last words are generally a privilege reserved only for the dead. But I had absolutely no desire to turn into ashes. So, what was the solution? It was simple. I just had to fake my death.

I stared at Cheonram.

"...I will fake my death."

The whispered words fell low. The air in the room grew slightly heavier. A very thin breeze swirled around Cheonram's scabbard. I slowly ran my fingertips along the cloud patterns carved into the sheath.

In the original flow of events, Ena dies. That death becomes a symbol. The Sword Order moves forward, stepping over the corpse of their Commander-in-Chief. The Owner of the Holy Sword takes center stage, building his legacy upon that tragedy. Humanity can no longer wait for the Commander-in-Chief's Baekil. Everyone must step forward on their own. That shift in the narrative is absolutely necessary.

The only problem with that narrative... was that I would actually have to die. But what if I kept the function of death while discarding the demise itself? I would make the Sword Order and humanity believe the Commander-in-Chief had perished. I would force the Owner of the Holy Sword to the forefront. I would vanish—on paper, at least. And then, I would move from behind the scenes.

The Demon King's Army would believe I was dead. The Zodiacs would alter their movements. The Demon King would do the same. Believing that the Commander-in-Chief's Baekil was gone forever, they might reveal their hidden trump cards much sooner. I would strike that very opening. Becoming a living dead man, I would strike them where they least expected it.

I closed my eyes. Honestly, it was nerve-wracking. To fake a death, there had to be people who would genuinely mourn. There had to be people who believed it. A truly flawless lie is built upon the genuine reactions of others. It was a dirty trick. But then, war had always been a dirty business. I had accepted that truth long ago.

The problem was the method. Baekil was ill-suited for faking a death. It was too massive. Too distinct. When Baekil was fully unleashed, all that remained was ash, heat, and a scorched, white wasteland. While that could easily look like the Commander-in-Chief's final stand, it was also impossible to control. Trying to fake a death with that kind of power would result in actual suicide, not a deception.

To make my death believable, I would also need to account for Illyun. Leaving Illyun behind would make my death seem certain. But if Illyun vanished, someone would inevitably grow suspicious, wondering if the Commander-in-Chief had simply disappeared with her sword.

In that case, Cheonram was the key. It could scramble the flow of blood, demonic energy, and air. It could leave lingering turbulence inside cuts, disrupting the senses of anyone examining the battlefield. And above all, I could manipulate the residual wind. I could mutilate a corpse to make it unrecognizable. I could alter the flow of blood. I could scatter demonic energy. I might even be able to warp the direction of detection spells with the lingering air currents.

I lightly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tapped Cheonram's scabbard.

Click.

A soft sound echoed.

"...Since you all called me the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sun. Yeah, I suppose this is my karma."

After all, the sun must set before it can rise.