Chapter 100: Wings (3)
Chapter 100: Wings (3)
"The principle of 'Acceleration' within the wings lies in connection."
As my training intensified, Liam offered me a piece of advice that, for once, carried profound weight. It wasn't his usual cryptic, airy nonsense, but a practical insight that actually helped.
"To put it simply, it is the act of connecting the 'Path' extending from your body to your physical form and pulling yourself toward it instantaneously."
"Pulling myself?"
"Once you reach the realm of a Sword Runner, the range of the Path you can extend as a Sword Walker expands immensely. You will be able to stretch your Path further than you ever thought possible."
The Path.
It was the power that helped me sense danger and move at superhuman speeds. The moment one reaches the level of a 「Sword Runner」, that power assists the swordsman in manifesting 'phenomena.'
"If you intend to accelerate after extending your Path toward an enemy, the pre-extended Path pulls you forward. This allows for a charge that is nearly indistinguishable from teleportation."
"It pulls me..."
"The principle of accelerating your thoughts is the same. The Path spread throughout your body allows you to perceive the world through the slowed vision of a superhuman. The wings pull you forward to predict a more distant future, and they pull the world you see to make it appear broader. That is the secret hidden within the acceleration of the wings."
Hearing Liam’s explanation, I finally understood why a Sword Runner was called a 'Ghost of the Battlefield.' A Sword Runner capable of spreading their Path across an entire theater of war could instantly grasp the flow of combat and the status of numerous enemies with superhuman intuition. Since even a Sword Walker can gather information through anything their Path touches, a Sword Runner simply receives more information, faster, and over a much larger area.
But a Sword Runner doesn't stop there.
Based on the information received, a Sword Runner instinctively knows where they need to be, and by pulling the Path they’ve extended there, they can manifest in that spot. They don't just move fast; they are always exactly where they need to be. That is why they earned the moniker 'Ghost of the Battlefield.' To their enemies, they must be a living nightmare.
"If you wish to properly utilize the 'Gale' you have devoured, you would do well to understand this point clearly."
"Why is that?"
"Currently, you only use the mystery of the Ronin to disrupt the flow of combat and dismantle your enemies. But the original master of that sword did not. He used the Path to clearly perceive every event occurring on the battlefield. Then, by touching and breaking the organically connected Paths, he neutralized his foes. He produced the effect of being present in a location without actually being there. He became a single gust of wind."
Liam looked at me.
"My young descendant, you may think you perfectly understand the swords you have devoured, but from my perspective, your digestion is still far too clumsy. Look with a broader vision. And as I always say, doubt everything. Ask yourself: Was that the best I could do? Could it have been better?"
"I understand."
Liam was being uncharacteristically proactive with his advice. My master’s behavior felt strangely awkward to me. At the same time, it made me uneasy.
What on earth is about to happen?
Liam usually threw abstract hints at me even when a crisis was right in front of our noses, telling me to figure out the specifics myself. Yet here he was, giving me detailed and kind instruction. Why? Was the coming danger so incomparable to anything I’d faced before? Or had he suddenly decided to become a benevolent mentor? I highly doubted the latter. Because of that, I found it hard to shake my anxiety.
"Whew."
Regardless, the only thing I could do right now was swing my sword.
Connect from the heart. Maintain the hardness of the Mana as if it were the Path extending through my body, and make the wings grow. It shouldn't feel like wings sprouting on my back; it should feel like wings growing from my heart, bursting through my shoulder blades.
I visualized the image and circulated my mana with everything I had.
In moments like these, twenty-four hours felt like far too little.
The days blurred together, the daylight vanished in an instant, and the nights arrived far too early. I found myself wishing for a body that didn't require sleep. Why was the human body created to feel fatigue when it moves, and to be forced to waste eight hours on sleep? Why was it created to lose strength if it didn't eat? In this moment, even the time lost to meals and sleep felt like a waste. A terrible waste.
"You've improved a great deal, Young Master."
Caretaker Tom’s recent comment only fueled my obsession.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. You've completely grasped the sensation."
"Then—"
"At this rate, you should become a Sword Runner within half a year at the latest."
Half a year.
"Half a year... you say?"
"Yes. Why that expression? Reaching Sword Runner from Sword Walker in just six months is an incredible achievement. Why do you look so disappointed—"
Six months.
Roughly 180 days.
Tom estimated it would take half a year for me to reach the realm of a Sword Runner. After hearing that, I asked my master as well. Will it really take me half a year?
"It will take longer."
Liam’s answer was concise and certain.
...Of course it will.
I accepted it without needing further explanation.
In the first place, it would be stranger to become a Sword Runner in the blink of an eye. Seol-yoon had trained with the sword far longer than I had before she gained the enlightenment to spread her wings. If even a heaven-sent genius was like that, there was no way I could reach that level instantly. Even six months was fast.
It was only possible thanks to my special ability to devour swords.
