Chapter 434
Chapter 434
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 434
Chapter Title: The Madman, Khelrhalrm
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The Madman, Khelrhalrm.
A certain mage who had lived for over a century stared straight ahead. Blocking his path was an ancient calamity—a colossal pillar of water surging toward the heavens. Each raindrop that touched Khelrhalrm's skin hissed with a sharp chiik.
Rain that stole away allotted time.
A cursed lake that devoured time itself, accelerating all life toward inevitable doom. Yet even that lake failed to deliver death to Khelrhalrm.
"Of course."
"Of course," Khelrhalrm muttered. As he did, he took a single step forward. Splash—black droplets leaped into the air.
Khelrhalrm was ageless.
Spirit blood, Khelrhalrm's madness and hatred, the screams of students dissolving into sewage, his disciple's final wish—all had mingled into a curse. A hundred years ago, on that fateful day, it had stained his soul pitch black.
Eternal life. An ageless existence.
That day, Khelrhalrm's time had frozen.
Frozen time, a broken clock. He could shatter it whenever he chose. After all, the curse that blackened his soul granted agelessness, not true immortality.
A life he could sever at any moment.
A hell from which he could escape whenever he willed it.
"The ageless life you gave me." But.
"This endless life, unknowing when it ends—I shall live it wholly for you." Khelrhalrm did not.
"I offer my life to honor the vow." He fled not the hell thrust upon him. He sought no peace in death. Instead, he trudged onward down the path laid before him—living a hellish existence drowned in madness. Endlessly, without cease.
Splash.
For he had to keep his promise.
Splash.
Even if all of Artia crumbled to ruin and ash, forgotten by the world... so long as he persisted in battle, so long as Artia's Grand Chancellor chose to advance, he could believe those children's lives endured.
Splash.
And at last, Khelrhalrm arrived here.
He halted and glanced back. The path he had traversed stretched out behind him. At its threshold stood a figure.
"......"
A girl gazing at him.
A girl who resembled the disciple he had failed to save that day. Of course, Khelrhalrm knew she was someone else entirely. Mere coincidence in looks and talent—their lives, personalities, all differed.
Even so.
In Resti Eleanoa, Khelrhalrm saw echoes of Celestia von Artanim. His mind replayed words spoken to that child.
"Believe in the stars, as you always have. They guide your path, steadfast companions on your journey." How he regretted those words.
How wretched the fate of the child who trusted the stars to her end. The horrific memory drew a laugh from Khelrhalrm. Yes—such tragedy must never repeat.
"Resti Eleanoa."
The child who resembled his disciple.
Yet one who would tread a different path. As he regarded her, Khelrhalrm spoke amid the surging cursed lake.
"Believe in yourself. Not in anyone else—trust yourself and press on."
Khelrhalrm smiled.
"The way to do so."
His master smiled.
"I shall carve open for you."
For that was the duty of master and senior.
Khelrhalrm turned away. Splash—he stepped forward. Facing the flooding lake, he slowly closed his eyes... then opened them.
...An unbreakable path.
Beyond lay what that child sought. Her place to shine lay past this lake. This was not her stage.
Thus.
"Balance."
This place was his stage.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 2.
A demonic horde blanketing the horizon surged forth.
Rak's face grew taut before the crashing waves of beasts. Sheer numbers overwhelming them. And every one conjured by the heretic.
...The situation was dire.
Handling the onslaught alone might be feasible somehow, but the 'Beast King' directing them posed the real threat. Battling beasts while guarding against that entity would prove excruciatingly difficult.
'Moreover...'
Rak peered beyond the Beast King.
There lay his destination. The foe he must fell awaited there—he couldn't afford to be pinned down here. Teeth gritted, Rak stomped down.
Boom.
The sky tore open, the earth quaked.
Thunderous booms echoed repeatedly from the temple's heart beyond. Each felt like a prod to hasten. Growing frantic, Rak swung his sword with raw power.
Kagagagagak!
Sword ki erupted from the blade's tip, devouring beasts. Blood from shredded flesh sprayed wide, only for fresh beasts to lunge forth, absorbing it. As Rak clenched his jaw before the relentless tide—
Sgeung.
A razor slice whispered past his ear.
A lone stroke from behind. The passing sword stroke raked the beasts long. Sword ki unfurled like a net, carving through them.
Chwaaaaaaak!
Bursting blood.
As mangled flesh rained down, light footsteps echoed in Rak's ears—casual, as if strolling at ease.
"Easy there, whelp."
A rasping voice filled his ears.
"Pouring full strength into every blow is a swordsman's ideal pursuit. But against hordes like this? Sheer folly."
Tap tap—someone patted Rak's shoulder.
"Seek efficiency."
