The Dance of Vengeance

In his previous life, he had crossed paths with four of the Five Demons.

If he had to name the most troublesome among them, the White Blood Cult would always land in the top two.

The South-North Alliance could be bought off with a toll, or at least reasoned with. Language, however, meant nothing to the White Blood Cult. They were a congregation of genuine madmen who would punch through a comrade's belly and hack off their own necks if it served their religious cause.

"Kill them all."

The bishop in a coat marked with two white stripes extended a pale white hand, and the cultists charged forward with murder blazing in their eyes.

Alright then…

Raon reversed his grip on the Requiem Sword ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and circulated the energy of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames.

Let's vent some of that grudge of yours.

He stamped down a fierce step and lunged toward the White Blood Cultists.

A shrill ring of steel. The cultist at the front drew a scimitar, its blade curved like a whetted crescent moon — the White Blood Cult's signature weapon. Without so much as a battle cry, he brought it down toward Raon's neck.

I figured as much.

White Blood Cultists considered a one-strike kill an act of mercy, so they almost always aimed for the neck or the heart. The killing intent was thick enough to choke on — which, paradoxically, made the attack easy to read.

Raon bent his knees with liquid ease. The scimitar missed by a paper's width, and he drew the Requiem Sword across.

A wet spray of blood. With a brushstroke-light flick of his wrist, the cultist's head dropped to the earth.

"Huh."

Raon let out a hollow laugh as he looked down at the Requiem Sword.

What is this?

He had drawn the blade lightly — smoothly, even — and the man's neck had come clean off. The keenness defied all reason.

It feels like it'd cut you just for holding it.

He clicked his tongue, watching the malevolent energy spread like the roots of a thousand-year-old tree.

Let's keep going.

The Requiem Sword hummed as if in answer.

Raon kicked off the ground. He slipped into the midst of the cultists charging the knights and brought the Requiem Sword down.

A chilling shriek of metal on flesh, and five cultists split apart along a diagonal line.

The sword's keening grew stronger still, as if it had not yet drunk enough blood, and the pulse of malevolent energy thickened with it.

Raon's crimson eyes flared. He threw himself into the battlefield as if surrendering his body to that malevolence, and began to cut the White Blood Cultists down. He looked like a red wolf strolling through a flock of black sheep.

"Stop."

He had already cut down more than twenty cultists on his own when a man in a black coat marked with a black stripe stepped into his path. A priest — one rank above the ordinary believers.

The scimitar in the priest's hand began to glow a stark white.

"Die."

The priest's scimitar came screaming for his throat.

Predictable.

The attack was no different from the cultists'.

Raon stretched his left foot back. The instant the scimitar smashed into the earth, he thrust the Requiem Sword forward.

A dull burst. He had simply extended the blade, and the priest's left chest exploded. The power was absurd.

This thing is insane.

The Requiem Sword kept hungering for vengeance. Even after drinking a priest's blood it was still thirsty, letting out a dry, keening wail.

"Hmph."

Raon narrowed his eyes at the blood soaking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ground.

"The color of that blood is strange. It looks diluted, as if mixed with water."

Wrath was right. The priest's bloodstain was a pale rose — the shade you might get by stirring a little white paint into red.

That's a hallmark of the White Blood Cult.

Through a cultivation art called the Blood Feast, White Blood Cultists gathered an energy known as blood ki in their hearts, then drank human blood to strengthen it. The more they drank, the more they cultivated, the whiter their hearts and blood became. In other words, the closer a cultist's blood and heart ran to pure white, the higher their rank and the greater their power.

"Lunatics, the lot of them."

They are. They've stepped outside the bounds of being human.

Raon kicked off the ground at the sight of cultists driving the knights back. He crashed in from the left of a priest who was swinging a scimitar at a red-haired knight's throat.

"Ngh!"

The priest reacted fast and spun — too late.

A wet crunch. The Requiem Sword's razor edge sheared the priest's arm clean off.

"Guhh! Y-You!"

Raon did not let the opening slip. The priest staggered back in shock, and Raon was already on him, taking his head.

