Omen of Civil War (4)
Early that morning, Najin made his way to Ivan’s office.
Ivan had summoned him at the crack of dawn, yet when he arrived the room stood empty. Even questioning the organization members standing guard outside only earned him the same answer: Ivan had not gone out anywhere.
After a moment’s hesitation, Najin stepped back into the office. Then he drove the tip of his boot hard into the bookcase set in one corner.
Rumble…
The bookcase slid aside, revealing a passage that led down into the building’s basement. Sure enough, the entrance that was normally sealed stood open today.
Looks like he wants me to come in.
Najin scratched the back of his neck. He knew perfectly well what waited below. The stairs opened onto a broad open space—the training ground Ivan used when refining his own sword aura.
It was also the place where Ivan had once taught him. As a boy, Najin had often been summoned down there for lessons.
“….”
He rubbed his shoulder in silence. The long scar carved across it throbbed. There could be only one reason Ivan would call him here.
“Haa…”
He let out a long breath and started down the stairs. After descending for some time he emerged into a wide, open chamber. As expected, Ivan was waiting.
“You’re here.”
“What’s this about? Dragging me all the way down to the basement.”
“What’s this about? There’s only ever one reason I’d call you.”
Ivan tossed something. It clattered at Najin’s feet. An iron sword—its edge fairly sharp.
“Pick it up. Let’s see what you can do for the first time in a while.”
“…With an iron sword?”
“I’ll be using one too.”
Ivan rolled his wrist. In his hand was not the blade he normally carried, but an ordinary iron sword identical to the one at Najin’s feet—more than enough steel to tear flesh and split bone.
Unlike the wooden swords he always used for instruction, today Ivan held live steel. Najin swallowed dryly without meaning to.
When was the last time I sparred with Ivan?
It had been less sparring than schooling, and less schooling than a thorough thrashing… yet even that must have been years ago. Once Najin began performing his duties well, there had been no further need for “education.”
“Najin.”
While he was still turning over those stray thoughts, Ivan’s voice rolled through the basement.
“Focus.”
The voice was cool and chilling. Ivan closed his eyes and drew a long breath. The instant he exhaled, Najin’s eyes flew wide. He snatched the sword from the floor and leapt backward.
Instinct had screamed at him.
Put distance between them—now.
When Ivan finished that single cycle of breath and narrowed his eyes, the air in the basement grew heavy in a heartbeat. It was no illusion. Najin felt a strange pressure, as though someone were crushing down hard on his shoulders.
Shing.
Ivan slowly lowered his sword. The blade that had moved with lazy ease now pointed straight at Najin. The moment he faced that cold edge, he understood: unless he came at Ivan ready to die, another scar like the one on his shoulder would be carved into him today.
Najin did not welcome sparring with Ivan.
To be honest, he wanted nothing more than to claim he felt unwell and slip out of the basement that very instant. Even knowing it was impossible, he still wished it.
Because, frankly, he was afraid.
It was a learned fear, and at the same time a scar burned into his flesh.
From childhood Najin had learned from Ivan how to fight and how to survive in this city, and sparring had been part of that education. Every time, Ivan had crushed him with merciless thoroughness.
Bones were broken. He was beaten until he blacked out. When he fainted, water was poured over him to force him conscious again. Through that process Ivan had hammered the knowledge of survival into Najin’s body by force.
It helped, but…
Now that he was old enough and wise enough, Najin understood. The intent had never been pure instruction alone.
It had been teaching, and at the same time a threat—a warning.
Do not overestimate your talent. Above you stands me. Never cross the line. Do not try to climb over the fence I built for you. I can trample and break you whenever I choose. That was the message.
“Najin.”
“Don’t dream big dreams. You’ll only end up miserable.”
When fifteen-year-old Najin had begun taking an interest in the upper city and daring to dream, Ivan had left a long scar across his shoulder during one such spar. It was an unmistakable warning: do not dream above your station.
Najin had understood. He had lived carefully inside the line Ivan drew. Afterward Ivan stopped interfering and never again suggested a spar.
He must have decided the whip had done its work.
So why now, all of a sudden?
What did I do wrong? Najin reviewed his recent steps. He had been faithful as Ivan’s hunting dog and had never crossed the line. The only deviation had been going to look at Excalibur standing in the square.
Ivan allowed that himself.
So what was the reason?
He could not know. But he knew exactly what he had to do from this moment on.
Thud.
Najin stamped his foot into the earth, senses honed razor-sharp so he could answer whatever came. Ivan stared straight at him and flicked the tip of his sword.
“Not coming?”
Najin answered by raising his blade at an angle.
Ivan asked nothing further. He simply took one step forward. The step carried no weight—until the distance between them closed to three paces.
Boom.
Ivan drove his foot deep into the ground and swung. The weight loaded into that step poured into the blade; in an instant the sword accelerated.
Kaaaaaang!
The moment steel met steel, Najin clenched his teeth. He had planted his foot with every ounce of strength he possessed, yet the horizontal sweep of Ivan’s sword still sent him sliding. The fingers gripping his hilt trembled.
A crushing weight, as if something vast were stamping him flat. As a child that single blow would have torn the sword from his hand and sent him rolling across the floor. Not now. Najin gritted his teeth and twisted his blade.
Ka—gagagagak!
Basic swordsmanship: let the force flow along an angled edge. Yet the moment he set the angle, Najin realized his mistake.
Ivan was a knight and a Sword Expert—a master who had learned true swordsmanship and forged his own blade through real combat. The man who had taught Najin that very technique was Ivan himself. Of course a simple deflection would never work.
