Chapter 103
Chapter 103
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 103
Chapter Title: Slash the Iron Bars (2)
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What had he intended to slash?
What must he slash?
Nahar's two eyes turned toward Ban. Those eyes, already blurred and fading, should not have been able to hold Ban in their gaze, yet for some reason, Ban felt as though they were asking him for salvation.
'Slash them, Ban.'
He gripped the broad dao so tightly that the hilt crumbled and his hand tore. He gripped Yuri. Salvation for them lay only in death. And that salvation could only be granted by Ban's sword.
It would not be difficult to slash them. The stems embedded in their bodies did not act with any hostility toward Ban. They simply remained there. No great technique was needed. A single ordinary slash would free them from this endless torment.
...And the prison built upon this flawed foundation would crumble as well.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Ban felt as though Nahar, Ubowo, the prison, and the entire world were watching his blade.
'Master.'
The faces of Jensen and Ropo came to mind. He wanted to ask them. Could the deep wrinkles etched into their years provide an answer to this situation? Could they tell him more confidently whether he should slash them or not? If it were them.
"........."
He gripped his sword. Aimed it at them, then let the tip drop, clenched his lips again, and raised it once more. Yet in the end, Ban's arm went limp again.
What Ban faced was not simply corpses awaiting death. They were not members of the Nahar Clan, nor a hidden secret of the Revolutionary Corps, nor even Pendel Prison itself.
Before him stood the root of every conflict in this world.
The violence that left no choice. Perhaps the first to ignite war and battle in this world... had stood in the same position as Ban. Even knowing that the end of every choice left only wounds in this world, and yet, because pus must ultimately be squeezed out.
- Slash what no one else could slash, Ban.
Ropo's voice rang out. From the bamboo sword, from his memories, from atop Nahar's flesh, he slowly rose and looked at Ban.
- You will find the answer.
'I can't see the answer, Sir Ropo.'
- That's inevitable. A sword is not a tool for rendering judgment to begin with.
This time, the voice that came was not Ropo's, but Jensen's. Jensen sat beside Ubowo, gazing quietly at Ban.
- I told you long ago. Hold herbs, not a sword. No matter what you slash, the end will always be ruin. A sword cannot make the world healthy. It only brings pain.
- You have not seen the true face of the sword. The sword's pinnacle turns its wielder into one who slashes all things in this world. Even if that is the unreasonable law of this world.
- How much blood must be spilled on your hands to slash that law?
Jensen rose to his feet. Pointing at Nahar's body sprawled on the ground, he spoke.
- Ban, the world created by the sword lies right before your eyes. Abandon the vain hope that a sword can save the world. A sword is a tool for inflicting wounds. How can wounds make the world healthy?
- And yet, the hand that can save them now is not one smelling of herbs, but the one gripping a sword.
Ropo looked at Ban and asked. His kind, gentle gaze seemed to say that Ban would overcome all of this in the end.
- Ban, what do you want to slash right now?
"I..."
Ban trailed off. What did he want to slash? He had thought it a question without an answer, but the response was clearer than expected. He wanted to slash this situation. This world that could only be sustained by someone's sacrifice, this irrationality—he wanted to slash it all.
And so, in the end, he had no choice but to sheath his sword. Ubowo watched Ban silently. Self-loathing and mockery filled his eyes. Ubowo was the strongest person Ban had ever met, but at the same time, the weakest.
"Did you think I would slash them?"
Ban asked in a quiet voice. Ubowo nodded.
"I thought perhaps you might."
"Then this prison crumbles. Is that what you wanted?"
"...As I said, fate declared that you hold the key to this revolution."
Ubowo spoke in a bitter voice.
"If you cannot accept the Revolutionary Corps as it is now... then the revolution must be completed by the Corps' collapse."
"...I want to ask. If those who live by burning the corpses of others ignite a revolution, and even if it succeeds, what difference does it make from the kingdom that abandoned the North?"
Ubowo gave no answer. It was a question he had asked himself countless times. At times, he had answered that burning the corpses of criminals who deserved death was no great sin, but even he found that excuse too pathetic to convince himself.
"What frightens me most is that very thought."
Ubowo muttered.
"That no revolution can truly change the essence of this world."
"...Just as a world led by sinners cannot be paradise."
Ubowo did not get angry at Ban's overt sarcasm. The one he was angriest at was himself, so he had no reason to take offense at Ban's petty jab.
"You're right. I am a sinner, Ban. But the people of the Revolutionary Corps are not. Those who scrape by in this barren land, clinging only to the light of revolution... they are gathered under such pure intentions that I wonder if I even deserve to lead them. Of course, you're right again. A world led by a sinner cannot be paradise. And that is why, as the prophecy states, you—not I—must guide the path of the revolution."
"...What do you want from me?"
"...The sins I have piled up are not just their corpses."
