The Realm of Wandering Souls, Limbo
Every time Maness crossed into Limbo, the realm where lost souls wandered, he couldn't help but feel the strain. It wasn't a place for the living—trudging through it was like clawing through ashes, and the mental toll of escaping it was immense.
"Hoo."
The refreshing chill that washed over his entire body as he emerged from the cave. Now, even in Limbo, he could hold onto that sensation. Thanks to the Soul's Footsteps relic, which boosted his adaptation to all things spiritual.
Necromancy won't be an issue.
The fact that the soul wolf was still active even now was a major gain. The bracelet on his right arm—if he'd foreseen getting it this quickly, he might have chosen the path of the necromancer from the start.
For now, head back...
It was just a fleeting moment. Thoughts raced through his mind: how Abel must have covered for him, whether he'd get a meal since he hadn't taken too long, what to do first upon reaching the Magic Tower.
In that split second—before he could even blink—a surge of killing intent crashed over him. Maness kicked off the ground and hurled himself backward.
Pfack—
Needle-like darts embedded in a neat line on the ground. Had he not reacted on pure instinct, they'd all have pierced his body. Even so, he gritted his teeth and yanked out the last one lodged in his thigh.
"...Who the hell are you."
Scowling into the forest, he spotted a man descending nimbly from the trees above like a squirrel.
"Sharp instincts, huh?"
Wearing only simple leather armor, the man smirked and gripped the sword slung across his back. The blade that emerged gleamed with murderous intent. It looked ordinary up to the midpoint, but the hooked tip curved like a scythe—clearly designed for one purpose: killing.
"Old-school contact method, but it gets the job done reliably."
That line confirmed the man's origins. A group that communicated solely by letter, so secretive even members didn't know each other. The Night Crows. Magic hunters.
Why now? In the original story, they ambushed the carriage on the way from the village to the Magic Tower—with a full squad. For one to show up alone this early was a contradiction.
"Don't freak out, kid. I'm just a passerby."
"...Cut the bullshit."
"Oops, busted?"
The man burst into mad laughter, treating him like a toy.
"More than that, you've got some rotten luck."
He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and read it aloud.
"A mage party with a scholar will pass through the marked village—reduce their numbers as much as possible."
Nothing special. Par for the course from an anti-mage group.
"If there's a white-haired mage, pull them aside and kill them separately."
A white-haired mage. The precise description pointing straight at him made Maness grip his staff tightly. Among the Night Crows, only one would single him out.
Row.
Decision made, Maness aimed the tip of his staff at the enemy. The assassin smirked again and rested his sword on his shoulder.
"Well, well, wanna go at it with me?"
With those words, Maness's vision blurred. Not just that—his body swayed, forcing him to drop to one knee. What filled his sight was the dart he'd pulled from his thigh.
"Dizzy, right? I coated it just enough not to kill instantly, but it'll hurt like hell."
The assassin's cackling echoed in his skull. Searing heat spread from within, ravaging his mind, breath, senses—everything went haywire.
Still, Maness fixed his gaze on the circling killer.
"Glare all you want—it won't change a thing. I'd pray for a quick, painless death."
The spinning voice faded. He tried to think of a way out, but thoughts slipped away uselessly. Coherent thinking was impossible now.
"Wanna know why I love this blade?"
The killer approached with a twisted grin, thrusting the sword forward to show him.
"It slices clean through necks."
That one phrase. It signaled death's arrival, igniting Maness's instincts.
I have to live.
He had to survive. He couldn't die here. Everything he'd done so far. Everything left to do. Unresolved mysteries. The future awaiting him as Maness.
His survival instinct surged, overriding it all.
I have to survive.
He repeated it, deep within. Toward what was connected to him.
Whoosh—
Wind whipped up. A gust exploded from Maness, sweeping the surroundings. It shoved the assassin back, and in the gap, a staff slowly materialized.
His staff from the sub-space. The relic from the Library answered its master's call.
This is...
Clinging to consciousness, Maness dredged up memories. Artifacts with their own will. Rare as familiars. He recalled how few existed in the world.
The staff Retos had given him was one.
"...Interesting toy you've got."
The assassin straightened, raising his sword. The atmosphere hadn't shifted drastically, but his earlier nonchalance was gone.
Ting—
A dart launched from the assassin's hand clanged against an invisible barrier. The staff floated in the air, steadfastly guarding its master with magic.
Watching the one-sided clash between assassin and inanimate object, Maness rallied his mind as best he could.
I have to do this.
Tools follow their master's will. Endless defense would just lead to a slow death. He needed to show real killing intent to turn the tables on the hunter.
"Gah!"
But the poison ravaging his body wouldn't even let him hold onto awareness.
Sinking. Dying felt cold. Quiet.
I... have to...
On death's doorstep, one sensation sharpened into focus.
[Hand over your body to me.]
Was it a voice? A hallucination? Maness simply obeyed the sound from his bracelet.
*
Doyle, of the Night Crows. He was growing bored with this pointless back-and-forth.
I want to kill him myself.
