The Sword Saint
The world had been painted black.
This was no metaphor for the state of his heart.
It was the brutal reality that had befallen Adrian, who had lost both his eyes.
"I... I don't know what I should even say..."
The priest hung his head, trailing off into a mumble.
"What's the matter? Is it so grave that you can hardly speak of it?"
"......"
"Speak."
With a gentle voice he soothed the priest, who had pressed his lips tightly shut in silence, and demanded an answer.
After long hesitation the priest finally spoke, as if forcing the breath from his lungs.
"That... is... yes."
It was a short reply.
But it was answer enough.
The priest slowly lifted his head.
A white-haired old man.
Two eyes charred black.
The eyelids had melted away in a grotesque ruin.
The valiant right arm that had once gripped a sword so firmly on the battlefield was gone, leaving only a shoulder stump; the gentle left arm that had once helped fallen subordinates back to their feet hung pale and lifeless as a corpse.
His body, cracked like an ancient withered tree, was so thoroughly covered in wounds that one would not even know where or how to begin treatment.
To put it bluntly—
He looked more horrific than an undead that had clawed its way out of a grave.
"And the treatment?"
Adrian asked calmly.
"......"
The priest fell silent once more.
His duty was to give hope to the patient, yet he could not bring himself to offer any before this wretched state.
Lying here would only plunge the man into deeper despair.
There was no hope.
The external injuries alone were not the problem.
If it had been only wounds, treatment would have been entirely possible.
Even a severed arm could be reattached with holy power.
The true issue was the curse that had spread through every part of Adrian's body.
Ominous demonic energy coiled through him like a tangled network of veins.
"I shall go and see the Saintess for a moment."
Adrian rose from the bed.
—Thud!
The instant he set his foot on the floor to stand, strength fled his legs and he toppled forward.
"Sword Saint!"
The startled priest caught him and eased him back onto the bed.
"Haha... I've shown you an unsightly sight."
At Adrian's awkward smile the priest bit down hard on his lower lip.
And the knights who stood inside the sickroom swallowed their grief in silence, holding their breath at the pitiful appearance of the Sword Saint.
The Sword Saint.
Adrian van Rycard.
Teacher of the Hero, and the man praised as a hero of the Empire—he had, only days ago in the Battle of the Black Sands, sacrificed himself to save the Hero from peril.
He had taken the Demon King's magic head-on.
To prevent it from spreading on a massive scale he had absorbed every last bit of the spell.
This was the result.
Miraculously still alive, yet as good as dead.
"Haa..."
Adrian let out a long sigh and with it released the smile that had lingered on his lips.
"Ah, now... why is everyone hiding and weeping?"
He had known from the start.
"Anyone watching would think this was a funeral."
Even without sight he could feel them through mana.
The mana of comrades who had shared decades of joy and hardship.
The mana of the knights who had always served him with loyalty.
And—
the mana of the Hero who followed Adrian like a father.
"Louis!"
Adrian glared toward the place where he sensed the Hero Louis's mana and spoke in a stern voice.
"Do not cry. Your grief only embarrasses me."
"I... sob... I am sorry."
"Ah, this rascal—I said do not cry."
The young Hero, not yet fully grown, could not stop his tears.
His master had become like this while protecting him.
He blamed himself, hating his own inadequacy with every fiber of his being.
If only he had trained harder...!
It would have changed nothing.
The Demon King's power had been beyond imagination, and in that moment the only one who could have stopped the magic was the Sword Saint.
Because he had blocked it with his own body, the Hero had been saved, and the lives of hundreds of knights had been preserved.
"I'm not dying. Fit as a fiddle."
He tried to raise his right arm to prove he was fine, only to realize too late that the arm had already been cut away.
"Whoops. Still thought I had a right arm."
Adrian laughed heartily.
It had been a cheerful joke meant to lighten the mood—
instead it only made the atmosphere heavier and wetter.
Sobs filled the sickroom.
Adrian wore a bitter smile.
...It hurts.
He acted as if nothing was wrong for their sake, yet inside his body pain churned like being struck in the heart with a club while a saw blade stirred his entrails.
He endured on sheer will alone.
He could not close his eyes yet.
There was still so much left to teach the Hero.
And so many enemies still left to cut down.
"Sword Saint..."
The door opened and the Saintess entered.
"It has been a long time, Saintess."
Adrian greeted her with a bright smile.
"Would you examine my condition? I cannot see right now, so I have no idea what a frightful state I am in, hahaha!"
He tossed out a self-deprecating joke, but the atmosphere remained frigid.
A touch as warm as spring sunlight settled upon his chest.
The Saintess's holy power seeped into his body.
Hot energy mixed with his blood and spread through him.
Yet it lasted only a moment.
Within seconds the heat cooled and vanished completely.
"............I am sorry."
The Saintess withdrew her hand and spoke in a voice on the verge of tears.
That was explanation enough.
As if he would not know the state of his own body better than anyone.
Adrian understood better than anyone else that treatment was impossible.
He had held a faint hope, but...
In the end, the Saintess's words had only confirmed reality once more.
"Ahem. I see."
"Sword Saint..."
"Please call me by my name. I am no longer the Sword Saint. How can a man who cannot even hold a sword be called that?"
Whoops.
Adrian realized he had misspoken.
He had only piled more sorrow atop sorrow.
Yet the water was already spilled, so he decided to settle everything here and now.
