Chapter 68
The Flower That Bears a Sword - Chapter 68
Translation: godsn
The closer he got to Agenka, the more unbearable the stench became. The moment Yurien caught that foul odor, a premonition gripped him. When he saw the corpses strewn across the blood-drenched city walls, that premonition turned to certainty.
Finding her wasn't difficult. The demon was brazenly announcing her presence. Yurien dismounted and continued on foot.
He had first arrived in Agenka at sixteen, almost as if he'd been chased out of the imperial palace. From that moment on, he'd lived here continuously—alone until reaching the military academy's minimum enrollment age of eighteen, then as an officer cadet, later as Baron Tilius's squire, then as a knight, and finally as the Knight Commander. Fifteen years spent rooted in Agenka.
Unidentifiable limbs and entrails rolled beneath his feet. His nose had long gone numb from the stench of decaying flesh. Dried bloodstains, puddles of blood still not fully congealed despite considerable time having passed. The fragments of dying people. The carcasses of the murdered.
The city where he'd grown roots, the city he'd protected and nurtured, had become one massive grave. Yurien traversed that hellscape like a dying soul. Though surrounded by silence, vivid screams seemed to echo in his ears.
He reached the central square. The angel statue holding the Divine Sword at the center of the fountain wept blood instead of water. Freshly dead bodies hung from the angel's pinnacle. Yurien recognized them immediately—his friend, and the woman his friend had loved.
Two Giosa Owners stood atop the angel statue. Below the fountain lay the rotting corpse of a massive figure who had once been his lord, the Vice-Captain of the Knights. The bodies were displayed as if deliberately arranged that way.
Agenka, autumn of 1632. Before the bloodstained fountain.
Yurien faced the woman who had destroyed everything he loved. Her blackened hair whipping about, she laughed. Pitch-black mana swirled violently around her.
Even having lost everything, he couldn't bring himself to resent her. He couldn't even feel anger. Though the entire world might hate her, he couldn't muster hatred. She'd become a demon precisely because of that—how dare he resent her?
Only hollow despair remained. Sorrow seeped in with each breath like the pervasive stench, burning his throat as it descended to claw at his chest. The grief ran so deep that not even tears would come.
If only he could return to the past, return to that banquet hall, return to before he'd left Agenka. Meaningless hypotheticals. Fate had already passed the point of no return.
He activated his True Sight. Beyond the undulating malice, her soul wailed. The faint ember he'd once glimpsed—barely more than a seed—now blazed brightly, filling her entire being. That radiant soul thrashed about, cheeks drenched in tears.
Yet despite its intensity, the swamp of malice surrounding it grew darker still. The black malevolence strangled that brilliance, entangling its limbs to drag it deeper within. Every desperate struggle was laid bare. Having chosen to burn rather than collapse, she remained trapped in unending agony.
It would be easier if she just gave up. Staring at him with despair-filled eyes, completely unaware that the person before her was the very one who'd brought her to this state...
Yurien closed his eyes. He bit his lip until blood welled. Every drop of blood seemed to have drained from his body, leaving him utterly cold. Though still alive, he might as well have been a corpse. No—perhaps he already was one.
"I..."
The words escaped his parted lips like a moan, never fully formed.
I was the one who did this to you.
I ruined your life. This hell was ultimately of my making. You bear no guilt. I merely glanced your way once. A passing curiosity. I never imagined it would lead to such tragedy. Never dreamed it would transform you into a demon. I even forgot about it soon after.
I, not even knowing who was responsible for your suffering, dared to pity you. To say I would give you a chance, to act as though I were bestowing mercy—what an utterly arrogant and foolish act that was. I was ignorant and stupid.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Truly. I don't know how to apologize to you. I don't even know if this is something that can be apologized for. I don't know what to do now. I'm really, truly sorry.
That's all I can say—I'm sorry.
A sensation as though his heart were being seared. He couldn't continue speaking. Something was lodged in his throat, choking the words before they could form. The Holy Sword whispered quietly.
[There's nothing to be done now. You must kill that woman. But for now, retreat—you can't defeat her alone. Gather the others and respond together.]
Yurien did not listen. It felt as though everything was crumbling apart. No—perhaps it had already crumbled long ago. He drew Langiosa.
[You fool, you'll die!]
The Holy Sword raised its voice. Uncharacteristic for the usually composed blade. Yurien ignored it and lifted the white sword. The thought that he could even wield this weapon now felt absurd. Justice? What justice? Where was there any justice in this?
The demon sword Valdergiosa in hand, she approached him. Yurien opened his True Sight. The malice was so thick that keeping his True Sight active stung his eyes, hindering his combat, but he did not close them. He watched her through his True Sight the entire battle. He did not look away from the woman screaming in silence.
He didn't even know her name. Yet he knew of her struggles—the ones no one else would ever recognize. He couldn't turn away. He didn't want to. He seared her image into his eyes. Even as he was defeated, even as he dropped the Holy Sword, even as the demon sword pierced through him and he drew his last breath—
He never closed his eyes.
