The Master's Blade
Dayton’s eyes widened in shock.
Clayon occasionally manifested, but never as vividly as this.
It had always been like a faded photograph, hazy and indistinct. Now, it perfectly recreated its form from life.
“Is it because it absorbed Akaruk’s sword?”
—That’s right! But…
“But?”
—Its durability has taken a massive hit.
“Because it overdid it?”
—Less that, and more because the time granted to me is almost up. I transplanted my soul into this sword, defying the laws of nature.
“Ugh!”
—My friend! We don’t have much time left. It’s time to see this through to the end.
“I know.”
Dayton nodded heavily.
It wasn’t just Clayon facing the end of his lifespan.
He could feel his own time running out as well.
He was over 130 years old.
A normal human would have long turned to dust at that age.
He’d survived this long only because he was an Awakener, but inside, he was rotting away.
Countless battles with enemies had made him strong, but they’d also inflicted cumulative damage from within.
Yet Dayton had never once regretted his life.
He’d lived solely for revenge, and his actions had matched that resolve.
Thanks to it, he’d grown strong enough to prepare for a final showdown with a dragon.
“Hai Elton isn’t far. He might even be watching us right now.”
—That cunning bastard? Entirely possible.
“We need to move before he prepares defenses.”
—Speed is life, then.
“Exactly!”
—The end truly draws near.
Clayon’s eyes, speaking of “the end,” turned toward Zeon.
Zeon still had his eyes closed, lost in his own world.
—Meeting that kid was a stroke of luck. Thanks to him, we crossed the barrier and made it here.
“He’s a pretty useful little shit.”
—Still with the venomous tongue. He’s no mere novice.
“Once a shit, always a shit. Like me.”
—Still blaming yourself? This isn’t your fault.
“It’s all my fault. If I’d been stronger, my wife and daughter wouldn’t have died, and your soul wouldn’t be sealed in that sword.”
Regret filled Dayton’s face.
A century had passed since the incident, but the memories remained as sharp as if they’d happened yesterday.
His excited wife and daughter on a long-awaited trip.
His lifelong friend, their uncle and brother-in-law.
The New York they’d dreamed of visiting: the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Broadway, Times Square.
They’d seen and enjoyed everything they’d longed for.
Watching his wife and daughter smile had filled him with unmatched joy.
Sharing a beer with his one true friend—it felt like owning the world.
But their happiness didn’t last.
A colossal dragon tore through the Manhattan sky.
It merely revealed its presence, yet New York became a wasteland, over half its population slaughtered.
His wife and daughter perished then.
He still couldn’t forget the horrific sight of them dying before his eyes.
His sole friend, Clayon, suffered a fatal wound and died as well.
In his final moments, Clayon awakened. Even so, nothing could save him.
Using his ability, Clayon sealed his soul into Dayton’s sword.
Thus, Clayon had lived on within the blade.
Without Clayon, Dayton might have ended his own life, unable to forgive himself.
Conversely, Clayon had endured his hellish existence leaning on Dayton.
But now, the end approached.
The old man and the sword had reached their limits, the finale looming clear as day.
“Before I die, I’ll drag at least one dragon along as a companion for the afterlife. That way, I won’t be ashamed to face them down there.”
Hai Elton wasn’t the root cause. But he wasn’t free of blame either.
He was one of those who’d incited Cracias to terraform Earth.
That was when it happened.
Psssh!
The sand floating around Zeon began clumping together with a bizarre hiss.
Clayon spoke.
—Looks like he’s awakened a new skill.
Countless sand orbs formed around Zeon.
They orbited him like satellites.
Pababang!
The orbs shot forward at terrifying speed, like triggered bullets.
Coin-sized holes punched through the sandstone wall, crumbling it.
It was just like Cremoa exploding.
And that was the new skill’s name: Cremoa.
Compressed sand orbs detonated like claymore mines.
Focused forward, it doubled explosive power for devastating single-target damage. Spread wide, it became AOE with reduced intensity.