"It is time for me to step down... Listen, all of you."
He exhaled a heavy sigh and continued.
"I recommend the captain of the Tenth Knight Order for the position of Sword Saint. That fellow's swordsmanship is quite excellent. I am sorry to all of you. Still, is it not better to entrust a new age to young blood rather than to old men like us?"
He turned his head toward the comrades who had walked beside him for so many years.
There was no objection.
"Louis."
"Y-yes...!"
A choked voice.
He still could not calm his grief.
It pained him to see his young disciple like this, yet the words had to be said.
"My sword is yours now. Compared to that Holy Sword it is nothing but ordinary iron, yet I would like you to take it."
"Master... I...!"
"I entrust it to you."
"Hic... Yes... yes, sir...!"
What else remained?
The next chief of staff of the Imperial Army would be decided by His Majesty the Emperor, and the wealth in the vault would be donated to orphanages throughout the Empire.
Beyond that there was nothing left to settle.
"Stop wasting time here and go about your work. Busy people, all of you. You cannot be lazing about in this empty sickroom."
Adrian yawned theatrically.
"I shall take a nap, so come visit again later."
He started to wave them off, then remembered he could not use his hands and let out a dry chuckle.
"......Thank you, all of you."
He whispered his gratitude toward those leaving the room with heavy footsteps.
It was a farewell heavy with meaning.
Thanks for coming to visit the sick.
Thanks for walking with him until today.
This was—
a grateful parting word.
"Adrian..."
The Saintess drew the blanket over him.
"Rest easy now."
She would know.
That the flame of life had already gone out.
That Adrian was miraculously prolonging his life by force of will alone.
And—
that this was the final appearance of a hero.
Adrian smiled kindly.
In the quiet sickroom he laughed softly and slowly released the strength from his body.
"......They never listen."
He could still sense their mana outside the door.
All of them remained in the corridor, unable to take a step, weeping.
"I had best leave quickly..."
It had been a life without a single regret.
Born the son of a serf, he had become a knight and given everything for peace.
He had won hundreds of battles.
Always on the front lines he had faced the Demon King's legions.
Through his achievements he had gained both wealth and honor.
Yet it was a pity.
He had wanted to fell the Demon King.
Though he was not a Hero chosen by the gods, he had longed to drive his sword into the heart of the monster that had destroyed his homeland.
It was no exaggeration to say he had lived for that alone.
But after decades, this was the hollow result.
He had managed to sever one of the Demon King's horns, yet the Demon King still lived, and so the dream remained unfulfilled.
"Haa..."
He drew a breath.
His body grew languid.
The taut string of his will began to loosen and unwind.
Seventy years of life flashed before him like a lantern reel.
A fine life, yet an incomplete one.
Next time, he would surely be able to slay the Demon King.
Unable to cast off his lingering regrets, the Sword Saint watched the last spark of life gutter out completely.
Within the charred logs a tiny ember remained.
It rose on a single trail of smoke, soared into the sky, and vanished.
This was the end of the Sword Saint, Adrian.
His eyes opened.
His mind was hazy, as if he had dozed off for a moment and just woken.
A vision blurred as though underwater grew steadily clearer, blown away by the cool breeze that came from the east.
A hill thick with white daisies in full bloom.
In the blue sky, clouds shaped like fish drifted and swam.
Beneath the shade of a great tree I staggered to my feet.
"Where... is this?"
Heaven?
It was quiet and peaceful.
I stepped out from the tree's shade and looked around.
The wind greeted me.
Golden hair fluttered and danced.
"...Huh?"
Something felt off, so I tilted my head.
Long strands of hair whispered down across my cheek.
Their color was a beautiful gold, as if they had drunk their fill of sunlight.
I rubbed the hair between my fingers.
Soft to the touch.
Completely different from my own hair, stiffened by long years.
"What? Eh?"
A strong sense of wrongness came from my voice.
An adorable voice like that of a young girl was coming from my own throat.
While I stood blinking my eyes for a long while, trying to grasp the situation—
"Elia!"
From the bottom of the hill a girl in a nun's habit waved and ran toward me.
"Elia?"
I whipped my head left and right.
There was no one around me.
The girl who had been racing up the hill stopped right in front of me.
"Honestly! Were you taking another nap here?"
I blinked at the girl.
What was she talking about?
I could not understand why she was saying such things to me.
"Still not fully awake?"
"Uh, uh? Wait a moment—to whom are you speaking right now?"
"To you, of course. By the way, why are you talking like that? You sound like a grandpa."
I am a grandpa, though.
A white-haired old man who has lived more than seventy years.
"Pull yourself together and hurry down. It's almost time for service."
"Service?"
"Hurry up!"
"Uh, uhh?"
The girl seized my hand and began running down the hill.
At the foot of the hill stood a modest church.
Still held by the girl, I was pulled inside.
The interior was cleanly swept, and nuns were preparing for the service in the chapel.
"Elia!"
A middle-aged nun with an angry face planted herself in front of me.
"You ran off again without finishing the cleaning!"
"Pardon? Me?"
"Of course I'm talking to you—who else would I be speaking to?"
I looked around.
A few young nuns were glancing this way and giggling.
The girl beside me clapped a hand to her forehead in exasperation.
Then, all of a sudden, a mirror hanging on one wall caught my eye.
There, a golden-haired girl blinking like a fool was staring straight into my eyes.