Chapter 212: Indomitable (4)
Chapter 212: Indomitable (4)
"……Young Master."
Tom stared at Arhan with a dazed expression. Ever since the young man had placed the blade in his mouth and swallowed it, Tom had been overcome by a strange sense of lethargy. It felt as if his very core were being hollowed out—the sensation of things that should never be lost, fragments of his soul, being severed and vanishing. A sense of futility and a small, creeping fear washed over him.
Yet, Tom knew he didn't need to fear what was about to happen. This wasn't a disappearance, but a continuation. Just as Santiago’s life had once flowed into him, this old caretaker’s dreams and life would now flow into the young man.
"Thank... you."
Beyond the beach, the vast sea stretched toward the horizon. The sky of Ernest mirrored the ocean so perfectly that, from a distance, it looked as if an infinite sea unfolded endlessly both above and below. The straight horizon and the sun reflected in the water looked like a masterpiece on canvas. Facing this beautiful scenery, Tom simply smiled.
"It is an honor... to have been with you, Young Master."
Strength drained from his aged body.
The powers he had possessed as a Sword Expert were transferring to Arhan. Tom had truly become nothing more than an ordinary old caretaker. He was now just an old man who would find it difficult to even move normally, let alone swing a sword. Yet, Tom did not regret losing it all. He simply gazed at the sky. As he smiled with a sense of fulfillment, the light in his eyes slowly began to fade.
"……?"
High up in the heavens.
The center of the sky, which had been mirroring the landscape below like a glass surface, began to ripple violently. It looked as if the sky itself were surging with waves. Along with the intense turbulence, the firmament shattered with the sound of breaking glass. A gaping hole was punched through the collapsed sky, and through that void, two all-too-familiar eyes appeared.
The dragon.
The dragon that had tried to kill Tom and Arhan earlier had managed to track them all the way to Ernest. A creature of fantasy appearing in a mystical realm. But Tom knew this dragon was no benevolent being of legend; it was a monster that craved only violence and destruction.
"Ah."
The tenacious pursuer had finally found them.
Tom looked at the dragon and tried to force his body up, but his limbs refused to obey. With the soul of the sword having moved to Arhan, Tom was now just an ordinary old man. And no ordinary man could move freely under the direct, crushing gaze of a dragon. His body froze stiff.
An approaching threat. A moment of absolute desperation.
In the midst of it, Tom looked at Arhan.
The young man was still wandering through the memories of the past.
* * *
"A soul?"
I clung to Santiago’s sword. I struggled to grasp his light.
But it remained out of reach.
"Are you drunk, lad?"
I felt as if I were drifting in a vast, trackless ocean. No matter how much I searched for the 'you' I wanted to find, there was no answer. I pieced together the fragments of broken blades and swung your sword countless times, but I couldn't understand. Does a blade truly contain a soul? Does a sword hold your will?
"Madness."
I dismantled them piece by piece. I sought out the most renowned blacksmiths. But they all dismissed me, telling me not to talk nonsense.
A blade is just a blade. A sword is just a tool. It is merely a weapon.
"A soul in a blade? What kind of gibberish is that?"
Even I wasn't sure.
While I spent my time in confusion, my fame continued to grow. Inside the amphitheater of the Steel City Arena, there was no longer anyone who could rival me. Rumors spread through the Iron Kingdom Chervil. An outsider fighter was writing a legend. A man who was a mere gladiator was on the verge of becoming a Sword Expert….
"You must have heard some idle gossip somewhere."
No one could withstand my sword. No one could wound me.
But inside that young and robust body... dwelt a stale and festering soul.
I was wandering. I was wandering forever.
"Don't be swayed by such rumors and just prepare for your next match."
People told me how great my achievements were, how immense the glory of a Sword Expert would be, and that the Steel Legion might even come to recruit me if I played my cards right. The Iron Kingdom was a land that operated on the logic of power. Wealth, fame, the most beautiful women—they said wine and meat awaited me.
But none of that meant anything to me.
The dragon that took everything from me. My friend who gave my young self a reason to live. My gladiator, my Santiago. My life, my sea.
