Steadfast as Ever
Loud, heated shouts echoed through the chamber.
“What in the world was that decision for?!”
“Didn’t you all witness it? Antonium had reached its limit. Retreating when defeat was staring us in the face?!”
“Sir Segwyn, you must take responsibility for this choice.”
Under the barrage of glares, Segwyn fell silent. He had no time to entertain the vassals’ complaints. His mind was elsewhere.
The silver-haired man—Hoyeol’s afterimage lingered, refusing to fade.
‘Nothing about him was predictable.’
The Spacetime Salon. Bound by its rules, he could only infer from appearances. And what had Hoyeol’s appearance revealed?
No weapons, no impressive gear. Not even clothing he’d ever seen before.
‘The most likely guess is a mage.’
Mana was a mage’s weapon. Magical tools could amplify spells, but such artifacts were rare—almost exclusively hoarded by the Mage Tower.
‘But that physique...’
It was too honed for a mage’s. Segwyn, a warrior himself, could tell. Broad shoulders to bulging forearms—clear signs of wielding and swinging a blade.
‘...A magic swordsman, then?’
Magic swordsmen weren’t shocking. From magic swordsmen to magic spearmen, those blending magic and martial arts had always existed.
What startled Segwyn was that he’d reached the realm of the transcendent via an unorthodox path.
‘Master one to reach the pinnacle.’
Chasing everything usually meant grasping nothing. No renowned magic swordsmen or spearmen proved it. So he couldn’t believe it—until facing Hoyeol in the Salon.
As he sorted his thoughts, a voice cut in.
“Are you even listening, Sir Segwyn?!”
How dare someone shout at me? Segwyn’s killing intent slipped free for a moment. The noisy room fell deathly silent.
“...Guh!!”
Some vassals—those who’d never held a sword—frothing at the mouth, collapsed. The rest weren’t much better.
“...Sir Segwyn. What... what is the meaning of this?”
They barely clung to consciousness. Segwyn idly toyed with his swiftblade, the Atlas Sword. It hummed lowly.
Cold sweat beaded on their faces, turning ashen. They couldn’t even speak properly now.
“Urk... urk.”
This was the presence of a transcendent. The natural response.
Surveying the devastated room, Segwyn snapped back.
‘Damn...’
What had he done?
“Hah... hah...”
Among the vassals, only Duke Ymir held his wits.
Segwyn addressed him. “Ymir, don’t resent me.”
“What...?”
“You’ll understand one day.”
Understanding came with knowledge. Explaining Hoyeol’s power would fall on deaf ears—they’d just rebel. Segwyn held his tongue.
No point staying with everyone unconscious. He rose.
“The Antonium expedition is canceled.”
“...!”
Duke Ymir’s eyes bulged. He shouted at Segwyn’s back.
“Master Segwyn!”
“?”
“Who decided it’s canceled?!”
They’d sacrificed much for Antonium. Now, call it off?
Ymir staggered up on trembling legs. “Segwyn, I trusted your words and abandoned my people. I told myself it was necessary—sacrificing the few for the many—and endured to reach this point!”
“And?”
“And?! I asked why! We didn’t need much—just you stepping in, or not retreating, and Antonium would’ve...”
If I’d stepped in.
Would it have changed anything?
Segwyn knew the answer: no.
That moment facing Hoyeol.
—“Why do you reek of filthy demons?”
His heart pounded like Ymir’s now. A sensation alien to the sword genius Segwyn: fear.
Segwyn’s lips twisted. “Ymir. Shut up.”
“Shut up? Mind your—”
Sching— The swiftblade flashed before he finished.
Drip— A red line traced Ymir’s nape.
“A-aaah!!”
Ymir clutched his neck frantically. Still alive? How, when it’s cut?
Flick— Segwyn shook blood from his blade.
“Considering my misjudgment, I’ll let it pass with a scratch.”
“...!”
Ymir realized the cut was shallow—barely stinging. All the more horrifying.
“H-how, with such absurd skill?!”
Tears welled as he clasped bloody hands and bowed.
“...Master Segwyn—no, Sword Saint! Please reconsider. I can’t return like this. I have no face to show my demon-trampled people!”
A desperate emotional plea. But Segwyn’s face hardened colder.
“Don’t make me laugh, Ymir.”
“How can you say—!”
“Drop the damn act.”
Crack!
“Guh.”
Segwyn yanked Ymir up by the hair.
“The moment you turned away, you became no different from demons. You know how your precious people died.”
“...Master Segwyn, what are you—”
“You’re my accomplice.”
Indeed.
—“What did you trade that youth for?”
Others’ lives. His people’s lives. Traded for his own.
—“Sword Saint. No—more repulsive than any demon, you blade-wielding wretch.”
How right you were.
Born human, committing such atrocities—he couldn’t deny being viler than demons.
But don’t misunderstand.
Segwyn’s pupils blackened.
“Hypocrite Ymir—you’re no different from me.”
Thud! He hurled Ymir aside.
Surveying the silent chamber—the others had surely recovered from the earlier chaos, yet cowered like rats—he declared:
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“...?”
“Better no loose ends.”
“...!!!”
No time to react. The swiftblade danced.
A beat later, blood fountained.
