The Requiem Sword
"Hmm."
Kuberad watched Raon's back as the boy examined the swords, a look of genuine satisfaction spreading across his face.
The world never stands still.
In his life as a blacksmith, he had met more martial artists than he could count—from prodigies hailed as geniuses while still children, to Absolutes who had founded their own houses and risen to stand at the very center of the world. Each of them had left an impression he would never forget. The boy standing before him, however, was different.
It isn't a matter of strength.
That level of martial power at fifteen was certainly impressive, but if you scoured the vast continent you might turn up a handful of others like him. The vessel he possessed, though, was another thing entirely. Just as a blacksmith hammers a dull lump of metal into a blade, that child was refining his own heart to raise his sword. In the near term, Sword-Body Unity. In the far term, he had the auspicious temperament to reach even the Mind Sword.
That's something only possible after reaching Master…
Raon's martial power was roughly Expert. Kuberad had no idea how the boy had smashed through so many walls that his spirit alone had arrived at that realm.
"Zieghart will shake the world once more."
He muttered that he wanted to see that interesting world for himself, then tipped back his drink. With a guest this entertaining, even cheap liquor tasted sweet.
Wooooong.
At the sudden vibration he set the bottle down and lifted his head.
"Huh?"
The red dagger on the table was howling, and Raon was reaching toward it.
"W-wait."
He shouldn't touch that. Kuberad had no idea why a sword he'd stashed in the corner was sitting out there at all.
"Stop!"
He shouted urgently, but the red dagger was already clenched tight in Raon's grip.
"Damn it!"
"Ugh!"
Kuberad shot to his feet and dragged the dazed Dorian backward with him.
"W-why are you doing this? I wasn't trying to pick two. I really was only going to choose one…"
"Do you see that?"
"Huh? What's that dagger? What is that energy…"
Dorian swallowed dryly. A strange red light was rising from the dagger in Raon's hand like a heat haze.
"It's a Cursed Sword."
"A c-cursed sword?"
A Cursed Sword was a bizarre, bewitching blade—an ominous object steeped in negative emotion, one that tried to seize control of whoever gripped it.
"Damn."
Kuberad bit his lip. A child whose spirit hadn't fully matured had picked up a Cursed Sword; he was bound to be tainted by its malice all the more easily.
"We have to stop it before the malice reaches his head! Coward. Draw your sword!"
"Uh…"
He snatched up a nearby hammer and urged Dorian on. But the boy didn't draw. He only tilted his head.
"What are you doing! If we don't stop it now, it'll be dangerous—"
"No, there's no need to stop it. Young Master looks the same as usual?"
"What? With malice pouring out like that… Huh?"
Kuberad's mouth fell open. The malice was overflowing—that much was true. It was blazing fiercely. But that malice only spread around the sword itself. It couldn't even approach Raon.
Kiiiiiing!
The Cursed Sword howled once more. It wasn't the eerie sword-cry from before, but a scream like a dog whose leash had been yanked taut.
"A-are you all right?"
At those words, Raon, who had been looking at the dagger, lifted his head. Red eyes brimming with vital energy. A gaze so clear it was impossible to believe he'd been possessed by malice.
"I'm fine. But this dagger isn't an ordinary item."
"Huh…"
Kuberad let out a hollow breath and sank back down.
"You… what the hell are you, really?"
How dare you.
Wrath's voice sank to a dryness that sent a chill down the spine.
A lowly insect, daring to set its sights on This King's vessel.
Genuine fury boiled up in him. Blazing blue frost surged forth and mercilessly crushed the malice rising from the dagger.
Kiiiiiing!
The dagger screamed as Wrath's frost bore down on it.
This King shall smash it to pieces!
Wrath drove frost sliced thin as a blade into the dagger, as if he meant to kill the sword itself.
Stop.
What?
That's enough.
Why! That thing is trying to steal This King's prey! Without This King, you would have been devoured by the dagger's malice!
I'm not your prey. And I wouldn't have been consumed by a sword like this even without you.
You take malice far too lightly. It's true this thing doesn't even reach This King's toenail, but for a human…
You couldn't pierce me either. You think this would?