Did I come here to become the greatest gladiator? No. I came to take revenge on the dragon.
But the meaning of 'revenge' had blurred at some point. I liked the comfortable bed. I liked the wine and the meat. I liked the time spent with beautiful women. And more than all of those combined... I liked the time I had spent with Santiago.
"The entire Steel City is shouting only your name."
The old fighter was my hero. The old fighter was my family. The old fighter was my friend.
And yet, I had failed to see the end of my hero, my family, and my friend. I had failed to look at the light he had followed his entire life. It was because I had been blinded, swayed by things that meant nothing.
"A fighter on the verge of becoming a Sword Expert?"
People spoke with inflated expectations. A fighter on the verge of becoming a Sword Expert—their words were a contradiction. Because the expression 'on the verge of the Sword Expert realm' cannot exist. There is no intermediate realm between a Sword Runner and a Sword Expert. This is a fact anyone who has reached this level knows.
The realm I have reached now... is my limit.
'I cannot forge a sword. I will never obtain a complete armor.'
I lacked the essential condition to create 'Armor.' To possess a shield that would not break against anything—to be a Sword Expert—one needs a 'stubbornness' that will not bow to anyone. A rock-solid conviction that allows you to say you are right even when the whole world says you are wrong. The moment that conviction is perfected, the soul forms a small world and forges the Armor.
Therefore, I could not create a complete Armor.
One who harbors regret and lingering attachment cannot wear Armor. I would likely never be able to shake off this regret. Never.
"This is a miracle, Tom."
Those who knew nothing praised my future.
"The entire Iron Kingdom will know your name."
Why was my Armor only half-complete? It was simple.
I had stubbornness too. A stubbornness riddled with regret and lingering attachment. Not a conviction born of my own beliefs, but a stubbornness created by the entanglement of past mistakes and remorse. A conviction I couldn't even be sure of myself, yet one I couldn't break or give up on. A precious memory existing within the recollections of Santiago and me. Something everyone ignored and disbelieved, yet a single stubborn point embedded deep within my heart.
"By tomorrow, you will enjoy glory that no fighter in history has ever tasted. No one will ever look down on fighters as lowly swordsmen again, nor will they mock our duels as the playthings of the common folk."
Glory and expectation. A glorious moment that everyone longed for. The time when I could have shone the brightest.
But I was looking elsewhere.
The darkest corner of the majestic amphitheater. A place that smelled of shadows and musty mold. A display case no one cared about. A place where rusted blades were decorated.
"You're going to change history, Tom."
The Hall of Fame.
"……I'm sorry."
In the end, I betrayed everyone's expectations.
"That isn't the future I want."
Dignitaries and nobles from various countries, including the Iron Kingdom Chervil, had gathered. They were there to see the fighter who was about to become a Sword Expert. But I did not enter the match. I announced my retirement and declared that I would become the caretaker of the Hall of Fame.
The Arena officials thought I had gone mad. But they couldn't bring themselves to retaliate or vent their anger on me. This kingdom operated on the logic of power, and I was a fighter who had forged Armor—even if it was only half-complete—and had achieved the most brilliant feat in the history of the Arena.
At first, people were bewildered seeing me as the caretaker of the Hall of Fame. Knowing my fame, some would linger. Young men came asking me to teach them the sword.
But the interest didn't last long. New stars are born. New provocative scandals arise. The flow of the era moves on. When one star sets, another rises. Within that natural order, I simply became a caretaker. I explained the sword to those who visited the Hall of Fame, polished the old blades that held the souls of the past, and occasionally caught a passerby to tell them that once, there was a great old fighter here who lost every day but never stopped challenging himself.
But it was different from my days as a successful fighter.
The life of a caretaker I had chosen was a life spent talking about things everyone ignored. I was no longer the protagonist. I was a man pushed into the shadows of history. No one listened to my story, and no one heeded my words.
"……."
It was harder than I had imagined. Living while chasing something no one believed in, something no one would listen to, was no easy task. By the time loneliness and solitude began to torment me, I realized I had grown older than I thought. Youth was something that vanished in an instant.
