The Treatment of the Disabled in Romance Fantasy
After concluding his private audience with Valgrim, Kyle stepped out into the corridor and saw two men waiting.
“......”
The current Grand Duke, Roderick Hartvalt. And his younger brother—Kyle’s uncle—Edmund Hartvalt.
Roderick’s eyes toward Kyle were filled with undisguised hatred and murderous intent. Edmund stared at him as if beholding a monster. Kyle continued walking without pause, even under their gazes. As he drew level with them, he offered a polite bow.
“Your Grace. Uncle.”
He stopped and bent at the waist with flawless, impeccable etiquette. The sound of Roderick grinding his teeth echoed sharply down the corridor. Yet Roderick could say nothing.
Kyle was now the hero who had purged the traitors, acting on none other than the previous Grand Duke Valgrim’s direct orders. All the current duke could do was glare.
Glare all you want. What else could you possibly do to me?
Kyle walked past them as though nothing had happened and continued toward the end of the corridor. The moment he rounded the corner, a figure who had been waiting knelt on one knee.
“My lord.”
It was Reina. The blood she had been drenched in during the morning’s battle had been washed away, but a faint blood-red glow still lingered in the depths of her eyes, refusing to fade.
“I will attend you.”
There was not a trace of hesitation in the voice of a knight who had chosen her path. Kyle gave her a light nod.
“Good. Follow me. I’m on my way to evaluate a potential talent.”
“A talent, my lord?”
“Yes. I want to see if he’s worth taking as my subordinate.”
At those words Reina asked nothing further. She simply followed half a step behind him in silence.
The place Kyle headed for lay outside the Northern Duke’s Castle—specifically, the outer edge of the duchy. Unlike the bustling heart of the territory, this was a quiet district dotted with scattered old wooden houses. It was the area where the Hartvalt family provided housing for injured, retired knights.
Farther in stood one small, aged but neatly kept home. It seemed the people Valgrim had sent were maintaining it properly.
“This is the place.”
Kyle stopped. From inside the yard came the rhythmic sound of something slicing through the air.
Whoosh—! Whoosh—!
The sound of a wooden sword cutting empty space.
When Kyle and Reina stepped into the yard, they saw a man. He was stripped to the waist, swinging a wooden sword. Plain brown hair. A face cut in strong, bold lines. A firm jaw, broad shoulders, and a solid, muscular frame. He could not quite be called handsome. Yet the unyielding strength of one who had once fought on the battlefield still remained.
The problem was his eyes. Where eyes should have been, only large scars remained. The crude wound that crossed both eye sockets had healed long ago, but its severity hinted at just how horrific the original injury had been.
As expected, he’s blind.
He was indeed blind. Nevertheless, the wooden sword never stopped.
Whoosh—! Whoosh—!
Even without sight, the angles were precise. He was repeating exact movements drawn from past experience. Kyle nodded as he watched.
His senses haven’t died.
This was the body of a man who had refused to release his sword even in the depths of despair.
At that moment the wooden sword halted in midair.
“…Who is it?”
Wulfran Gecht. A former member of the Blue Tiger Knights. Twenty-five years old. An age that should still have been his prime. He ought to have been honing his aura, building achievements on the frontline, and proving he could rise to upper-grade knight.
Instead, two years ago on the Northern Frontline he had lost everything. First, both eyes. The optic nerves and retinas had been crushed beyond recovery, even by holy power. Nor was that all. He had suffered a fatal wound to his lower body in battle. The severed portion could not be recovered. In the end he had lost his male genitalia as well.
His testicles remained, so his fundamental male physiology had not been entirely destroyed. But without the organ itself, sexual function was completely gone. For a young man it was a nightmare of an injury. At least the severed arm had been retrieved and reattached with holy power.
Yet a blind, impotent man could no longer remain in the order. The Blue Tiger Knights had dressed it up as an honorable discharge. In truth they had simply cast him out.
Fortunately he did not starve, thanks to the pension system for the wounded that Valgrim had established. Those who became disabled fighting for the ducal family would not be left to die of hunger. That was the minimum decency Valgrim had instilled in the North. People sent by Valgrim also looked after his daily needs.
But solving the problem of survival did not erase despair. A knight who had lost his eyes. A young man who had lost his function as a male. A retired soldier who could never return to the battlefield. Wulfran Gecht was simply existing.
Even so, he could not let go of the sword.
“I apologize.”
Wulfran lowered the wooden sword and bowed politely.
“Because I am blind, I cannot recognize guests. Please forgive my rudeness in failing to identify you.”
His attitude was courteous even while carrying a hint of wariness. Kyle gave a small chuckle.
“I am Kyle Hartvalt.”
The moment he heard the name, Wulfran’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. The mad eldest son of the ducal family. It had already been two years since Wulfran had been pushed out of the Northern Duke’s Castle, yet even then Kyle’s notoriety had been widespread.
“…So it is the young duke. You’ve changed greatly.”
Wulfran could not hide his bewilderment. Kyle glanced back at Reina. She stepped forward quietly.
“Reina Garyen. It has been a long time, Sir Wulfran.”
A bitter smile spread across Wulfran’s lips.
“So it is Sir Reina.”
He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head.
“But there is no need to call me ‘Sir.’ I am nothing more than a relic who laid down his sword long ago.”
“Yet it appears you have not laid down that wooden sword.”
At Reina’s words Wulfran’s face hardened with melancholy.
“It is merely lingering attachment.”
He bowed once more in Kyle’s direction.
“For the young duke to visit a wreck like me—what business brings you here?”
Kyle studied him in silence. The self-deprecating tone was not servile. Beneath it lay resignation, and beneath that resignation, an ember of attachment that had not yet been extinguished. Kyle did not miss it.