Ugh…
Wrath's rage stopped cold. He had nothing to say; his mouth simply hung open.
Right? So just leave it.
Y-you really know how to twist the knife. You will never die a peaceful death. This King will spend thousands of years chewing you up, tearing you apart…
"What is this dagger?"
Listen to This King!
Raon ignored Wrath, who was winding up for a rant, and walked over to Kuberad.
"Th-that's…"
Kuberad looked from Raon to the dagger and back again with an expression of utter disbelief, then let out a long sigh.
"It's a failure of mine. A Cursed Sword, like I said a moment ago."
"A Cursed Sword. I could certainly feel the malice."
"It wasn't just leaking it. It would have tried to swallow your body whole."
"It was manageable."
"Huh…"
He was telling the truth, but Kuberad couldn't make sense of it. A hollow sound escaped him.
"A Cursed Sword is a blade inhabited by malice. Simply put, a human being's negative emotions have taken root in the steel. Inside that sword…"
Kuberad bit his lip and went on.
"There is a grudge. A grudge so thick and clinging it defies description."
"Could you explain?"
"Sit down."
Kuberad nodded at the chair in front of the table. Raon inclined his head and sat.
"C-can I listen too?"
Dorian pulled a plush chair from his Belly Pouch and settled into it.
"In the south there's a small village called Siren. Good people lived there—the kind who held a tree named Osello as sacred."
Raon knew the place. A tiny village sitting just outside House Robert's sphere of influence, its people so kind and so unsuspecting that he had used it as an escape route once, in another life.
"The faithful of the White Blood Cult descended on that village."
"The White Blood Cult…"
Raon's eyes narrowed.
Of all people, them.
The White Blood Cult was a massive religious order counted among the Five Demons, alongside Eden and the South-North Alliance. Their first doctrine was to dye the continent in White Blood, and on that basis they attacked everything in the world. A congregation of genuine lunatics.
"Then Siren Village…"
"Not a single person survived. Half were killed on the spot. The other half were abducted and dragged off somewhere. They even cut down the Osello tree the villagers had called their spirit. All that remained was White Blood."
Wherever the White Blood Cult struck, it was not red blood that soaked the earth, but white. One of their hexes.
"This sword was forged from a fragment of meteorite I had on hand and a branch of the Osello that was left at the site."
Kuberad looked at the dagger in Raon's hand, his gaze unsteady.
"You made it into a sword?"
"I did. In my own way, I wanted to comfort the souls of the dead with this blade in place of a memorial stone. But…"
The memory seemed to return to him. He pressed his fingers to his temple and frowned.
"The moment it was finished, the white blade and hilt flushed red. Contrary to everything I'd intended, the grudges of the people of Siren Village poured into the sword. Grudges too heavy to bear."
"I can tell."
Raon nodded. As the old man said, an enormous malice had soaked into the steel. Anyone other than him would have been seized by it and started swinging.
"There's an old saying that kind people are terrifying when they get angry, but I never imagined it would be like this. Even those who called themselves the strong couldn't endure that malice, so I had no choice but to keep it myself. I still don't understand how you can hold it."
"Hm…"
Raon drew the dagger from its sheath. Not only the scabbard and hilt, but the blade itself was dyed a vivid, bloody red—as if it meant to remember the grudge of that day forever.
Wooooong!
The crimson blade trembled, and malice began to spread. A fouler, stranger energy than when it had been sheathed crawled up over the back of his hand.
Five rings whirled around his heart, resonating as one and elevating the very grade of his existence.
Kiiing!
The dagger's malice, as if it had been shoved aside by Wrath, was crushed beneath the rank of Raon's being and began to scream.
"Hah! Would you look at that."
Kuberad's pupils rocked like a boat slammed by a wave.
The boy's an onion.
Just when you thought you'd seen everything, he showed you another layer. It was impossible to think of him as a child who hadn't even earned his swordsman's qualifications—who hadn't even come of age.
"A sword I forged to comfort souls now hungers for revenge. That's why I couldn't even use it as a memorial. I was working on a seal for it. I never expected this."
"You said about half of them were abducted?"