"Hah…"

A ragged gasp pulled his eyes to the side. The red-haired knight who had barely kept his life was staring at him, eyes blown wide with shock.

Raon gave a slight nod and moved on.

Every time he drew the Requiem Sword, one or two more cultists vanished. A killing intent so thick it was almost visible poured endlessly from the crimson blade.

"This won't do."

The bishop, who had been overwhelming the prince and two knights by himself, turned. Using a bizarre footwork that looked as if his shadow itself were relocating, he arrived in front of Raon.

"I'll have to kill you first."

"Think you can?"

Raon snorted. The bishop's martial power felt stronger than Nokjeongwi's or Raiden's — but the thought of losing never even crossed his mind.

"I'll show you."

A blood-soaked scimitar carved a half-moon toward his throat.

A heavy rush of air. Raon leaned his waist back at his leisure. A few strands of golden hair, nicked by the scimitar's edge, drifted on the wind.

Same as the rest.

The White Blood Cult's habit of aiming for the neck and heart was no exception even for a bishop.

A sharp whine of energy. As Raon straightened, the bishop opened the empty left hand. From his index finger, a snow-white burst of energy shot straight for Raon's heart.

It was a martial art called the Blood Finger Bullet — aura fired from the mana circuits in the fingers.

I figured you'd try that.

Raon swept the Requiem Sword down. Split in half by the savage malevolent energy, the Blood Finger Bullet smashed the boulder behind him to rubble.

The moment the bishop pulled his arm back, Raon drove into his space and swung the Requiem Sword to meet the descending scimitar.

A demonic scream of metal exploded across the hilltop as the hex-laced scimitar and the malevolence-wreathed Requiem Sword collided.

A grinding shriek. The Requiem Sword's malevolent energy thickened like a breaking dawn, became a shaft of red light, and knocked the bishop's scimitar aside.

"Nngh!"

The bishop's face hardened, as if being pushed back by a small dagger had offended him.

"Who are you, and where did you come from?!"

"Sorry, but I can't reveal my identity myself."

"I'll drink your blood myself."

The bishop planted his spread left hand at his waist and raised the scimitar overhead. A ready stance that fired off crushing pressure — the aura of an all-out assault.

I'll take it.

Raon bent his knees and narrowed his eyes. He was about to use his secret dagger arts when the Requiem Sword began to pour out malevolent energy.

A deep hum. The energy that spread with that cry traced a curved path through the air — something like a dance, something like a butterfly's wings.

You want me to follow that?

The Requiem Sword keened once more, as if to say yes.

"I don't know what this is, but…"

Raon nodded and set the Ring of Fire spinning.

That's…

He could see the path the malevolent energy had carved. It was a sword dance — the Dance of Abundance that the people of Siren village had offered to the sacred tree Ocellun.

A dance of plenty, once performed in prayer for the world's peace, had been twisted into a dance of vengeance and resentment meant to sever their enemies' necks.

"Die."

White light erupted from the bishop's hand and blade. It looked as if a wall packed with swords were bearing down on him — the bishop's secret art, the White Soul Wall.

"Fine."

Raon adjusted his grip on the Requiem Sword.

I'll do it the way you want.

He stamped down. Flame-like energy surged up from his lower body and he poured the rotational force of his waist into it. The aura of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames and the Requiem Sword's malevolent energy wove together as one and raced along the trajectory of the sword dance drawn in the air.

A rising scream of steel. With every advance of the Requiem Sword, the energy packed into the blade surged as if it would run wild. The instant he loosed the final thrust, a thunderclap split the air, and a terrifying sword strike erupted from the Requiem Sword's edge.

A roaring blast. The fused power of aura and malevolent energy tore the White Soul Wall apart in a single breath and swept away the bishop and the White Blood Cultists behind it.

"Nngh."

Raon's legs wavered for a moment. He had burned through too much aura in one go; his head felt fogged.

"Hoo…"

He steadied his breath and slowly lifted his gaze.

Beneath the settling sand and dust, nothing remained but blood. Cultist, priest, bishop — they had been erased without even leaving corpses.

"Huh."