A perfect fit for the name Cremoa.
It wasn’t perfected yet, but the concept was solid.
Plenty of room to grow—and refined right, it could one-shot most Awakeners.
Zeon opened his eyes and stood.
Clayon had vanished by then.
Zeon asked Dayton, “How was it? Usable?”
“Still a long way off.”
“Tch!”
“But not bad.”
“Whoa! What’s this? Feels weird. Just call me a shit like always.”
“Don’t get sappy. A little praise doesn’t make you any less of a shit.”
“That’s better. Heh!”
Zeon smirked.
＊＊＊
The two lingered in Death Valley for a time.
Zeon honed his new skill; Dayton meditated.
Dayton hadn’t said it outright, but Zeon knew he was preparing for his final battle.
Zeon gave him space, training alone.
Pababang!
Coin-sized holes riddled the sandstone.
Traces of Cremoa.
He could now deploy the skill fluidly.
Mana drained in chunks per use, but that was inevitable.
Powerful skills consumed more—that was natural.
Reaching C-rank had boosted his mana pool, but it still fell short.
Thank goodness for Elura’s Tear.
Without it, he’d be rationing mana mid-fight, unable to battle freely.
As Zeon prepared another Cremoa, it hit.
“Guh!”
A horrifying killing intent and crushing pressure slammed into him.
Startled, he spun around. Dayton stood there.
“Dayton?”
“You’re getting decent.”
“Huh?”
“But still far from enough. You know that, right?”
“Yes!”
“That won’t cut it.”
“So?”
“You need to get stronger.”
“How?”
Zeon looked puzzled.
He’d pushed relentlessly, faster than any Awakener since the cataclysm.
Trailing Dayton, he’d never slacked or rested.
It got him to C-rank. But even that didn’t impress Dayton.
Dayton drew Clayon and said, “Survive.”
“What?”
“Survive my hand. Then you’ll grow stronger.”
“What? You’re insane!”
Zeon finally grasped the meaning.
Shwaak!
Dayton swung Clayon.
A massive gust slammed Zeon.
Instinctively, Zeon raised a sand barrier.
Crack!
But it shattered instantly against Dayton’s strike.
Exposed, Zeon faced another swing.
“Shit!”
He backpedaled with Sand Step.
Dayton charged.
Pressure and killing intent unlike any monster crushed Zeon.
Dayton’s gaze made his skin crawl.
Shwaak!
Clayon lunged again.
A graze meant severe injury; a solid hit was death.
No mercy.
Zeon thrashed to survive.
“Hya! Cremoa!”
Sand orbs formed and rocketed at Dayton.
Tadadang!
Clayon blocked them all; they scattered harmlessly.
“Shit!”
He’d thought Cremoa a perfect anti-personnel skill. Never imagined it’d crumble so easily.
Even against Dayton, he’d expected some reaction. He’d underestimated the old man.
Or overestimated himself.
Maybe both.
Creeeak!
Dayton’s slash cleaved a massive sandstone slab in two.
No skill, just pure force.
Chills raced over Zeon.
He knew Dayton transcended monsters, but facing it was beyond imagination.
Each casual strike outpowered most Awakeners’ skills.
He didn’t need skills—he didn’t bother.
Zeon threw everything at him: Sand Blaster, Sand Missiles, Cremoa.
None landed meaningfully.
Dayton asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”
Shyaaak!
Clayon whistled toward him, poised to bisect.
Zeon dodged by a hair.
His spine iced over.
The sheer power in Clayon was palpable.
Dayton was serious.
He deemed Zeon lacking and meant to force him higher.
Treating him like a real opponent.
Fall short, and die.
Dayton was a man of action.
Goosebumps covered Zeon.
He steeled his will.
He knew he wasn’t ready to challenge Dayton. But he wouldn’t just take the hits.
Endure, find openings, strike.
That was the survival lesson from shadowing Dayton.
Ramping up his sand control, he bellowed,
“Fine! Let’s do this, you old bastard!”
“Come at me, shithead!”