The Guardian's Blade
In the heart of the Holy Kingdom Elia stood the Great Temple, and to the east of its exit lay the barracks of the Holy Knights. Like everything else there, it was a building of pristine white. Before it stretched a vast training ground. Vera stood at its center, meeting the gazes of twelve pairs of eyes fixed upon him, and posed a question to Vargo.
“What must I do?”
“Hm…”
At Vera’s question, Vargo stroked his chin, and silence blanketed the entire space. The twelve Holy Knights bowed their heads. They held their rigid postures, refusing to move or act until Vargo gave his answer. It was a ritual steeped in profound reverence.
There was respect for Vargo’s legendary feats and his position as Holy Emperor, no doubt. But Vera could sense that the awe they showed stemmed from something deeper, more fundamental.
True reverence from the heart.
Such awe couldn’t be forged through violence or authority alone. Vera, who had ruled through fear his entire previous life, felt it all the more keenly.
He could roughly gauge why they showed such deference to Vargo. They called him the father of all Holy Knights—a moniker earned by redefining the Holy Martial Arts that the current knights practiced. That name alone evoked such reverence.
As Vera’s thoughts wandered, Vargo, who had been glancing between him and the knights, twisted his face into a mischievous grin and spoke.
“Alright, this’ll do.”
Vargo’s eyes met Vera’s. A broad smile spread across his lips, revealing yellowed teeth beneath.
“I hear you’re pretty handy with a blade. Take on those twelve at once and win.”
“…What is it you wish to see?”
“Your swordsmanship, what else?”
A breath escaped Vera’s lips at the casual reply. The intent was obvious.
Swordsmanship, my ass…
He wanted to see Vera wield his Apostle power. Vargo wasn’t even hiding it.
Everyone there—Vargo, the knights, and Vera himself—knew that such a command would be impossible as a joke in normal circumstances. Yet he said it with that grin because he meant to test Vera’s power, to measure just how much it allowed him.
Vera drew a deep breath and nodded.
If that’s what you want.
There was no reason to hide it. In fact, revealing it was for the best. What he sought was command over the Saint’s procession. To that end, he needed to show Vargo as much as possible.
Vera steadied his mind and looked back at Vargo.
“May I use my Stigmata?”
“What’s to stop you? It’s part of your abilities, after all.”
“Understood.”
“Alright, you lot, get ready.”
With a sharp crack, the twelve Holy Knights moved in unison. As Vargo slowly walked to the edge of the training ground, the knights began to encircle Vera.
Vera watched them, rolling up his sleeves and gripping his wooden sword tighter. They surrounded him on all sides—a formation he hadn’t faced in ages.
A formation I saw far too often in my past life.
He knew exactly how to break it. He’d endured it so many times that he knew precisely how to apply his power in such a scenario.
The power of the Oath’s Stigma granted strength proportional to the value of what he pledged as its price. In other words, it amplified one ability by diminishing another.
Vera began his calculations.
What to sacrifice, what to gain.
What was needed to overcome one against many.
First.
They’ll exploit blind spots.
The human body, reliant on sight, inevitably had them. They would target his.
Vera closed his left eye and spoke.
“…In this bout, I will keep my left eye shut. In exchange, I gain senses sharpened by my limited vision. Should I open this left eye, I will lose sight in it forever.”
His Stigmata blazed gold, divine power surging through his body. Vera felt his senses hone to a razor’s edge and continued, accounting for stamina loss from movement.
“I will not stray more than four steps from this spot. In return, I gain a sturdier body. Fail to uphold it, and I lose the ability to walk.”
Divine power seeped into his flesh. Golden light infused his muscles, filling him with euphoria. Feeling his fortified body, Vera spoke once more.
Finally, to amplify the power he’d gained.
The Oath’s power had clear weaknesses. Expressed through words, it revealed his vulnerabilities plainly to the enemy. To counter that, he needed an overwhelming gap in prowess—one they couldn’t exploit even knowing his flaws.
Vera pledged a price second only to his soul in value, amplifying the divine power within him.
“I will not speak. In silence until the bout’s end, my oath gains greater weight. Should I utter a word during combat, I lose my voice forever.”
The Stigmata flared again. Divine power rippled outward, blanketing the area around Vera. He tensed, feeling it flood his body, and scanned his surroundings.
A fragile hush, on the verge of shattering. The Holy Knights raised their wooden swords. Vera gripped his with both hands.