'Don't be alone when you're old, kid.'
Santiago’s words occasionally caught me when I was about to collapse.
'But it's also something unavoidable.'
I had asked him to teach me the sword. But he hadn't taught me the sword. Instead, he taught me what he could teach best.
'In the world of an unyielding human, no one is ever truly alone.'
'Becoming alone is unavoidable as long as you are human.'
'To fight until the moment you die. That is the essence of life.'
Life.
'Kid, I've been fighting an enemy stronger than a dragon my whole life. Every human fights it from the moment they are born. You're fighting it too, kid.'
The way to live.
'Time.'
The years flow by. The body wears out, and the mind grows dim. I polish the swords and hang them up so they look good. No one spares them a glance. To the young, a sword is nothing more than a sharper, stronger weapon. Rather than feeling the soul contained within the blade, they desire clear victories and simple rewards. Things that are straightforward and uncomplicated.
I felt like I was going to break. At some point, I even had such thoughts.
Wouldn't it be okay to break? Wouldn't it be okay to give up after coming this far? Wouldn't it be better to stop foolishly clinging to these blades? Haven't I done my best? Isn't this just a waste of time anymore…?
"Ah."
Just then, I dropped a sword.
It was Santiago’s old rapier. The rapier fell and rolled away, and a passing carriage ran right over it, snapping it in two. It felt just like my heart.
After the carriage rattled past, I went to pick up the rapier. The blade and the hilt were separated. I pieced the fragments together. In doing so, I saw something I hadn't seen before.
Inside the hilt, two sentences were written in clumsy handwriting. It was Santiago’s handwriting.
「A man can be destroyed but not defeated.」
A sentence that expressed Santiago’s life.
「But man is not made for defeat.」
The most valuable attitude toward life that he had taught me.
'You fight until you die.'
I slowly stood up. I was old now. My hair had turned white, my face was wrinkled, and my back was bent. But being old didn't mean I had lost the right to challenge myself. Every human simply fights. Until they die.
My fight isn't over, not yet.
"……Oh."
And then.
"A young master has lost himself in the Hall of Fame."
"Pardon? The Hall of Fame……?"
I met a young man.
"If there is anything you are curious about, feel free to ask. I am the caretaker who manages this glorious place. You may simply call me Tom."
The young man who would prove my life. Arhan Caravan and…….
.
.
.
"……Whew."
It was the first time I had devoured the sword of a being who was still alive. Between the boundary of dream and reality, while the grogginess had not yet faded, I slowly opened my eyes.
The memory did not end by giving me a clear answer. I didn't see if Tom finally saw the soul in Santiago’s sword, how Tom’s choice eventually bloomed, or how his efforts were ultimately rewarded.
In fact, that was only natural.
In chivalric novels and the plays of bards, those who strive are always rewarded. Those who sacrifice are always repaid. The protagonist gets what they want and receives answers to their questions. But reality isn't like that. People die without ever getting close to what they desire. They die without ever solving their eternal curiosities. Those who strive are not always rewarded, and those who sacrifice are not always repaid. A story that begins and ends neatly—that exists only within the realm of fiction.
"Young... Master."
Santiago knew that. The duel he fought before he died—its victory or defeat didn't matter. The most important thing was that the old fighter never stopped fighting until the moment he died. No one knows what he was pursuing. He never told anyone, nor did he want anyone to acknowledge it. He just fought. As if fighting was the only way he could remain alive.
Tom was the same. In a life filled with regret, lingering attachment, and guilt, Tom fought. Unlike Santiago, he wavered at times and appealed to others to understand him, but he remained unyielding until the very end.
The swords the two old men swung were different. The feats the two old men achieved were also different.
But the two shared a single soul. In this sword, the lives of the two old men were melted.
"The... dragon... has followed us here."
"It's alright."
The old men who burned themselves out until the very end. If I were to give their sword a name, perhaps this name would suit it best.
「Indomitable」.
"Leave it to me."
That was the name of my eighth sword.
"Right now... I don't feel like I'll lose."
And it was the name of my second legend.