Ubowo looked down at the Nahars as he spoke. His sins were too numerous to count on his fingers. He had slain many with the sword, poisoned others, driven some to suicide, and under the guise of revolution, forced countless people to throw away their lives. To abandon family and kin. And finally, to close their eyes amid misfortune, despair, and screams.
And yet, perhaps what he wanted to hear was, 'You had no choice.'
Ubowo clenched his fist. A resolute determination settled over his once-weak face.
"When the Revolutionary Corps reaches a crossroads, I hope you will sever their worn-out tail. So that a stronger, sturdier one can grow in its place. So that they can set out on a farther journey."
"Are you saying you're entrusting the Revolutionary Corps to me now?"
"No, I am entrusting you with the revolution."
Ubowo grasped Ban's hand. The rough, warm hand trembled with desperation.
"So that they can find a true paradise, not a false one. So that they can stand upon the foundation of ideals, not the foundation of sin."
"...As I said, I am a swordsman, not a standard-bearer."
"You need not hold any flag."
Ubowo smiled.
"Your blade will shine brighter than any flag as a guiding beacon."
"........."
Ban looked at Ubowo without a word. Then, quietly, he spoke.
"There is something I wish to request."
§
'...Revolution.'
Anya gazed out the window at the market below. In truth, with their movements restricted, all she could do was look outside like this.
Watching beasts and humans mingle in harmony made her feel as though everything she knew was crumbling. She knew not all Seeds of the Night were threatening, but that did not mean she had ever considered coexistence possible. Naturally, she had believed they would not respect human laws.
'...If there is room for dialogue with the night, then what are we even fighting for?'
Of course, there were still plenty of violent beings of the night. In that sense, the lighthouse's value remained valid... but the lighthouse's doctrine of unconditionally exterminating the night from this world inevitably lost its meaning.
What troubled Anya was not just the Seeds of the Night. Seeing children play innocently, and thinking that those children might one day become enemies of the kingdom, she wondered why they must oppose each other like this.
'And why is the Revolutionary Corps so interested in Ban?'
It could not simply be because he was a useful swordsman; their attitude toward him was far too favorable. Locking the lighthouse's investigation team in such a fine room made no sense.
Clearly, there was something she did not know. This was true not just for Anya, but for Kizl and Tambi as well. Kizl had even once asked if there was any chance Ban might be a Revolutionary Corps spy. She had flatly denied it, but as this strange life continued, Anya grew increasingly uneasy too.
"Anya."
"Ah, you startled me."
Ban’s voice came suddenly. Anya jumped and turned to him. After his recent training with that stone-throwing man, Ban somehow felt even subtler in his presence. As if he could now control his own aura. The qi that had naturally flowed around him like a boast of his swordsmanship was now much more subdued than before.
'...He's not weaker. He's stronger.'
She had vowed not to fall behind, but Ban walked too quickly for that. Anya let out a helpless sigh and said,
"Make some noise when you walk."
"...Sorry. I have something to say. Want to go for a walk?"
"Go out? We're confined here?"
"I got permission."
"...Permission?"
How on earth did he get that? What had he been discussing with the Revolutionary Corps lately? She wanted to ask, but she couldn't. Ban was holding her hand.
"Come with me."
"........."
It was the first time he had held her hand like this. In the end, Anya let herself be led by Ban's hand, leaving the room with a half-dazed expression.
They walked the corridor without exchanging a word. In truth, Anya had many questions and much to say. Ban knew this too, but he silenced her by gripping her hand tighter.
And so they finally reached the iron door in the basement. Unable to hold back any longer, Anya turned Ban around.
"What is this? Why bring me all the way down here suddenly?"
"There's something I want to show you."
"What?"
"What we need to see."
"...Stop dodging the question."
Anya looked at Ban. It was not mere curiosity—her eyes held worry and passion directed at him. Ban chuckled and ruffled her hair.
"Sorry. Always."
"...An apology won't cut it."
"You must have a lot of questions. Why is the Revolutionary Corps so favorable to me? How immense must that favor be to extend even to us, my companions?"
"You're... going to tell me?"
"There was a prophecy from the Iseo Clan, they say."
"A prophecy?"
"That a guide would lead the revolutionaries to paradise, and... that guide is a swordsman who hears the voice of the sword."
"The voice... of the sword...?"
Anya's face grew paler as she slowly mouthed the words. Her eyes instinctively scanned Ban's waist. The belt irregularly fitted with various blades that no ordinary swordsman would carry.
The swords on that belt had never been consistent in number or type. And no matter which sword Ban gripped, he instantly understood and expressed its potential movements. Not only that—fellow swordsmen often said that clashing blades with Ban even a few times made them feel as though all their swordsmanship had been read.
Coincidences she had overlooked became inevitabilities with a single phrase added. Anya groaned,
"......The Guardian of the Seonwoo."