Chapter 54
Chapter 54
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 54
Chapter Title: Grave of a Hundred Swords
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Rattle, rattle, rattle.
The brothers Little Dog and Big Dog, who had begun their apprenticeship at the Spring Road Forge, rolled up their sleeves once more today to handle the errand the adults had assigned them.
Unlike their usual tedious chores, however, today's task was straightforward: transport a bunch of heavy crates out to the open plains.
"S-Slow down! Bro..."
"Push harder! We've gotta hurry!"
They needed to finish the forge's errand quickly and squeeze in even one more lesson.
Big Dog, who had already hit puberty, chided his grumbling little brother and quickened their pace.
Rattle, rattle.
The crates creaked and groaned with every jolt of the cart.
Growing bored from the repetitive trek, Little Dog turned to his brother.
"Bro, um..."
"Yeah?"
"Why are we heading out to the plains instead of the barracks today? Any idea what's in these crates?"
Normally, finished weapons went straight to the supply depot inside the barracks.
But for some reason, today they were hauling goods to the plains—a place neither had ever been.
What could be inside the crates?
Little Dog, who had only recently started helping at the forge, couldn't contain his curiosity and pried open a lid.
There lay swords, all identical in shape and material, slumbering quietly.
"Huh? Swords?"
"...Really?"
Big Dog was about to scold his brother for opening the goods without permission.
But the word "swords" made him freeze in surprise, halting his steps.
In the North, swords were weapons reserved for knights.
They were tricky to wield, and without Aura and skill, their power was sorely lacking.
Yet here they were, stacked in piles.
Even dismissing them as mere sidearms, the forging skill on display was no joke.
It was as if Red Iron himself, the master of the forge, had hammered them out personally.
Big Dog shook his head.
"No idea."
What good would it do for errand boys like them to speculate?
Admiration was fleeting. After catching their breath, the brothers resumed pulling the cart.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
Whooooosh——!!
Thirty minutes along the road, and the vast plains came into view.
Snow blanketed the ground in white, with flurries like sea foam shimmering in the distance.
At the rendezvous point, a man stood with Red Iron, gazing toward the Northern Mountains.
The scene was like a landscape painting, perfectly dotted with that final stroke.
Gulp.
The brothers tensed.
They had thought it was just a delivery, but Red Iron was here in person.
And with him, a middle-aged man radiating an extraordinary aura.
That back... I've seen it somewhere before. A striking figure etched in my memory.
Before they could place it, Red Iron spotted the brothers and the cart, waving them over.
"What're you standing around for? Get over here."
Snapping out of it, they hurriedly dragged the cart to the center of the plains.
There, with Red Iron, they set the crates down and unpacked the contents.
A lonely winter wind blew through, snowflakes dancing briefly before settling again.
The middle-aged man sat motionless atop it all, like a snowman.
Red Iron chuckled at the brothers' constant glances.
"Gonna need your help with this."
"Y-Yes...! Sure!"
"Pull out the swords and stick them in the snow."
All these swords in the snow?
The bizarre order baffled them, but they scrambled to grab the blades anyway.
Following Red Iron's lead, they planted them at regular intervals, like sowing seeds.
Thud, thud.
This has to be it, right?
The three worked diligently, and soon the area was filled with hiltless sword graves.
That was the end of the errand.
Having completed the odd task, Red Iron dusted off his hands.
"Alright, that's it. Let's head back. You'll come pick 'em up after training's done."
Training? What kind of training required hauling all these swords to the plains?
Wondering, the Little Dog and Big Dog brothers slowly retreated with Red Iron.
"————."
The world lay still as a lake.
Or perhaps some unknowable tension had silenced the skies.
Enthralled, the brothers stared at the man in the center of the sword graveyard.
Red Iron watched the scene with wistful eyes before speaking heavily.
"Looks like he's finally done."
"...Huh?"
"He was meditating."
The middle-aged man rose.
Recognizing him, Big Dog swallowed hard, while Little Dog's eyes widened in shock.
Shing.
The Sword Saint, Broken Sword.
As he drew his blade, countless swords reflected the snow-dusted plains.
Silence fell; the fierce wind halted.
And for the first time in their lives, the brothers witnessed the pinnacle of human vitality.
Formless, odorless, imperceptible, subconscious.
It was no Aura, no intimidation—but the ideal one dreamer had pursued.
Whoosh!
He swung his sword.
A hundred blades resonated.
Slash!