The hand lingered on Rak's shoulder as its owner stepped ahead, brushing past to stand before him.
"A sword boils down to the swing."
He swung lightly.
From the arc burst whip-like sword ki. A technique he'd devised for crowds.
Chaotic Sword: Sword Net.
Beasts ensnared in the mesh shattered. Blood fountained, misting the air crimson. Atop the blood-reeking field, he flicked his blade clean. Chwaak—gore drenched the grass.
"...You?"
Rak stared at the swordsman before him.
Sword Ghost: Draka.
A sword superman reduced to puppet, stripped of reason and self by pact. Yet this form bore no trace of puppetry.
"Now the blade feels light."
Draka exhaled deeply, murmuring.
The star's fetters, rattling since Alkeia's breach, finally severed now. No longer could it bind a soul hungering solely for vengeance.
Freed was the Sword Ghost.
Swordsman ascended to superman by sheer obsession—a specter craving revenge. His thirst remained unslaked, his soul rent open. To fill it, he gripped his sword.
Sword in hand, he beheld his stage.
The stage that brazen gray mage had set.
Hordes stretching to the horizon, a temple steeped in heretic's taint. The heretic lurked beyond. Surveying it all, Draka sighed.
"Ah."
The Sword Ghost grinned to splitting.
"A stage beyond compare."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 3.
Kang, kaaaaang!
Swords clashed, sparks flew. Each stroke upturned earth; air twisted in their wakes. In the gale-lashed wasteland, two swordsmen swung.
Sword Saint: Kuntel.
Sword Saint: Kalt.
Among Galatrick swordsmanship heirs, the title Sword Saint graced the most noble. Their blades bore not merely their lives. Here, where they stood—Sword Gorge Galatrick's history weighed upon them.
...Galatrick Style.
Swordsmanship bequeathed by the founder who carved the Sword Gorge.
Every practitioner there mastered it. Branches varied by master and lineage, but all roots led to one: a lone swordsman.
The now-forgotten Ganikalt van Galatrick.
Humanity's proudest, loftiest swordsman—his art endured through gorge supermen.
"Galatrick Style: swordsmanship of the first superman, the great Sword Saint. Know this, Kalt?" As he swung, Kalt recalled Kuntel's words from long ago.
"Galatrick is brutally hard. Beyond mere training. Even now as superman, I grasp it incompletely." "I manage Forms 1 through 5 at best. A lifetime's devotion for that." Galatrick Style, Form 1: First Glance Kill.
Blades met in a swift clash—kaaaang!—friction wailed long.
"Humanity's greatest sword art. No mere swordsman—no superman—could match his realm." "Yet gorge seekers yearned to follow." "So they delved, endlessly." Form 2: Phantom Sword.
Invisible blades raked empty air. Chaak—earth split long.
"The Second Saint codified basics—gifted at systems. He portioned forms for seekers." Form 3: Severing Sword.
Sword ki rent all it touched—even space—as they collided. Kiiik—reality warped with a screech.
"Third embodied it; Fourth shaped teaching; Fifth brought fresh insight..." Form 4, Form 5...
"Thus Galatrick endured." "Countless supermen obsessed. To perfect it, uphold the First Saint's legacy." "They wove in their arts, their revelations—evolving it across ages." Kaang.
"Centuries flowed by." "Our Galatrick may drift far from the original. Perhaps wholly transformed." "But that's precisely what makes it Galatrick." Kang, kaang!
"Myriad swordsmen of the gorge." "Supermen forged there." "Their blades, their lives—intertwined into this style..." Kaaaang!
"Thus." "It's Galatrick Style."
Kalt murmured the words with a smile.
Galatrick no longer named one man: Ganikalt van Galatrick. It had become the Sword Gorge itself.
Thus, Galatrick Style.
On Kalt's blade, every swordsman who passed through Galatrick lived anew. He trod the path they forged with their lives. And upon it...
"You're there too."
You, the former Sword Saint.
The last survivor of Sword Gorge, Kuntel, had paved this way—and Kalt stood upon it. Bloodied, breathless, he grinned.
"Galatrick evolves with time. It could while the gorge endured—but no longer." "That's why I teach you all." Kuntel's laughter echoed in Kalt's mind.
"Lest this art perish." "May its centuries pass onward, ever onward." "May you advance my craft in your own ways." Kalt gripped his sword tight.
He exhaled long, parrying Kuntel's strike. Shifting into a stance Kuntel couldn't fathom. Small wonder.
'This blade, forged to face you.'
Galatrick Style: Modified.
Kalt's sword shimmered in moonlight.
Planted in Sword Gorge Galatrick, Kalt swung. For the first time, he stepped beyond Kuntel's trail—one stride farther.
Form 6: Moon Shadow.
Kalt's sword scattered moonlight.