Whirl.
Ivan twisted his wrist. The sword that had slid along Najin’s edge traced an impossible arc. The moment their hilts locked with a sharp clack, Ivan’s blade coiled around Najin’s.
Even seeing it with his own eyes, Najin could not grasp it for a heartbeat. He only knew, instinctively, that he had to dodge—and ducked.
The iron sword whistled over his head. He tried to recover his stance—
Crack.
“Keuk!”
Ivan’s boot slammed into his gut.
A body reinforced by mana. Enhanced leg strength. The impact felt like being clubbed in the stomach; Najin went tumbling across the floor. There was no time to stay down.
He bounced back to his feet and met the next slash. Every exchange made the shoulder and grip holding his sword scream.
No chance… to even catch… my breath…
The kick had shattered his breathing. Frowning hard, Najin parried again. He had to watch not only the sword but Ivan’s feet as well; his eyes darted faster than usual.
His eyes tracked Ivan’s movements with ease.
His body could not keep pace.
He took hits he could see coming. Techniques whose counters were plain still forced him to block and give ground because his limbs refused to obey. Irritation flared with every exchange.
Mana. Mana. Mana.
That damned mana.
Every time he saw someone who could wield it, envy and bitterness rose together. Ivan had never once taught him how to handle mana.
All Najin could do was imitate. Eyes wide, he mirrored Ivan’s breathing and moved.
In that instant his body answered a fraction faster than usual—as though something were shoving him from behind. For the first time his limbs moved exactly as he willed. When the swords met, Ivan’s blade was forced back.
“….”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed. The arm that had stepped away drew taut like a bowstring. Then—bang—the sword flashed forward like a loosed arrow and smashed into Najin’s.
“Ugh…!”
The impact lifted Najin clean off his feet. He skidded backward and snapped his head up. Contrary to expectation, Ivan did not press the attack.
He simply raised his sword where he stood.
It was not an attacking stance. It was the posture of someone preparing something far greater. One-eyed Ivan lifted the blade until it covered the empty socket of his missing eye—exactly like the sword salute of knights in the old heroic tales.
And Najin saw it.
Psss…
Quiet, deep-blue energy rose from the raised edge—the sword aura that proved Ivan had reached the realm of Sword Expert. From the moment that aura wrapped the steel, the ordinary iron sword in his hand ceased to be ordinary.
It became a blade only One-eyed Ivan could wield.
A sword meant for him alone.
Najin was briefly stolen by the beauty of that aura—then remembered this was no time for admiration and spoke in a rush.
“Hey—Ivan, wait a second.”
He scrambled backward in alarm.
“Drawing sword aura? That’s not right. No matter how you look at it, this is going way too far.”
It was wrong. They had sparred countless times, yet Ivan had never once released sword aura. Of course not. There was no way Najin could withstand it.
Sword aura could only be met with sword aura.
Block it with plain iron and the sword—and the man holding it—would be sheared in half. Najin kept retreating, but Ivan advanced without a word. One step. Two…
Then—bang.
Ivan kicked off the ground and closed the distance. The iron sword, wreathed in deep-blue aura, drew a trail of light as it crashed down on Najin.
“…Ugh!”
Najin flung his blade up desperately.
An ordinary iron sword could never stop sword aura. The moment the two edges met, he saw it clearly.
Kak.
His own sword being cut through.
Unable to endure the repulsive force of the aura, the blade crumpled. The hilt bucked wildly in his grip. Ivan’s sword drove forward, carving through the iron. All of it unfolded in slow motion before Najin’s eyes.
Kagagagak…
The advancing edge. The deep-blue flash of aura. Bloodshot veins stood out in Najin’s eyes.
I’m going to die.
The instant he felt death, every nerve in his body ignited. Time seemed to shatter into fine fragments. An unknown force shoved him forward.
And that force no longer merely pushed his body.
Flash.
Najin’s half-severed sword flickered.
For a single heartbeat, light clothed the broken steel. Compared with Ivan’s ferocious aura it was nothing—raw, unrefined energy—yet it was unmistakably a fragment of sword aura.
A light no boy should possess.
A radiance that had no business being buried in an underground city.
The moment that radiance met Ivan’s eyes, they flew wide. The corner of his mouth convulsed.
Then aura collided with aura.
Kaaaaaaaaang!
With a savage roar Najin’s sword forced Ivan’s back. Before it could finish the push, however—clang—Najin’s blade snapped. Ivan’s sword shattered in the same instant.
Both weapons broke.
They had never been forged to endure sword aura. From the first release of power, from the first impact, the two iron swords had begun to die. Now their lives were over.
Clatter.
Broken shards rang against the floor. Strength fled Najin’s legs and he sank where he stood.
“Hoo… huk… heuk…!”
He gasped for the breath he had been holding. His heart hammered like a mad thing. Something seemed to be squeezing it in a fist; his breathing turned ragged.
Drip.
Blood from his nose pattered onto the stone. Through the pounding headache and crushing weakness he lifted his head. Ivan stood over him, looking down.
“….”
Ivan regarded Najin in silence, then the ruined sword still in his own hand—the broken steel that was the result of aura meeting aura. At last a hollow laugh escaped him.
“You really are something else.”
He had seen the light. Before the radiance the boy carried, Ivan dragged a hand down his face. Because the moment he faced it, he understood. Because he could no longer pretend not to understand.
This is insane.
That was a light no one like him had any right to bury.