Chapter 223: Golden Treasury (4)
Chapter 223: Golden Treasury (4)
"That blade is a cursed sword."
Leon Caravan spoke. I took his words more calmly than expected. Based on the chatter of the Caravan ancestors I’d heard so far, the way those who remembered the family had acted, and the various things Liam had muttered to himself, I had already guessed as much.
Liam Caravan was a sinner.
His karma had trickled down through the ages, a noose around the neck of the Caravan name. Since the end of the Age of Iron, Liam’s descendants had failed to triumph over the countless enemies he had made. The name Caravan had vanished from history; those who should have been remembered were forgotten and erased.
The absolute being who once dominated an era had been cast into oblivion.
The descendants who should have revered him instead loathed and shunned him. Then, suddenly, the First Steel had appeared before the Last Steel and whispered: I will grant you your revenge.
I recalled everything that had happened until now. Then, I spoke.
"It doesn't matter."
I meant it.
"No matter what lies at the end of this path, I will move forward."
Helplessness, terrible loss—my life was defined by the things I had lost.
The day Carlos came to my estate, I had already died. After I took up the sword, I was born anew. This was a life gifted to me. Even if the great ancestor were to take my life away one day, it wouldn't matter. Even if I went back to the past, I would make the same choice. A hundred times, a thousand times over.
"It doesn't matter if I disappear. It doesn't matter if a harsh ordeal breaks me. It doesn't matter if the terrifying flames of the world burn me to ash. I will move forward for my purpose. Neither trials, nor the world's flames, nor even the great First Steel himself can halt my steps."
"……."
"You say the First Steel will seize my body. But wouldn't he have to break me first? That won't be easy. Perhaps the first Swordmaster of the ancient past will taste defeat at the hands of his 'insignificant' descendant. You never know how a duel will fare until the blades clash."
Leon Caravan let out a dry laugh. "Ha!"
"……What an arrogant brat."
"I have one question, Ancestor."
"What is it?"
"Did you take your own life because you were afraid to face the First Steel and prove yourself? Is that rope around your neck the proof that you hung yourself in cowardice?"
The laughter instantly vanished from his face.
"If so, then you are a pathetic man. You lived in an age of glory, you likely possessed a blade far sharper than mine, and you must have reached a realm far greater than I have. You were probably born with brilliant talent. But let me tell you this: your heart is not as hard as mine. Never."
"……What did you just say?"
"A soul that breaks before the clash can never be strong."
Leon Caravan’s eyes trembled.
In that moment, I drew the sword from my waist and swung. With a sharp whoosh, the blade passed through Leon Caravan’s body. I couldn't cut a bodiless soul, but I could show him my unwavering resolve.
"Do you have no intention of handing your power over to me? Then do as you wish. In any case, there have been very few times in my life when things came easy—especially since I took up the sword."
"……."
"I will take the power I need myself. If you don't like this young descendant, feel free to interfere as much as you want. If you want to kill me, try it. I will never break, and in the end, I will endure until I have devoured every last one of you."
*
Leon Caravan stared at Arhan, stunned. What had this audacious descendant just said? A surge of emotion Leon hadn't felt in hundreds of years welled up within him—a feeling he couldn't quite describe.
In the striking blue eyes of this refined, frail-looking descendant, Leon saw the Ash-colored Man. His father, Liam Caravan. He even had the fleeting illusion that the man of steel had been reincarnated in the boy's body. How could they possess such similar souls? Was this the power of the bloodline?
Leon Caravan looked around with vacant eyes.
The other Caravans—from his distant descendants to his immediate kin—every single one of them was looking at Leon. Though the Golden Treasury held countless treasures, the entities managing this place were the souls of the Caravans. And all of them were under the influence of the most powerful soul: Leon Caravan.
The Caravans, who usually only watched his moods, were now actively making their voices heard through their silent gazes.
Let’s help our young descendant. If we don't help a descendant that desperate, who will? Let’s cast off the lingering attachments of the past and do what we must. Let those of us who have vanished offer aid to the youth still living.
"……What is your name?"
"Arhan. Arhan Caravan."
"Arhan Caravan, I see." Leon Caravan spoke slowly. "I do not know your circumstances. I don't know about your other ancestors, but I have withered so much that I can no longer peer into the depths of a soul. All I have left is a single blade."
"……."
"And there is only one blade you can take from this Golden Treasury. If you take any more, your soul won't be able to withstand the weight."
Leon Caravan looked at Arhan. "You said you would never break?"
"Yes, that's right."
A boy. There stood a single boy.
Looking at him, Leon Caravan briefly recalled the distant past—the time when he wasn't a soul, when he roamed the Mortal Realm with a physical body. He remembered running through the vast mansion gardens, swinging his sword. He remembered the Ash-colored Man who watched him. That gaze, sharp as a blade; that terrifying look, as if he were viewing a weapon rather than a son; those cold words, sharper than any edge.
Without a single goodbye, that man had left the Mortal Realm.
Ending his brief reminiscence, Leon Caravan spoke. "Then endure it."