His greatest joy was stealing the breath from the weak. Granting death to humans who bared their ugly desperation against encroaching terror—that was his life's purpose.
But at this rate, he'd just watch the kid slowly succumb to poison.
Why target just this one?
Dodging a pillar of flame, Doyle clicked his tongue. The staff casting spells on its own was impressive, but he hadn't rushed here for parlor tricks.
He paused his assault, intending to simply watch the weakened mage's final breaths—when
Thud.
A dull sound echoed from beyond the fading flames.
"...Huh?"
It was bizarre. The kid who'd been dying moments ago stood perfectly fine. One hand held the staff, the other a long tree branch.
Normally, he'd find it laughable. A last-ditch resort with a mere stick. Sure, one was a magic staff, but the opponent was a corpse on its feet.
Yet Doyle tensed and raised his sword.
"What the hell."
He demanded an answer—from the kid directly.
But the figure just stood straight, eyes closed.
"I asked what you are!"
It was impossible. For mere presence alone to make him sense defeat. From a mere mage student, no less.
But he couldn't stop his trembling hands at the entity visible beyond those slowly opening eyes.
[Good thing my antidote worked.]
Muttering something incomprehensible, the figure advanced. No need to fear. Just two sticks, right?
That confidence shattered soon enough.
Whoosh—
Haze rose from both rods. At first, Doyle thought it mere magic. Then he realized it wasn't ordinary spellcraft.
Swordsmen knew this aura. Infusing tools directly with mana, bypassing magical processes, honing it to the edge.
Aura.
A technique only those transcending the sword's limits could wield.
"W-Wai—"
He couldn't even finish the word. The figure closed the distance in an instant, swinging the aura-clad staff.
Clang—
A barely blocked strike. Doyle skidded back, feet carving deep lines in the dirt—luckily smoothed over earlier.
"Damn it!"
No escaping. Against this sudden reversal, survival meant one thing: kill him, like before.
Clang—
But the second clash broke his will. Blocking alone was overwhelming; analyzing the onslaught was impossible.
Clang— Clang—
Power rivaling a greatsword or heavy blade. Unpredictable arcs aimed at the throat screamed variant sword styles. No ordinary swordsman could match it—this was peerless speed beyond casual measure.
Ten thousand styles converge.
A realm where all sword arts merged, closer to art than martial skill.
Retreating wasn't easy either. Any sign of withdrawal, and it lunged for vitals. Still breathing despite mounting wounds felt miraculous.
"Ngh!"
Finally, he pulled back recklessly. The pursuing blade halted.
Gasping, Doyle glared from the hard-won distance. At the end of his gaze stood only the young mage.
[This is your limit?]
Before he could gather his thoughts, a heavy voice pierced his chest. Mockery. The very leisure he lorded over prey, returned in kind.
Grind—
His grinding teeth made his head throb. Just a magic school student. He, who'd gripped a sword since childhood, couldn't lose.
[Struggling this much without even holding a proper sword. Like a toddler taking its first steps.]
He'd sensed the change in the kid's possessor. But the taunt stung.
Night Crows. The dream group he'd clawed his way into from the back alleys.
Words from a brat's mouth denied his entire life.
"You little...!"
His palms were shredded rags. Still, Doyle gripped tighter.
Better a clean death than slinking back in disgrace. Above all, he couldn't admit cowering before a dying whelp.
"Die!"
His feet slammed the earth. Not as a hunter, but a frantic prey's spasm. No resolve to embrace death—just inferiority, petty and vile.
Slash—
Fresh blood sprayed into the air. Amid the forest, it evoked scattered petals.
Flower fall. One could only watch in silence.
The aura of one once called Sword Saint had cleaved the foe.
*
Clap clap—
From the forest shadows emerged a figure with applause. The white-haired Sword Saint gazed indifferently at the source.
"Incredible! Absolutely mind-blowing!"
No killing intent like the assassin. The intruder was delighted.
The Sword Saint felt nothing at the grotesque scene. He'd witnessed such immorality countless times.
"Could you be... the one who... sent the letter...?"
"Yeah, I sent it. You did great."
With inhuman composure, the man looked down at the dying assassin.
"S-Spare... me...!"
"Spare you?"
He could be saved. The host's choice to end the breath was because he'd subdued him just short of lethal.
"Why?"
But the newcomer had no such intent.
"...?"
"See, you were just trying to kill him, right? Ah, but the contents differ, so 'him' doesn't fit."
Cracking a wry joke, the man approached the assassin. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Shouldn't you be prepared to die anytime?"
Horror. Squatting before the prey baring raw emotion, the man met his eyes directly.
"Don't cling so pathetically to a worthless life."
Squelch—
Black thorns erupted. Massive enough to kill a man effortlessly. The Sword Saint watched silently.
"Caused a bit of a ruckus, huh."
Wiping blood from his face, the man beamed and greeted him.
"First time meeting you, right?"
Not human. That was the first impression from the soul who'd ended his life alone in a deep cave.
"Name's Row."
A human turned monster. The phrase fit perfectly.