Raon let out a hollow laugh and looked at the Requiem Sword. The crimson blade was drinking in the blood energy the White Blood Cultists had left behind as they died, and it shone a deeper, denser red.

Your grudge was far stronger than I imagined.

Strong enough to turn a dance of abundance into a dance of vengeance.

With a faintly bitter feeling, he turned around.

"Urgh…"

"Ah…"

Grier and the knights were sprawled on the ground, eyes stretched so wide they looked ready to tear. They were so stunned they had forgotten how to speak, mouths working soundlessly.

"Y-Y-Young Master."

Dorian crawled over, all four limbs shaking as if he had caught a chill.

"W-What was that just now? Th-That power was like some kind of magic…"

"Who knows."

Raon shook the blood from the Requiem Sword's blade and shook his head.

"I don't really know either."

He had no idea what to call a sword that held more sorrow than even that terrifying power.

Gulp.

Knight Loreil swallowed dryly as he stared at the blond boy standing there as if nothing had happened.

What… what was that?

Wiping out the White Blood Cult with a single sword strike. That was the power of an Expert High-Class. No — the very peak of the Expert realm.

And that child did it…

The strength went out of the fingers he had planted on the ground. Those eyes that had looked so loose and unskilled now seemed to gleam as chillingly as a reaper's.

I was sure he hadn't even reached Expert.

The martial power Raon Zieghart had shown in Camelun had fallen far short of Loreil's own — below even the prince's. And yet the boy had hung swords all over himself, so Loreil had taken him for a reckless pup that didn't know the meaning of fear. He had assumed their kind-hearted prince had simply seen the best in people, as he always did.

But I was wrong.

He was the pup.

Raon was a master who had fooled Loreil's eyes completely. If a single dagger could do that, Loreil could not even begin to imagine what the boy would unleash if he drew a real sword.

You idiot…

While Loreil was busy cursing his own pathetic judgment, the prince rose to his feet.

"Hah, you've gotten far stronger than before."

The Third Prince let out a hollow laugh and walked toward Raon.

"I've trained so as not to fall behind anyone, yet it seems a gap has opened that I can't even begin to close."

True to his open nature, the prince acknowledged Raon's martial power without hesitation.

"You have my sincere thanks. I owe you my life."

He bowed his head as if he had forgotten his station entirely. No one could stop him. Without Raon, they truly would have been in grave danger.

"Th-Thank you."

"Thank you for saving us."

"That was extraordinary."

Loreil scrambled to his feet and bowed to Raon. The other knights approached in hesitant steps and offered their own thanks.

"It was nothing."

Raon looked up at the green mountains behind the hill and shook his head.

"You would have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handled it even without me."

Together with the knights, Raon cleaned up the battlefield, then settled in a new spot.

Unlike before, the knights kept stealing glances at him. It was no longer that faint, dismissive look. Awe lived in their eyes now.

So they only treat you properly once you show your strength.

"Of course. No creature is as weak before the strong and as strong before the weak as humans."

Wrath popped out of the flower bracelet, muttering that they were even worse than demons.

Anyway — this sword is fiercer and more dangerous than I expected.

He stared blankly at the Requiem Sword's flashing crimson blade. It was only like this when they faced the White Blood Cult, but the grudge dwelling in the sword was deep and dense.

"Hmph. Even so, it's nothing but a cheap trinket. Had This King granted you power, this entire region would have frozen solid."

Except you can't.

"Ugh…"

Let's not talk about things you can't do.

"I-It's not that This King cannot. This King simply chooses not to. What This King desires is your body and soul!"

Excuses, as always.

"Excuse?! When This King was in the Demon Realm, countless demons came begging for power. This King granted it to one of them, and…"

Be quiet for a bit.

Just as Wrath was winding up for a tedious story, the Requiem Sword began to tremble.

The energy that had dwelt in the crimson blade started flowing into Raon's body.

"Stop it! That parasite is trying to steal This King's body!"

First of all, this is my body, not yours. And this thing has no intention of harming me.

Raon shook his head. The energy pouring from the Requiem Sword was not malevolent — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was pure, righteous power. He was still turning over what had happened when a message rose before his eyes.