"……."
"Arhan Caravan. The Caravan blade you will take from this Golden Treasury is the sword containing my own soul."
Arhan had said it: a soul broken before the clash could never be strong.
Leon Caravan took those words as an insult, but at the same time, he couldn't deny them. He had thought the same. But who could have endured in his situation? How could a mere boy overcome such a horrific ordeal?
Yet, a boy stood before him now. A boy younger than Leon had been back then. And the pain and suffering the boy harbored did not seem any weaker than what Leon had experienced in the ancient past.
How did Arhan Caravan overcome it?
Leon grew curious. If it were you... if you were in the same situation as me... could you have overcome it?
"You said you needed power?"
If he had overcome it, would that desperate life have been different? Leon Caravan had to know.
"My blade holds the most powerful strength in this Golden Treasury."
This insignificant boy... if he harbored a soul so similar to the man who was greater than anyone else, could he create a different ending? What form would that ending take?
Light began to slowly gather in Leon Caravan’s hollow eyes—a faint but certain light.
"It is a power closest to Steel. If you perfectly digest my blade, you will possess power greater than if you had devoured every Caravan sword that existed in the Age of Iron."
"……."
"But if you fail to digest it, your journey ends here."
"What do you mean?"
"You will be overwhelmed by my soul. You will be trapped within it, unable to leave this Golden Treasury for the rest of your life. You would have to wait until another Caravan arrives. But you are the Last Caravan. Aside from you, not a single person of the Steel bloodline remains in the Mortal Realm."
"……."
"Do you understand what that means?"
Leon Caravan looked at Arhan. The small boy. The soul writhing inside him. The soul that resembled Steel.
"It’s the same choice I always make," Arhan replied.
"The same?"
"Since I took up the sword, my life has been one where a single slip means falling into the abyss. Nothing has changed."
"Truly? You have crawled your way to the realm of 'Immortality' with that lowly body of yours, yet you can take the same challenge as the beginning without any regret?"
"I'll say it again: nothing has changed."
The words were spoken without a hint of hesitation. Hearing them, Leon Caravan thought: Ah, what this boy harbors is not Steel.
He resembled the First Steel, yes. But they were not the same.
"A Swordmaster can only be killed by another Swordmaster," Arhan said.
What the boy harbored was not a soul of Steel. He harbored a soul of Flame.
"That is why I must become a Swordmaster."
Steel is absolute, complete unto itself. But fire is different. Fire constantly consumes, spreading to everything around it. Spreading and spreading again, the fire soon burns the entire world. It dyes the world in its own hue until nothing else remains.
"If I am not a Swordmaster, all the realms I have achieved are meaningless. So, nothing has changed from before I took up the sword or after. Nothing at all."
Flame does not break.
Leon Caravan stood dazed for a moment. Then, he flicked his hand.
A sword made of black iron flew through the air, stopping in front of Arhan.
"Ancestor, what is the name of your blade?" Arhan asked.
Leon Caravan spoke slowly. "Match."
That name, now forgotten by history.
*
"The Golden Treasury... it feels like a dream."
At the city walls protecting the Dwarf Kingdom, one of the adjutants standing by General Dwight’s side spoke up.
"If I could, I’d want to go in there too."
"You're not the only one. So do I."
"Brilliant gold, the traces of Steel. How romantic."
They bantered and laughed. Dwight didn't show it, but he was just as excited. With this, the legend passed down in the Dwarf Kingdom—the legend no one believed—had been realized.
Glory would return. The dwarves would no longer have to live in hiding; they would enjoy true freedom. Just imagining it made him incredibly happy. Dwight gripped his massive hammer tightly. Now, the dwarves would be able to live proudly on the surface, looking up at the sky instead of deep underground, without fearing invasion.
And then.
"Everyone seems so excited."
From among the chatting dwarves, a man in a red robe appeared.
"What’s so fun?"
The dwarves looked at the man who had suddenly appeared. His robe was red as blood, and strangely, his hair and eyes were the same shade. He was a man steeped entirely in crimson. The dwarves, momentarily speechless at his appearance, soon felt a bone-deep chill.
It was the man’s eyes. His pupils were vertical slits, like a reptile's. The symbol was unmistakable: a Dragon.
A Dragon had appeared on their city walls.
"Could you tell me about it, you dwarves……"
Thwack!
The moment they sensed the man’s identity, the dwarves thrust their long spears. The spearheads pierced through the robe, cutting through skin and flesh. The dwarves thought their attack had succeeded thanks to their quick judgment.
"……Ah, everyone is so sensitive."
However, they were wrong.
"By any chance..."
The red robe erupted into fire. His hair, his eyes, his very flesh—everything became a conflagration. The burning flames rose into a pillar of fire, and in the next moment, a massive blaze flickered, large enough to swallow the entire wall. The flickering flames soon took the shape of a dragon.
"Is there a story I’m not supposed to hear?"
It was a draconic form larger and more terrifying than any dragon the dwarves had ever seen before.