Chapter 63
Chapter 63
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 63
Chapter Title: The Sword Grave
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Clang!
It wasn't just a mere imitation.
Even though her attainment was still shallow, there was undeniable depth to it, and the sturdy roots were beyond words.
And this swordsmanship that resembled someone.
The foundation and basics, clearly built on Northern Swordsmanship, evoked one man.
'Sword Saint.'
Behind Snow-Covered as she blocked the axe, the figure of the young Sword Saint flashed by like a mirage.
The shocked Ogmar gathered every ounce of his aura and power, swinging his golden axe down with all his might.
Boom! Clang!
Snow-Covered unleashed her aura.
Together with the knights thrusting their swords forward, she blocked the attack and steadied her nearly shaken stance.
Purruk!
The gap in power was stark.
But the seasoned veteran knights who had gathered around lent their strength and time, enabling them to hold against the formidable Ogmar.
A subtle balance that swayed but refused to break.
Ogmar, who had aimed to end the fight swiftly, barely concealed his massive, anxious face.
'I have to kill her here.'
He saw her as little more than a tender sprout.
No matter how fine the timber, growth always had its limits.
But the Snow-Covered he faced today shattered every shred of common sense Ogmar held.
Not content with merely condensing aura at her age, she dared aim for the pinnacle of swordsmanship—worthy even to be called the Knight King's full successor.
The Knight King had slain the Orc Emperor.
What, then, would his heir fell?
Sensing the dark clouds looming over the Orc Empire, Ogmar instinctively knew he had to sever the bud right here.
The beast raised its axe high and spurred forward, charging fiercely at Snow-Covered.
"Block him!"
Kwachik! Clang!
Every move was lethal.
Ogmar slew one knight in two clashes, batting away every incoming blade.
Then, locking eyes with Snow-Covered who glared at him, he swung his axe to cleave her in a single stroke.
This was the end.
No way she could block this surge of aura.
Thud!
Neigh!
"------!!"
But in that instant, the saddle and body propping up his lower half twisted violently.
His warhorse—utterly unexpected—had its posture warped, losing all balance.
What filled his vision was a pristine white horn!
The White Wind that Snow-Covered rode had slammed straight into the enemy mount.
Purruk!
'Mocking me?'
The White Wind sneered at Ogmar.
And as if it had been waiting, it wheeled around its rider and bolted away at blinding speed.
The moment had arrived.
Snow-Covered raised her sword and commanded.
"Disperse!"
Clop clop! Clatter clop!
The cavalry, locked in fierce combat, halted their assault.
As if by some unspoken pact, they turned their mounts and scattered in all directions.
No formation. No preset order.
At that single command to disperse, the White-Horned Deer carrying the knights fled every which way.
The orcs were the ones thrown into panic.
"P-Pursue!"
"Chase them down! Hunt them and slaughter every last one!"
Battle wasn't merely attack and defense.
Equally vital was the retreat that minimized losses—a tactical withdrawal.
Yet the Northern Cavalry demolished every convention, scattering like rootless brigands in every direction.
With no clear targets left, the pursuit orders fell into utter disarray.
In the end, the flustered orc cavalry splintered off haphazardly, each chasing their own quarry.
The battle crumbled in seconds.
Thus robbed of victory, Ogmar could no longer cling to calm.
His bloodshot eyes fixed solely on Snow-Covered, fleeing alone.
"A horse! Give me your mount!"
"G-Governor!"
"Any who can still move, follow me! I'll take the king's head and end this war!"
No time to regroup.
Snatching a orc warrior's warhorse, Ogmar set off in pursuit of Snow-Covered alongside the handful of cavalry still at his side.
The battlefield had devolved into pandemonium, the beasts exhausted from endless marches, drooling uncontrollably.
The long, brutal war had stripped every soul of self and reason.
All that remained was the primal urge to kill the enemy—and hatred without end.
Clop clop! Clop clop! Clop clop! Clop clop!
White Wind and Snow-Covered tore across the plain.
The clamor of battle faded, replaced by the wind's sharp, fervent howl.
Not far now.
She'd be caught soon.
That maddening itch of almost-but-not-quite eroded the once-wise Ogmar's sanity.
Clop clop! Clop clop!
Snow-Covered plunged into a dense forest after a long flight; Ogmar and his scant orc cavalry chased wildly after.
The canopy swallowed the sun.
The foreboding northern woods—where blinding snow and pitch darkness coexisted—swallowed them whole.
Sensing the unnatural tension, his adjutant cried out.
"Governor! Something's wrong! Turn back now—regroup while we can!"
"Quiet! Miss this chance, and it'll never end! Go back if you must!"
In the Northern Army, only the Gray Wolf, free to expand his aura at will, could match him.
Who dared strike him down?
The realm forged through years of patient endurance had long curdled into hubris.
The gale died away.
Snow-Covered halted far ahead, at a dead-end clearing.
Clop... clop... clop.
No further escape.
Or rather—Snow-Covered hadn't been fleeing.
This had been her destination all along.
Gulp.
The adjutant swallowed hard.
With trembling eyes, he stared at the clearing where she'd stopped.
One hundred swords, planted like gravestones.
And in their midst, a white-haired man standing utterly still.
An ineffable dread gripped the orcs; they soothed their rearing mounts.
Neigh!
The beasts sensed it on instinct.