If not for the blood of the Caravan, I would still be floundering. When Swordmaster Carlos turned our estate into a land of death, I was left alone and spent a year immersed in training with a swordsmanship manual. But there were no results. Far from becoming a proper avenger, I couldn't even become a Sword Beginner. Without Liam’s help, I might still be flailing in the dark. So, I shouldn't have felt regret over the remaining six months; I should have been satisfied. But... I simply couldn't be.
"Sigh."
I wanted to get stronger, even a moment sooner.
Greed took hold of me. I wanted to become visibly, undeniably powerful. I wanted a sharper blade as quickly as possible. I wanted to become a being great enough to reach that bastard. I wanted to gouge out the eyes of Carlos, who still looked down on me as something insignificant; I wanted to bring him to his knees and sever his limbs. And then, I wanted to slaughter the Iron Prince who must have given him the order. I wanted to erase from this world those who breathed the same air as me after taking away everything I held dear. Since the Seven Chief Gods and Nine Goddesses refused to punish them, I would deliver judgment myself.
The things I couldn't accept.
The irrationalities. I wanted to set this broken world right.
As fast as humanly possible.
"Does even half a year feel too long to you?"
"Yes."
"I suppose it does. You've always been that way."
Liam chuckled.
"Do not worry too much. A Caravan grows amidst raging trials. Like steel that hardens the more it is struck within the flames, you grow stronger the more ordeals you overcome."
Liam was once again staring into the distance.
"A trial is coming. A very great one."
*
Liam’s specific advice proved to be a massive help. His guidance regarding the Path was especially decisive. The principle behind the acceleration of a Sword Runner's wings—the idea that the extended Path pulls its master—helped me form a concrete mental image.
The Wings I was creating started from my Mana Heart. If so, they would be connected to me far more tenaciously than wings created through conventional methods. Then, couldn't I utilize my Path in a similar way, not just the wings? The moment the thought occurred, I put it into action.
From that moment, my heart began to connect more strongly with the Path. It wasn't just a visual connection; it felt as though we were bound together by actual knots. The moment I felt that connection, the Paths spread through my body like veins began to link closely with one another. Not as imaginary lines, but like actual blood vessels. My senses came alive. The superhuman intuition of a Sword Walker expanded significantly. I could faintly see Seol-yoon’s sword.
At the same time, I began to predict the movements created by Seol-yoon’s wings. I wasn't reacting to the trajectory or muscle movements; I was reading them in advance through the Path. The moment I tried to mimic Seol-yoon’s movements, I felt the illusion that my Path was pulling my body.
For every ten swings of the sword, once, it felt as if the blade itself was dragging me along. When I followed that pulling force, I could move at a speed that surprised even me. Just like the acceleration of a Sword Runner. Like flying with wings spread wide.
"That's it!"
"Pardon?"
"That's the one! Not the feeling of moving with your feet, but the feeling of the sword pulling you. Once you can properly awaken and control that sensation, you'll be able to spread your wings. You're close... just a little further."
My heart hammered in my chest.
Close.
Had the word 'close' ever been this exhilarating?
Every moment I spent swinging my sword was a joy. This sensation of growing and changing with every passing second was truly delightful. Amidst that joy, Tom spoke.
"You've taken a step forward. That's it. Think of all Paths as being connected. That is why the power of a Sword Walker was named the Path in the first place. If one is the master of the Path, shouldn't they be able to go anywhere that Path extends?"
"Ah..."
"A Sword Walker is one who extends the Path, and a Sword Runner is one who walks it. To be able to exist anywhere on the Path you have laid out, simply by wishing it—that is the secret of the power held within the Wings."
Tom clapped his hands and laughed.
Then, as he always did, he shared a bit of old lore.
"That is why a Sword Runner is called a Ghost of the Battlefield. Think of the ghosts in ghost stories. They appear and disappear mysteriously, existing everywhere at once. It feels as though you can never escape them."
"Yes."
"Do you happen to know the background of how the expression 'Ghost of the Battlefield' first appeared? It's a story that goes back quite a long way... Ah, is my idle chatter too long? If you need more training time, I'll keep it brief. Haha. This old man just loves these stories too much. I suppose I'm not acting my age."
"No, I'm curious."
I needed a moment to catch my breath anyway, having pushed myself to the limit. I could afford to listen to one of Tom’s stories during a break. Besides, I never knew what shining lesson I might glean from a short tale. Humans are, after all, creatures that learn from the history that has passed.
"Ahem, then let me tell you."
Tom couldn't hide his excitement, his lips twitching with a grin. This boyish side of him was part of his charm. He cleared his throat like a professional storyteller and began.
"There was once an era before the name Sword Runner even existed. An era when the concept of a 'Sword' itself was foreign. In those days, there were only blades, spears, and shields. Blood and arrows, flame and steel. Iron weapons weren't categorized, and blades were merely seen as tools to kill living things effectively. The Age of War. Back then, there were no Mana Hearts, no Paths, and no wings. Only blood, flesh, blades, and screams."