Clang— Sheathing it, Segwyn beheld the carnage.
He should recoil at his brutality. Yet...
No guilt stirred. Instead:
“!”
Vitality surged through him. As if the blood and fear were legendary elixirs.
Segwyn inhaled deeply. No stench—just the bouquet of fine wine.
He spoke. “You were right after all.”
I’m a demon. Perhaps something fouler.
But no regrets. If it makes me stronger.
I’ll become uglier still.
This path isn’t wrong.
But ecstasy faded. He realized his plight.
‘After this rebirth, I still felt fear—from mere eye contact.’
An unfathomable gap.
Gnashing teeth, Segwyn vowed. “I’ll grow stronger yet. To cut you down.”
*
Ugh, so pathetically weak. So utterly worthless, Hoyeol. How can you topple Segwyn like this?!
● 45KM Run (Complete)
● 3,700 Push-ups (In Progress)
● 2,200 Pull-ups (Complete)
● 1,400 Burpee Tests (Complete)
In Yusra Kingdom’s office. Thud— I stepped down from the gleaming gold bar.
Damn, my forearms are numb. But no time for whining—I summoned mana.
“It rather offends the eye.”
Reversal Magic manifested. The bar reverted to its ornate golden fixture.
Even if gold bars were common in Yusra, pull-ups on solid gold? ‘I’d never dare, shaking just thinking about it.’
Beyond incorruptibility, what massive guts, Grandfell.
At least the First World Tree’s Blessing was active.
Swift vitality restoration to numb limbs.
My numb forearms regained vigor rapidly.
“As effortless as ever.”
If not for the regeneration, you’d be bedridden, yet you boast so boldly, Grandfell.
Even unshackled from circle limits, my routine barely changed. Class quests like this. Watering the elixir fields. Checking Yusra duties. Attending Holy War meetings.
‘Just skipping chief mage duties.’
And Grandfell’s pride wouldn’t tolerate slacking. Soon, back to the tower, reclaiming duties from Marcelo.
Thus, these remaining days were precious!
So I’d urgently messaged Explorer Guildmaster Fabian for Hell Torch rental. They agreed, and now it was in my inventory.
◈ Identical effects to Hellfire.
◈ Explorer Guild treasure left by romantic adventurer Lorentsk long ago.
Fabian handed it over, saying:
That “Grand Commander” title... Anyway, borrower’s joy tops lender’s gratitude.
Without it? Hell’s Gate closed meant no Akkshan contact. I didn’t know how to open or find it. My hard-won class skill Akkshan’s Legacy would’ve been wasted.
Reading the description, I murmured, “Lorentsk, your pride endures in this torch.”
...Just say thanks. Why always pride, Grandfell?
No delaying. I pulled the torch from inventory, then invoked the skill.
“Respond, Akkshan.”
No need to chant aloud for skills... but minimal respect for seniors.
Akkshan affinity and influence applied to effects.
Akkshan demon hunters respond to your call.
Whoosh! Rising messages. The torch flared wildly.
True to Akkshan.
‘Affinity and influence up since then.’
Before Gamiqin, hordes swarmed regardless. Now, just one.
But one’s plenty. Considering their prickly nature, I’m grateful.
That gear: black garb clinging to his frame. Deep hood. Weapons dangling everywhere.
Right, I fell for that look!
But grown eyes see inefficiency. Not that I, obsessed with formality, should judge—but it’s excessive!
‘He’ll stab himself on his own gear moving!’
But that stayed internal. No sense offending a senior now. I needed answers—about that vast vessel’s source!
I’d bet no other class in Arcana one-shots Lv.900 named bosses with basic attacks. Demon hunter only.
Initially, chalked it to high stats. But really? Even now, class quest goals escalate exponentially.
With my pitiful stats...
How daunting. Lv.900 named needs 900+ strength/agility for basic attacks. Training volume? Impossible.
A day? A week full-time? Barely one goal.
So, ask the experts: the secret to those transcendent stats, that vast vessel!
“...”
Trouble from the start...
The demon hunter scanned the office, visibly disappointed. As one myself, I knew: no demons, pure letdown.
‘Truly steadfast, Akkshan.’
No demon hunter bonding. Hell couldn’t break their discipline.
“Regrettably, no demons here.”
My words ignored.
“...”
Not even listening. Then—what? Drops prone on the floor.
Wait, push-ups?!
“I see. No need for talk, then.”
Training in my office? Don’t accept that rudeness, Grandfell. This isn’t what I wanted...!
But futile protests. “Hoo—”
I joined the summoned demon hunter in the quest.
Even as my body screamed, unease lingered.
‘No way it’s just endless grinding? Really?’
Stats from brute training alone?! What kind of class—!
I wanted to scream injustice. But Grandfell’s rivalry ignited.
Push-ups nonstop.
Conditions met.
Reward granted.
Goal long cleared. Yet I couldn’t stop.
Why? The rude senior wouldn’t.
Forced words: “...At last, achieving something.”
Don’t bluff mid-gasp, Grandfell.
Arms burning on spite alone—vision spun.
Overworked to blackout.
At least rest now—
No. Messages rose.
Transcending limits grants additional reward.
Wait...?
Found it. Demon hunter—the secret to transcendent stats!