The Swordmaster's Final Stand

Arvin von Drak. Drip. Drip. Crimson blood drops slid down the blade onto the snow-covered floor.

The orc roars and troll bellows that had filled the battlefield gradually faded, leaving only silence in their wake.

Arvin stood at the center of that silence.

"Haa… haa…."

His ragged breaths puffed out in white clouds. His hair was matted with blood, and streaks of it smeared his once-pale skin. At his feet lay mountains of corpses.

Trolls with severed heads. Orcs with pierced chests, limbs torn apart.

'Is it… over?'

Arvin forced his flickering vision—fading like a dying lantern—to stay focused. His legs trembled, and the sword in his grip felt like it weighed a ton.

For the past year, he hadn't eaten or slept properly. His muscles had atrophied, and his mana core creaked like a rusted machine.

Yet in that state, he'd manifested aura and swung his blade against hundreds of monsters. Just standing there was a testament to unnatural willpower.

'The soldiers… are they…?'

He tried to turn his creaking head to check on them—the nameless soldiers on the brink of death. He wanted to know if they were safe.

But his head wouldn't move. Paralysis spread through his body like a scream.

Then.

Rustle.

A faint sound came from the pile of corpses.

'One left, huh.'

One that had passed out? Or one playing dead?

'…Doesn't matter.'

From behind, a blood-soaked orc stirred in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠corpse heap and staggered to its feet.

"Kreeek…! Kill… human…!"

Arvin painfully twisted to face it. The orc's eyes gleamed with pure madness and murderous intent, reason long gone.

The orc gripped its axe tightly and swung.

'…Not a bad way to go.'

He calmly closed his eyes.

'Still.'

At least he'd saved them.

His life had been nothing but swinging a sword. Mocked as old-fashioned, he'd stubbornly given his loyalty.

Even until the moment his lord betrayed him, he never lost faith.

Prince Callion, who abandoned him. The empire, which knew of his false charges yet stayed silent.

Unlike them, if his end came protecting someone….

'Yeah, that'd be enough.'

At least a knightly death.

'Better than dragging out a wretched prisoner's existence….'

Ah.

But this territory's lord was a peculiar woman. His only regret in facing death was wanting to know her more….

Screeech—

In that instant, a sharp tearing sound whistled past his ear.

Thud!

With a dull impact, the killing intent vanished in a flash.

"…?"

Arvin slowly opened his eyes.

The orc, axe raised high, toppled backward—a crossbow bolt buried deep in its forehead.

'Who…?'

Questions flooded his mind, but he had no strength left to check.

The thread of his will snapped, and the world tilted. Cold snow rushed up to meet him.

Arvin squeezed his eyes shut.

One, two.

But even after a long moment, no impact came.

Something warm enveloped him. A faint, familiar floral ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scent brushed his nose.

"…You did well."

Arvin struggled to lift his eyelids and confirm the figure.

Through his blurry vision, a woman's face appeared.

'The lord….'

The noblewoman who, for some reason, gave a prisoner like him a place to wash and warm food. When asked why, she'd brazenly confessed her incompetence.

She held his bloodied body without hesitation. A small crossbow lay at her feet.

"Why…."

His lips moved laboriously.

"Why…."

**

The Swordmaster's battle was sadistic and beautiful—the first I'd ever witnessed.

Why did it feel beautiful? Because he was a knight from the capital? Arvin massacring monsters was like a scene from an opera.

When all battlefield noise stopped and only he stood there, it felt like my breath had stopped too.

Could a human be that beautiful? How could he retain beauty even on the battlefield?

"…Why."

I'd been staring blankly when I spotted movement behind him.

I didn't even check what it was—I grabbed the crossbow and ran.

His frozen stance. His exhausted eyes. His lifeless aura.

For some reason, I knew what he wanted.

'No…!'

Knowing my pathetic stamina would make me too late, I stopped and aimed the crossbow.

Then pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Whoosh—thunk!

Confirming the hit, I sprinted forward and caught him as he collapsed.

"…You did well."

That was the only thing I could say.

"Why…."

His unfocused eyes fixed on me, his cracked voice asking.

"Why…."

Then.

"Woooaaahhh!!"

Cheers erupted from the walls, from the bloodstained battlefield.

The soldiers shouted in gratitude for survival, rejoicing at the battle's end. They raised their weapons in triumph.

Arvin's shoulders twitched.

I gave them a faint smile and waved.

"Incredible! Slicing that troll in one strike!"

"A Swordmaster's no joke! Damn, we almost got wiped!"

"You okay? Any injuries?"

As if waiting, the soldiers rushed over, calling out. Rough and crude, but their way of showing thanks.

An old soldier scarred across the face spoke up.

"We lived thanks to you. You let me protect my family."

"……."

Arvin's eyes shook like an earthquake.

'He can't understand.'

The imperial palace was a den of political intrigue. He'd cut down countless foes there.

They'd feared and revered him. In the original story, called the Bloodied Knight, the Imperial Hound—endless derogatory titles.

It had isolated him terribly.

I smiled faintly at him.

"Didn't I tell you?"

He looked up, meeting my eyes. They brimmed with questions.

"This place doesn't care about lofty facades. Rebel, imperial dog— that's southern gossip."

"…I."

"Yes. A prisoner. But that's all you need to know. Prisoner or citizen, doesn't matter."

"Doesn't… matter?"

"To them, the one who saves lives is a hero. The one who kills monsters is a comrade."

"…."

"You'll still live as a prisoner, but surprisingly, this is a place where people like you aren't strangers."

Only after hearing me out did his tension ease—his head drooped limply.

As if he had something to say, he struggled to look up at me.

One. Two. Three.

In the frozen silence, our eyes locked, unblinking.

The status text had changed. Dangerous words like mana rampage or mental breakdown were gone, replaced faintly by "relief."

Even if slight, it was enough. At least the odds of suicide or rampage had dropped sharply.

New choices appeared.

I clicked my tongue briefly.

Option 1 was a gamble. Praising him now? He'd think, 'Trying to use me again, huh.'

Option 2? Pass.

The answer was clear. System odds matched my judgment.

Words wouldn't reach him in his wrecked state anyway.

Closing the window, I looked at the limp Arvin.

Way too skinny. How did this skeletal frame produce such monstrous strength?

'…Seriously.'

Swallowing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bitterness, I called my adjutant.

"Ally."

"Yes, my lady."

"Bring a portable bed. Prepare the quietest room."

"…For the prisoner?"

"Yes. That's the least we can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠do."

"Understood."

Soldiers hurried with the bed, carefully lifting Arvin onto it.

As he was carried away, I smiled and shouted.

"Clean up thoroughly!"

"Yes, ma'am!!"

"Troll hides are pricey—don't damage them!"

"Woooaaahh!! Long live the lady!!"

Their cheers pierced the northern night sky.

Leaving the clamor behind, I slowly headed to the Lord's Castle.

**

Back at the castle, Evelyn headed straight to her study, no time to bask in victory.

"…If he keeps fighting, I can send soldiers elsewhere."

If she could win over grade-1 prisoners like him to bolster defenses.

Her heart raced at the thought of accelerating her long-planned territory reforms.

"…Perfect."

That night, from dawn past morning, she scribbled plans on paper without stop.