A long darkness.
March 17, 1629, at dawn.
Yurien de Harden Kyrie opened his eyes in his own bedroom. For a long while, he lay motionless. The familiar ceiling felt utterly foreign. He blinked several times, then slowly raised his hand to examine it. Pale moonlight seeped in through the window. His clean hand bore not a single drop of blood. The familiar golden pattern on his palm was vivid.
Yurien sat up. He touched his chest—where he had clearly been stabbed—and confirmed it was unharmed before rising from the bed. He lit the lamp. Light spread instantly, illuminating the room. It was the bedroom of the Captain's residence in Agenka, where he had lived for years.
'Captain's residence?'
The Azure Sky Knights had lodgings more luxurious than most noble estates. But no matter how well-appointed, communal living was still communal living—most knights purchased mansions in Agenka and commuted from there. Only a handful of knights, those who cared little for private homes, lived in the barracks.
Yurien had stayed in those barracks during his time as a knight, then moved into the mansion traditionally provided to the Captain as soon as he assumed the position. That mansion was the one he was in now. After becoming Captain, he had lived here ever since.
But from early 1632 onward, he had left the mansion and stayed in the Captain's quarters within the knights' barracks. If he resided in the internal lodgings, he could visit the underground prison where she was held more frequently.
It had been well over half a year since he last used the mansion. He didn't know why he was here now. More than that—he didn't even know how he was alive. He had definitely died.
Dazed, Yurien looked around before touching his chest again. The terrible pain, the sensation of endlessly falling—it still lingered. Yet the heart that had been pierced by Valdergiosa was perfectly intact, beating steadily.
He lowered his right hand and called for the Holy Sword.
"Langiosa."
The Holy Sword did not respond. He called again, a little louder.
"Rang, wake up."
No matter how many times he called, the Holy Sword remained silent.
Yurien drew the blade. The pure white sword, forged from a single piece of metal where hilt met blade, glowed faintly. He gripped it, amplified his mana, and even activated True Sight. Everything was normal—Yurien was still the Holy Sword's rightful owner. Yet Langiosa remained as if asleep, refusing to stir. He couldn't fathom why.
Dawn passed, and morning arrived. Before long, Yurien realized it was March 17, 1629. He had died in the autumn of 1632, yet when he opened his eyes, nearly three and a half years had rewound.
The hell that was Agenka now thrived with mundane vitality. People bustled about. Dietrich—not yet a Giosa Owner—clicked his tongue at him, teasing why he looked so dazed today. Teresa had left on a mission, while Baron sparred with his squire, Baraha. All of them were people who had died.
He couldn't comprehend what had happened. He tried to make sense of the situation.
His first inquiry was about the Demon of the Magic Sword. When he asked what had become of Valdergiosa, Vice-Captain Baron furrowed his brow in confusion.
"Valdergiosa has been missing for ages, hasn't she?"
"...She hasn't appeared?"
"Though our knights periodically make Giosa pilgrimages, there hasn't been a single whisper about Valdergiosa in over a decade. Have you heard something?"
Yurien stared blankly at the documents. The papers Baron had brought for approval bore the clear date: March 17, 1629. The very day the Demon of the Magic Sword was supposed to have first emerged.
'Is it because it just happened, and word hasn't reached Agenka yet?'
At first, that's what he thought. But days passed, and no news came about the Demon of the Magic Sword. He deliberately gathered intel from the Empire's southern regions where the demon had appeared, yet there were no reports of mass slaughter—not even mysterious deaths.
It was as if the demon didn't exist. Life continued in perfect tranquility. The Holy Sword remained silent. Yurien began to feel like he was losing his mind.
'Was it all a dream? Everything?'
Maybe it had just been an unbearably vivid nightmare. The doubt crept in.
'If it was a dream... if it was nothing more than a dream, then—yes, that would be better.'
But the memories were too sharp to dismiss as mere dreams. Recalling them made his entire body turn cold, his heart aching as if pierced anew. In fact, they were so horrifyingly vivid that he wanted them to be a dream. The Holy Sword's sudden silence unnerved him, but even that was preferable. He'd rather it all be a nightmare than the truth—that those events had actually happened.
If it were all real, if that future was still to come—how utterly wretched.
The demon's absence had already derailed the future. So he repeated to himself that it was just a dream, willing himself to forget.
The hardest thing to forget was her. He didn't seek her out. A single glance had been enough to set everything in motion. And since that had occurred at the 1628 Birthday Banquet, it should have already happened by now. He was terrified of what might occur if he so much as looked for her—let alone sought her out.
Or perhaps—just perhaps—she, too, had only existed in his dream. Maybe even the memory of the Birthday Banquet was part of that long nightmare. The thought crossed his mind. She might have been nothing more than an illusion. The idea that someone so unyielding in the face of despair, burning so fiercely, could have been real felt even more absurd.
And so, nearly a month slipped by in peace.