"That's right. The White Blood Cult always kills half on the spot and carries the other half away. Even among the corpses left behind, only half the original villagers were there."
Raon looked down at the dagger, which was wailing as if the injustice of it all were too much to bear, and closed his eyes.
His childhood in a previous life, now so distant he could barely remember it. He, too, had been kidnapped by the people of House Robert. These villagers hadn't merely been taken—half of them had been slaughtered where they stood. Their grudge would run even deeper than his own.
Wooooong.
Listening to the dagger's sobbing cry felt like coarse sandpaper scraping across his chest.
"I have a great deal I must do."
Raon opened his eyes again and looked steadily down at the dagger.
"I don't have enough time to accomplish even that, so I can't help you take your revenge. But if I should happen to cross paths with the White Blood Cult, I will do what you wish."
The dagger's wailing began to subside into quiet.
"Will you come with me?"
The crying stopped. The blade trembled, as if it were thinking it over.
Wooooong!
The loudest cry yet burst from the dagger. Malice flowed out of it—but it was no longer a harmful energy.
Chiiing!
The sound of it resonating with the spinning Ring of Fire. A clear, pure sword-cry.
"Th-that was a sword-cry?"
Kuberad stared at the dagger that had loosed such a refreshing note, then at Raon—and toppled over backward in his chair.
"I'll take this one."
Raon smiled faintly and slid the dagger back into its sheath.
"Y-you're taking that?"
"Is that not allowed?"
"Hah. First time I've seen someone shamelessly walk off with a legendary-grade weapon."
The words were incredulous, but Kuberad's face looked clear and deeply satisfied.
What did you just say? You're choosing that accursed thing?
I am.
That thing is a parasite! You'd keep a parasite that aims for what belongs to This King on your person? Have you lost your mind!
A parasite, huh…
Raon looked down at Wrath with a thoroughly unimpressed expression.
What! Why are you looking at This King with such insolent eyes!
Because one parasite or two doesn't seem like it'd make much difference.
T-two parasites? Para— wait! Are you talking about This King right now?
That's right. You aimed for my body just like this sword did.
You lunatic! This King is the Monarch of Wrath, who holds the entire north of the Demon Realm—
Monarch, whatever. The fact is you aimed for my body, failed, and latched on.
L-latched on? This King? Grrraaah! Raon Zieghart! This King was not born with a hole in his mouth just to spit out every word! This is the first humiliation This King has suffered since the day of his birth!
You did latch on, so I'm saying so.
Raon left Wrath to his rampage and turned back to Kuberad.
"What is this sword's name?"
"I made it from the start to stand as a memorial stone, so I never gave it one."
"Then may I name it?"
"Have you thought of something?"
"You said you wanted to comfort the people of that village. Requiem. I'd like to call it the Requiem Sword."
"A Requiem Sword that leaks malice. How intriguing."
He let out a short laugh and stood.
"Take it. But keep the promise you made a moment ago."
"Of course. As long as I wear the name of Zieghart, I'll keep colliding with the Five Demons."
"Whoa. A Cursed Sword. He actually got a Cursed Sword…"
Dorian, looking as though he'd just enjoyed a thoroughly entertaining show, was crunching on snacks with a pair of bizarre glasses perched on his nose.
"Thank you."
Raon fastened the Requiem Sword behind his waist and bowed his head to Kuberad.
"What are you doing?"
"Pardon?"
"You still have to pick a sword."
"I…"
"I said I would give you a sword. I never said I would give you a dagger."
"Ah…"
It seemed the old man meant to give him a longsword as well.
"Are you truly giving me a sword too?"
"Just don't lose. That's all a craftsman asks of a swordsman."
Kuberad held out the sword Raon had been studying so carefully earlier.
"I'll drop by Zieghart later to see that Vulcan bastard, so don't treat me coldly."
"Of course. Our house does at least one thing well—cooking. We'll be sure to treat you properly."
"I'll look forward to it."
"I won't forget this kindness. Thank you."
"Kindness, nothing."
The two of them smiled, warm as sunlight spilling down an alley.
"Then."
Raon bowed his head and left the smithy. He was just about to step out of the alley when Dorian's voice floated from inside.
"I haven't picked one yet!"