“I dislike roundabout speech.”
Kyle spoke directly.
“I will ask plainly.”
He took one step closer.
“You. Do you still want to fight as a knight again?”
Wulfran’s fingers tightened around the wooden sword. A short silence. Within that silence his breathing wavered faintly.
“…That is impossible.”
He spoke slowly.
“I am finished both as a warrior and as a man. Above all, I have lost the most vital thing for any warrior—my two eyes.”
His voice was steeped in profound despair.
“How can one who cannot see stand upon the battlefield? I would only be a burden.”
Kyle snorted.
“So?”
“Pardon?”
“The fact that you cannot see. The fact that you can no longer function as a man.”
Kyle’s voice grew chillingly cold.
“That is none of my concern.”
Wulfran’s face stiffened. Even Reina’s eyes showed confusion. But Kyle continued without pause.
“That is not what I am asking.”
He tapped Wulfran’s chest with a finger.
“You. I am asking whether you still want to fight.”
“……”
“Whether it is possible or not is for me to decide. All you need to do is answer.”
Kyle’s green eyes flashed with cold light.
“If you could grasp the sword once more and stand upon the frontline, are you prepared to pay the price?”
Wulfran’s breathing grew ragged. He had not loved the battlefield. But he had wanted to prove his worth there. That was why he swung the wooden sword every day—remembering the knight he had once been, even after losing his eyes.
“If…”
Wulfran’s voice trembled.
“If it were truly possible.”
He clenched his teeth.
“I would offer half my remaining lifespan to hold a sword again.”
It was sincere. The desperation woven through his voice was no lie.
“But, young duke, realistically—”
“You talk too much.”
Kyle cut him off.
“If that resolve is genuine, then endure hellish agony. Only then will you be able to return to the frontline as a knight.”
“…Is that truly possible?”
“You will know once you endure the pain.”
Kyle’s words were cold. There was no comfort, no gentle explanation. He simply stated that it was possible and told him to endure.
“……”
Wulfran remained silent for a moment. After he had gone blind, countless people had told him to accept reality. To rest now. That surviving alone was a blessing. But the young duke before him was different.
He is simply asking.
Do you want to fight? Are you willing to pay the price? At those questions Wulfran gave a bitter smile.
“In any case, no hope remains for me.”
He set the wooden sword down.
“Even if I die from this, it will not be so different from my present life.”
He bowed toward Kyle.
“I do not yet understand the meaning of your words, young duke. Nevertheless, I will follow.”
At that answer Kyle’s lips curved into a grin.
This was exactly what he had sought.
The Blood Cult had always extended its hand to those in desperation—those desperate enough to endure any pain, those with nothing left to lose who would gladly seize even a blood-soaked vine of thorns. Only such people could accept the Blood Cult’s martial arts.
The orthodox factions of the Central Plains had called it wicked sorcery. They had denounced it as demonic cultivation that corrupted the weak by exploiting their despair. Kyle had merely laughed at such accusations.
From the beginning, most of those same orthodox factions had never reached out to the despairing. They discarded them as useless and forgot them.
They were laughable hypocrites.
In that regard this romance-fantasy world was not so different. Kyle looked at Wulfran’s face. The hideous scar crossing both eyes. The strong, solid features. One might call it a rugged, manly handsomeness, yet he was by no means a beautiful man. And then the disabilities: a blind man who could not see, an impotent man who had lost his masculinity.
Kyle now understood why the name Wulfran Gecht had never even been mentioned in the original work.
Romance fantasy loved beautiful wounds. A faint, artistic scar beside the eye. A worn-down, desperate, precarious gaze born of despair. Yet ultimately a deficiency that did not ruin the character’s beauty. Such things were always packaged to fit the genre, becoming narrative devices and charm points that captivated readers.
But a truly broken body was different. Unsightly scars. Irreversible disability. The despair of a man who was not even handsome. Such things were never highlighted in romance fantasy. At best they were consumed like nameless soldiers or erased as though they had never existed. If they were used even once to demonstrate that the heroine was a good person, that would be fortunate.
If you’re upset about being discarded, you should have been born handsome, right?
A sneer formed at the corner of Kyle’s mouth. That was the nature of this romance-fantasy world.
But the Blood Cult was different.
Even if romance fantasy discarded you.
Kyle stepped closer to Wulfran.
“Sit.”
“Yes, young duke.”
Wulfran knelt and sat upon the dirt. Kyle placed a hand on his shoulder.
The Blood Cult will give you a chance.
From Kyle’s fingertips rose a deep blood-red energy.
Blood Source Mind Image Scripture.
It was a martial art once granted by the Blood Cult to those who had lost their eyes yet still wished to fight. Of course it did not restore the eyes. Lost eyes did not return. Crushed optic nerves did not heal. Seeing color was impossible.
Yet the Blood Source Mind Image Scripture raised one’s sensory perception to the extreme through blood qi.
“What I will give you is not new eyes.”
Beneath Kyle’s hand the blood-red energy swirled.
“It is a sense that lets you navigate the world without them.”
Kyle continued.
“It will hurt a great deal, so steel yourself.”
“…Understood.”
Wulfran drew a deep breath.
“I will endure it.”
“Do not scream. If you wish to run, scream as much as you like. I will stop at once.”
“I will not run.”
The moment the answer left his lips, Kyle drove the blood qi into him.
Sssssss.
The blood-red energy bored into Wulfran’s body through his shoulder. At first it felt like a cold awl sliding beneath the skin. But that sensation soon changed. It became agony as though his entire body were being torn apart.
“…Kuk!”
Wulfran’s face twisted in excruciating pain.