The Sword of Myriad Changes
The day after his training session, Vera stepped out into the clearing in front of the hut that served as his quarters and drew his sword. It was for practice. Practice to ensure he never again felt that utter helplessness from the time he had barely escaped Terden's clutches with Vargo's help. Practice to prevent Rene from ever having to overexert her powers again.
Vera, sword in hand, pondered.
What is lacking in my sword.
What was missing from his own blade? Whenever he posed that question to himself, the answer was always the same.
Nothing.
By Vera's judgment, there was nothing lacking in his swordsmanship. His blade had already reached the realm of a master. In a way, it was only natural. Vera possessed talent. Talent for swinging a sword. Talent for killing foes. Talent for recognizing those who sought to kill him. Talent for controlling his body. Talent in every element required for battle.
From the moment he first gripped a sword, Vera had understood instinctively. How to wield it. What he could accomplish with it. He knew it all on a primal level. Thus, Vera's swordsmanship had no form. It was a blade swung by instinct alone. A blade forged solely from experience. There were no rigid, codified rules within it. That was why Vargo had called it the swordsmanship of a "horny mongrel," and why Vera could offer no rebuttal.
Yet it was precisely because of that lack of form that nothing was missing. Vera's sword already encompassed every element needed for real combat. That was the reason his swordsmanship hadn't changed over the past four years in the Holy Kingdom. The moment he imposed form upon it, the infinite potential of his style would vanish. His blade would be trapped within limited patterns. A stifling rigidity would settle over his body with every swing.
Because of that, Vera had failed to refine his swordsmanship.
Once more, the question arose in his mind.
Nothing is lacking. Does that mean further growth is impossible?
Had he already reached the absolute limit of his own development? Was it impossible to advance any further with the sword alone?
The doubt lingered. Vera gripped the hilt tightly as he wrestled with it for a long while before arriving at the answer.
...No.
It was possible. He could ascend to a higher realm. He had already witnessed its existence with his own eyes, so there was no reason he couldn't reach it.
As his thoughts continued, Vargo's strike from that day flashed in Vera's mind.
Highly compressed divine power.
The technique that had enabled Vargo's blow. That ferocious blood-red iron mace, crushing all space before it, had been born from compressing Vargo's divine power into a single point.
Ejection to a single point.
The launched divine power had erased all matter in its path because the compressed energy didn't scatter—it surged in one direction.
And...
The explosion at the target point. The blast that even the mountain-pushing giant Terden couldn't withstand.
Intent.
That was the key to the technique. By embedding his intent—the will to confront Terden—within a formalized form, Vargo had made the condensed divine power detonate precisely at the goal.
Shing.
Vera raised his sword. He understood. Vargo's technique clearly contained both form and intent. If it was something real and achievable—not mere pie-in-the-sky talk—there was no reason he couldn't do it himself.
The Your Holiness's method won't work.
It wasn't his way. It was a path suited only to Vargo, one that only Vargo could walk. A technique befitting the path of domination.
He needed to infuse his own form and intent.
What to infuse.
His thoughts deepened once more. The sword he could wield. The sword he must pursue. Its goal had been set the moment his life rewound.
A sword for the Saintess.
A sword to protect Rene. The blade he must forge for that purpose...
Flawless.
It had to be unbreakable in any situation. A sword without weaknesses. One that revealed no vulnerabilities against any circumstance or foe.
But.
Impossible.
Vera knew better than anyone how arrogant the notion of flawless truly was. Thus, he conceived a sword infinitely close to flawlessness—one only he could wield.
Myriad Changes.
In ten thousand battles, employ ten thousand sword styles to mimic flawlessness. He had to achieve it.
The foundation is already there.
Sanctuary. The divine technique woven from his powers. By manipulating the battlefield itself through it, realization was entirely feasible. His swordsmanship needed to adapt freely to the constraints of Sanctuary, shifting into countless forms based on the penalties imposed each time. An unchanging core amid ever-shifting controls. In other words, a form of Myriad Changes.
Vera erased every sword technique he had accumulated through experience. He had to return to a blank slate and rebuild from the beginning.
He closed his eyes and recalled the countless powerhouses he had faced since his past life. Their swords, their martial arts, their combat methods.
Not to engrave them into his body. That approach had already failed.
Leave only the most basic patterns capable of countering them all.
Slash, thrust, block. He retained only those three elements and wiped everything else away.
Next, he reflected on how those powerhouses had fought. The foes he might one day face with this sword—who were they?
The deliberation didn't last long. In his past life, where he had made the entire world his enemy, if he had to name the absolute pinnacle among the countless strong ones he encountered...
Heroes.
The heroes who had slain the Demon King. He needed to forge his sword assuming combat against them. They were opponents he could defeat even now if forced to fight.
But that didn't mean their swords were inferior to his. Vera knew the truth. His victories over them had been possible solely because of his Stigmata. In pure swordsmanship, his blade fell short of their martial prowess.
Thus, the sword he rebuilt had to overcome their blades—the history of their accumulated swordsmanship—purely through technique.
Vera recalled the heroes' swords.
Albrecht.