After a brief standoff, Vera sensed a sword thrusting at his flank. He rotated his body—just enough, the minimal motion to deflect its path.
Then came the onslaught from all directions. Vera evaded with economical movements until a primal urge welled up within—a beast awakened by battle.
A thirst, a thrill, raw violence uncoiling from a corner of his soul. At this long-forgotten sensation, a smile crept unbidden onto Vera’s lips.
*
“Like a dog in heat.”
Those were Vargo’s words after the bout ended.
Vera’s gaze swept his surroundings. Twelve figures lay sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath—the Holy Knights he’d just fought.
He had won. By an overwhelming margin.
It was inevitable. No matter how lowly their bodies, Vera was a bearer of the Stigmata. He had already reigned as the strong in one lifetime. Experience and ability created an unbridgeable chasm between him and them.
Thus, he couldn’t agree with Vargo.
“…I won.”
“Yeah, you bit and tore like a rabid mutt.”
A chuckling tch escaped Vargo’s lips.
“No form. No intent. Just instinct, swinging wildly at anything in sight—what’s that if not a dog in heat?”
Vera scowled deeply, retorting in a heated voice.
“That mutt-like swordplay outdid these Holy Knights.”
“Watch your words. It wasn’t your swordplay that beat them—it was the Stigmata.”
“Didn’t you say the Stigmata was my ability too?”
“I did. So let me ask: Is that the sword of a guardian?”
Snap.
Vera’s mouth clamped shut. It felt like a blow to the back of his head with a club.
He tried to muster a defense, but his thoughts stalled, choked by frustration. No words came, no matter how he worked his lips. Panic crept across his face, growing thicker.
At Vera’s expression, Vargo chuckled again.
“Holy Knights are guardians. Their swords protect. They guard the most sacred faith, and those who seek refuge in its shadow. Thus, they must stand firm even in the darkest night.”
Vargo approached slowly. His smile was utterly wicked.
“For that, you need form—to safeguard what must be protected, you need doctrine.”
Vargo hunched a bit more, yet Vera still had to look up at him.
“And intent. To engrave a single aspiration upon your blade, you need conviction.”
The laughter pierced his ears. Vera felt mockery in it.
“Tell me. Is your sword one that protects those in the shadows? Or the fang of a beast that devours whatever’s before it?”
Vera had no answer to the pointed question. Mocking as it was, he couldn’t find ground to refute it and simply clamped his mouth shut.
It pierced to the core. It pierced his entire past life.
Vera had learned nothing. His sword was woven from the experiences of his previous life. Thus, it lacked form—only intuitive, practical motions, haphazardly strung together from ingrained habits. No unifying doctrine ran through it.
His sword lacked intent. It didn’t contain; it spewed. It vented the rage that scorched his mind, the hatred that turned his guts to mire, the resentment toward a world that crushed him. No conviction underpinned it.
The silence stretched. Vargo asked again.
“I’ll repeat: Why do you seek to become a Holy Knight?”
Why had he come here?
Suddenly, a hazy figure flickered in Vera’s mind. A faint yet unquenchable ember, sturdy and eternal. An ember that made him reach out unwittingly. One that rendered him endlessly weak.
Vera’s eyes turned to Vargo. Over the craggy face of a mischievous old codger fit for a freak, the visage of a sage overlapped.
Vera clenched his fists. His teeth ground with a grind.
Emotions surged. Sticky rage clung tenaciously to his heart. Rage at this mocking elder. Rage at his own voiceless self. Rage at his shallow thinking—that merely staying by her side would suffice.
Why become a Holy Knight? Why come here?
As thoughts chained together, his eyes lowered. Over his ink-black soul rose the Oath, etched in gold.
Vera repeated the question inwardly.
What was this oath for?
Only then did words worthy of the name emerge.
With a deeply furrowed brow, Vera pushed through the rising fury, churned the mire beneath, and dragged forth a mere fragment.
“…To learn how to protect.”
Because he regretted a life of only taking.
“To learn not to regret.”
To pursue that ember which had even illuminated this wretched seed.
“…That’s why I seek to become a Holy Knight.”
He wanted to live a life worth living. That’s why he chased her.
“Tch…”
Vargo’s chuckle rang in his ears. Vera looked up.
A face still wicked, yet tinged with amusement.
Vargo grinned brightly.
“Now you look a bit human, you dark little brat.”