He cleaved a falling snowflake.
The resonating swords defied laws, rising in tumult.
Blade or hilt—which was which?
Like white lightning, the swords melted into the world and him, becoming one perfect whole.
Thud!
He caught a falling sword,
and launched an embedded one.
Caught the falling one again.
Launched another embedded one.
Like a sword dance, the Sword Saint swapped blades endlessly, slicing every snowflake.
His movements transcended wonder, defying reason itself—like the twentieth form.
Sorrow welled up.
Yet joy as well.
A born outsider, he harbored no hatred or rage toward the world.
Instead, he thanked the North—his mother—that had let him swing his sword.
This curse was no shackle; merely the cliff from which a bird takes flight.
Decades of cleaved limits settled upon the snow.
Clang.
Broken Sword sheathed his blade.
The drawn swords returned to their places; only his footprints remained on the snow.
The grave of a hundred swords.
Preparations to slay Ogmar were complete.
"...This is it? All of it?"
Ogmar pressed his throbbing forehead.
A whole month since issuing the muster order, yet the troops from the outposts barely reached half the expected numbers.
Even with multiple outposts fallen and Great Chieftain Tigma dead, this made no sense.
They had made an example by killing one chieftain—how could there be such defiance?
A haggard administrator explained what he had seen.
"They're all tied up quelling rebellions..."
"Outposts delayed by some slave rabble? You think that flies?"
"I-It is odd, sir. They're just slaves—terrible fighters—but their attacks and retreats are perfectly timed."
Farmers with sickles and pitchforks should be easy to crush.
But lately, hiding in the forests, they waged guerrilla war, steadily gnawing at the orc outposts' strength.
Like a dragon with a serpent's body.
Clumsy combat at militia level, yet their timing screamed veteran savvy.
Obvious. Those northern dogs were up to something.
Unable to contain his rage, Ogmar hurled his helmet to the ground.
Clang!
"Fuck!"
A month already gone.
The enemy expanded slowly, while outpost orcs couldn't even muster, let alone counterattack.
What's the point of numbers?
What's the use of strong warriors?
We fail to fight when we should, and get hit when we need to move.
The sharpening winter chill and endless shitty snow!
Even our prized tough hides were starting to chafe under steel plate.
Grind.
No choice now.
Ogmar bowed his head, admitting he had lost the initiative.
The enemy's commander had outplayed him, entering war fully prepared.
But he wouldn't concede orc defeat so easily.
"————."
Ogmar lifted his head.
The wisdom in his eyes vanished, replaced by the destructive fury of an orc warrior.
The stress of governing headquarters, the patience amid incompetent chieftains.
All erupted from the death of kin he had known lifelong—and the thirst for vengeance.
So what?
Mainland orcs yammered about supplies; chieftains plotted cowardice.
Is this honorable orc kind?
Or mere feed-trough pigs?
Ogmar donned his discarded helmet and gripped the axe of his lifetime.
"Adjutant."
"Yes, Governor!"
"Add this order to all outpost chieftains who answered the muster."
"Sir...?"
Ogmar strode past the gathered outpost orcs.
Northern slaves labored busily there, shifting supplies.
Humans picked for obedience, serving headquarters.
But Ogmar raised his axe without hesitation, unleashing full Aura.
"Wh-What..."
Murderous Aura gathered on the massive axe blade, gauging his menace.
A mere human against a Governor even chieftains bowed to?
The slave dropped his crate and knelt.
Ogmar cleaved down without mercy.
Splorch!
The human died without a scream.
Headquarters fell silent; orcs gulped and rose.
Dripping blood, spilled guts.
Ogmar roared.
"The Emperor told me: a dog that bites its master is no dog; a horse that can't gallop, no horse. Then what is a human that defies?"
Outpost orcs had grown soft on northern human food and goods, becoming filthy pigs.
Wrong from the start.
Those filthy humans needed whips, not leashes.
Honorable orcs needed hungry honor, not full bellies.
"Do we need defiant slaves?"
Political life, built career.
Cornered, Ogmar abandoned it all.
Choosing racial purity's merciless extinction—possible only against other races, blameless only to orcs.
Or perhaps that was his true nature, long hidden.
"Villages, refugees, captives—doesn't matter. Kill any human taller than a cartwheel. Their corpses will be the example."
Mutual annihilation declared.
That night, Ogmar buried alive every adult human in Snowgarden.
"The Northern colonies are gone now."
The number: thousands.