Albrecht von Friehi, the Second Prince of the Empire, knight of reverence. He remembered the blade called the Unbreakable Sword.
Its essence is flow.
An overwhelming softness that deflected any attack. The most irritating sword to face.
Next.
Heglion.
The heir to the Northern Tresia Dukedom. Heglion Tresia's sword, the Young Duke of Frost.
What it embodied was.
Weight.
A sturdy blade unyielding against raging blizzards. One whose crushing strikes forced knees to buckle.
Finally.
Aisha.
Aisha Dragunov, master of the demonic sword. What her demonic blade contained was unmistakable speed.
Strikes that assaulted with nerve-grating swiftness.
And what he recalled next was his own technique to counter them all—without clashing directly.
Adaptation.
The ever-changing sword. He would base his swordsmanship on that ideal.
Vera's eyes opened. Before he knew it, ashen divine power filled the surroundings.
He had set his direction, but the framework wasn't even properly formed yet. It would be a grueling asceticism spanning long years.
Yet even as that thought surfaced, Vera's mood lifted immeasurably. He could see the path ahead. He wasn't complete yet. He could grow stronger than now.
Vera's fighting spirit was one that reveled in such progress.
The best is real combat.
For Vera, actual battle was the most efficient training. Refining swing by swing against a live opponent was the fastest path to perfecting his sword.
The problem is finding real combat in the Holy Kingdom.
He couldn't leave unless Rene did.
Which means finding opponents within the Holy Kingdom...
As those thoughts churned, a shout rang out.
"Vera!"
Vera turned toward the voice. In the distance, the ones he had summoned here were approaching. The twins, Rohan, and Trevo.
Watching them, a spark flashed in Vera's mind.
He had called them ostensibly for "education" for Rene's sake, but it didn't have to be solely for that.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
...Kill two birds with one stone.
Perfect timing—sturdy sandbags had arrived. Time to make use of them.
*
Two days later, for the scheduled divine arts lesson, Rene walked the corridor alongside Vera.
The steady rhythm of cane and footsteps. The warmth transmitted through her fingertips. Rene savored it as she walked for a while, then opened her mouth, unable to bear the awkward atmosphere.
"The one we're meeting today is the Apostle of Wisdom, right?"
"Yes. Trevo."
"Aha..."
Rene's brief response trailed off into silence once more. Inwardly, she nursed a petty grudge against Vera. It wasn't sincere. It was just that his silence—his refusal to say anything—felt inexplicably vexing. An emotion she couldn't quite understand herself. Her face naturally soured, and her grip tightened on the cane, turning the tap into a sharp thwack.
"Saintess?"
Vera's call. Rene flinched, trembling slightly, then bowed her head a fraction and replied.
"Yes."
"Is something troubling you?"
"No, not at all."
Thwack! The sound echoed again.
Right after speaking, Rene belatedly wondered if she'd been too curt and gauged Vera's mood. The feel of his hand, the sound of his steps. His breathing showed no change, but startled by her own outburst, she squeezed her eyes shut and blurted,
"Sorry. I didn't mean to sound so sharp."
"It's fine. I didn't sense any such tone."
"Well... I didn't sleep well..."
"Ah, it's the change of seasons, so that makes sense. I'll tell Helga to pay extra attention to the room temperature."
"Okay..."
Slump. Rene's head drooped.
She silently apologized to poor Helga in her mind.
Why am I like this?
Was she still adjusting to the Holy Kingdom? She couldn't make sense of her own behavior. It'll be fine once I'm more used to it, she convinced herself, steadying her breath.
But the silence descended again. Composure. Composure. Chanting inwardly, she forced a bright tone and asked Vera,
"What kind of person is the Apostle of Wisdom, Trevo? Are there any behaviors he dislikes?"
The question that emerged was about Trevo. It was polite to learn about someone before meeting them. That was Rene's way.
Vera pondered briefly before replying in a measured tone.
"An eccentric."
"Pardon?"
"He shows some perverted tendencies too. I wouldn't recommend getting too close—best to keep your distance."
A surprisingly long response. Rene felt grateful for Vera's elaboration, but tilted her head at the harsh assessment of Trevo.
"Um..."
She trailed off, at a loss for words. Vera continued his critique.
"He has an interest in men's bare flesh, so you could call him a pederast. But there's no guarantee his perversions are limited to men, so I'd ask the Saintess to be especially cautious. Ah, and if Trevo ever asks to see your Stigmata, you must absolutely, absolutely refuse."
It didn't sound like Vera at all. A faint irritation laced his voice. A rare glimpse of emotion, and Rene recalled seeing it once before they came to the Holy Kingdom.
Ah, the weirdo.
It was the exact tone Vera had used in Remeo when speaking of the Holy Kingdom's people.
So that's the weirdo the knight mentioned.
She nodded faintly, understanding dawning. But something about Vera badmouthing someone behind their back felt off, so she ventured,
"Um, Sir Knight?"
"Yes."
"I think speaking ill of others behind their backs isn't good..."
Freeze.
Vera's expression stiffened at her words. His gaze turned to her. A bit troubled, but undoubtedly correct words.
"...My apologies."
"No, I was just saying..."
Vera felt deeply wronged.