No hidden troops. No whistling arrows.
Yet this place would destroy them.
Spurring his wavering men, Ogmar spotted the man's face and bellowed.
"Sword Saint...!"
The Sword Saint of his youth—a towering figure the lowly sergeant Ogmar back then could scarcely gaze upon.
But today was different.
Tempered by trials untold, Ogmar burned his aura fiercer than ever, exploiting the Sword Saint's fatal flaw.
Roar!
Whatever scheme he plotted—it mattered not.
Victory hinged solely on greater aura, rawer power.
"You thought you could finish us alone? Such arrogance!"
Time's forsaken wraith.
Sink with the rotting husk called the North.
Reins and axe in hand, Ogmar charged with his rallied cavalry.
Rumble rumble rumble—!
A mounted onslaught to pulverize all in its path.
The orc cavalry roared their war cries, thrusting spears like fangs toward the Sword Saint.
Or so they tried.
Slash!
Screeech!
The spears stabbed futilely at empty air.
Not poor aim—the riders' heads had split clean in two.
The orc cavalry crumpled as if breaching a forbidden realm.
And where they fell, the hundred swords hummed like a serene lake stirred to ripple.
Hummmm—!
Splat!
Neigh!
Flesh and entrails rained down in chunks.
Horses, masterless in an instant, bolted wildly, eyes rolled back in terror.
Some realms lay beyond sight.
An invisible bastion—present yet absent—had massacred the charge in a heartbeat.
What devilry was this?
Subordinates gone in a flash, Ogmar stared ahead in horror.
Shwick!
His body reacted first.
A streak like smeared light hurtled toward his throat's vulnerable pulse.
Ogmar desperately raised his aura-wreathed axe to parry.
Clanggg!
Yet the blade that should have shattered merely shed a single chip and halted.
A lifetime facing aura countless thousands of times had forged even a plain sword into legend.
Who alone under heaven could achieve such?
The Sword Saint.
Thud.
Dismounting wordlessly, Ogmar faced Broken Sword—clothes and blade spotless of blood—with quaking eyes.
"...You planned this from the beginning."
Seizing the camp. Tigma's death. The Northern Army's stirrings, uprising, and final clash.
Every battle and memory raced past his eyes.
"Yes. The canvas painted these past nine years."
Yet for all his striving, it converged on one path.
The end of Broken Sword's patient northern revival.
"Now, just one final dot remains."
Unfinished, yet on the cusp of completion.
The master of grand visions would place that last mark—not with brush, but blade.
"Let's finish it here, Ogmar."
No reply, of course.
All emotions transmuted to fury, Ogmar bellowed and swung his axe.
"RAAAAAAGH—!!!"
Kaboom! Crunch!
Clang! Shatter!
Swords clash against aura.
The blade naturally snapped on the third exchange, but the Sword Saint calmly plucked another with his fingertips to continue.
Clang! Clang!
Slash, parry, swing, switch.
Each move flowed into the next; threads wove more in their wake.
Could this even be called swordsmanship?
So swift, the blades seemed to drift untethered through the air.
"Ngh!"
Ogmar wracked his mind to its limit.
Step by step, he retreated from the swords' domain.
Call it a tempest—simply withdraw from its grasp.
Barely fending off blows too fast to track, Ogmar broke free.
"------!!"
But triumph was fleeting.
To the Sword Saint, empty air was no void—but a home, an extension for his blades.
He wielded dozens at will, hounding Ogmar's retreat.
A keen edge sheared off a finger.
Slash!
"ARRRGH!"
His strikes landed on nothing.
As shattered swords littered the ground, so did Ogmar's gashes multiply.
Which would come first: wielding all hundred blades, or a hundred stabs and slashes?
The Sword Saint, unbloodied, seemed to pose the question.
Clang! Shatter.
Another blade broke.
The Sword Saint spoke, tallying.
"Twenty left now."
Ogmar exhaled raggedly.
His burst wounds had soaked his bandages crimson; even his endless aura flickered.
The end crept near.
This battered old frame. This mind inching toward defeat.
To Ogmar thus, the Sword Saint drew the twenty-first blade and drove the nail home, serene.
"Eighty more to go."
His vision swam.
The certainty of triumph was long faded folly.
This place was no mere sword grave.
Ogmar—northern orc's finest warrior, its governor—burst into laughter at last.
Ha ha.
As death loomed, only hollow yearning for rest remained.
Laughter stilled, Ogmar trudged toward the sword grave and asked one final time.
"What did you glimpse at rock bottom? Prophecy? Enlightenment? Or some hidden art like this?"
The North lay wasted, hope nowhere in sight.
Yet Broken Sword fought without cease, raising the dignity of kings upon its soil.
Whence that conviction?
The reason he never yielded?
Acknowledging the Sword Saint a true warrior, Ogmar lent his ear to the secret.
"Tell me."
But what the Sword Saint beheld at the depths was neither prophecy nor epiphany.
The courage one child gave me.
Such an embarrassingly earnest word.
Swinging at Ogmar, the Sword Saint recalled his old words with the Knight King.
'But you possess something brighter than any other. Something even elves living a millennium or orcs who master iron could never claim.'
'What is it?'
'You'll learn in time. It'll be the precious beacon guiding us humans.'
The age of barbarism.
Those who knew honor were called knights.