Tom’s voice was gentle.
"In that desperate age, a stranger arrived at a certain battlefield. A wanderer carrying a worn-out blade. In the middle of a battlefield where fire and blood erupted, the wanderer yawned lazily. No matter how one looked at him, he seemed far too relaxed to be a soldier in the midst of war. People thought the man had gone mad from the long years of conflict. At least, until he began to swing his sword."
"..."
"Once he started, the man was everywhere on the battlefield. Like a ghost. Only then did people begin to truly look at him. A flamboyant flag, a bored idler, a mysterious sword. You can probably get the gist just from that."
Tom smirked.
"Rhapsody. The most free-spirited of the Great Five Families. The descendants of lazy idlers. The term Sword Runner was coined because of their ancestor. It's ironic, isn't it? That the most indolent sword possesses the fastest blade in the entire continent."
"..."
"That legend continues to this day. Many bards say that when a Rhapsody’s sword reaches its limit, it becomes the greatest 'Fast Sword' on the continent, one that no one can see. A sword that can exist everywhere. Especially the current head of the family, Hugo Rhapsody—they say he is like a literal storm. Not a living being, but a force of nature..."
*
The Steel City, Ferma.
The heat of the Arena, the amphitheater located at the heart of Ferma, was slowly fading. Today’s main event had ended long ago, and even the matches of the lowly fighters had concluded a while back. The spectators had all retired to their beds to prepare for tomorrow’s routine. The only ones wandering the streets were drunkards face-down on the pavement or thieves lurking to pick their pockets.
Most of the lights had been extinguished, leaving only the cold, blue moonlight to illuminate the dark Steel City. Amidst the thick darkness, a man walked the steel streets. His face was hidden by a mask, and he wore tattered rags, looking utterly destitute. The only thing notable about the beggar-like man was the thin, pointed sword protruding from his side. It looked similar to the small swords noble ladies carried to take their own lives if they were ever shamed. A tool for suicide or a last-ditch effort at resistance. In other words, it didn't look like something meant to actually harm another person.
"Hey, pal. This is our turf."
"..."
"I said it's our turf! If you're looking for a place to spend the night, find somewhere else. Dammit, is it because the Infinite Duel just ended? All sorts of pathetic shits are crawling in."
As the man in rags entered the alleyway, a swarm of beggars began to assert their dominance. To them, the man’s arrival was unwelcome. There weren't many drunkards to rob, and with nothing to scavenge, they were already irritated. Another beggar was the last thing they wanted.
"Beat it."
The beggars threatened the man, relying on their numbers. If he kept pushing, they intended to jump him and bury him right there. The guards of the Steel City didn't actively patrol at night. They considered it foolish to even be in the back alleys at such an hour.
As the beggars continued to poke and prod him, the man finally spoke.
"I am looking for the amphitheater."
"What?"
"I believe it was called the Arena. Where is that stadium? I have a matter of accountability to settle with the one in charge."
The beggars burst into mocking laughter.
They thought the man was insane. Looking for the head of the Arena? A beggar? He even claimed he had a matter of 'accountability.' They figured he was either a lunatic suffering from mental illness or a delusional fool. They bet heavily on the latter. The man’s speech carried the heavy accent of the Six Free Cities, and beggars from the Free Cities were notorious for their tall tales.
"You son of a—"
The beggar in the lead raised his hand.
He intended to bash the man’s head in. Watching him, the other beggars snickered or played with the steel coins in their hands.
Ting. A steel coin flicked from a beggar's hand and spun into the air.
And then...
"—"
In the brief moment the steel coin spun in the air.
A flash of light flickered once.
"—!"
Immediately after, the bodies of the beggars surrounding the man collapsed in a heap. It looked like a sandcastle being washed away by a wave. The internal organs, flesh, bones, and blood inside the beggars' bodies separated like grains of sand and spilled onto the ground. It happened with such silence and natural ease, like soft sand slipping through one's fingers.
Ting. The sound echoed again.
The steel coin that had been tossed into the air hit the ground.
By the time the coin struck the pavement, only one beggar remained alive in the street. The surviving beggar stared blankly ahead, still unable to grasp the situation. The man stood in the center of the collapsed remains. The dazed beggar blinked once. When he opened his eyes, the man was right in front of his nose. Close enough for their faces to touch. There was no way to know when or how he had moved so close. As the beggar stammered, the man spoke again.
"I am looking for the amphitheater."
The man’s voice sounded less like a human and more like the growl of an apex predator. In the beggar’s eyes, the man no longer looked like a man. No, he didn't even look like a living thing.
There was only a Sword standing there.
"My son met with an accident there. So, tell me the location. Before I return every insignificant soul in this pathetic Steel City to the embrace of God."
Seven Swords.