The Road to Mirtan
Raon's gaze drifted toward Bukmang Mountain in the far distance. What those crimson eyes saw was not the present. It was the day he had first met Vulcan, at the charcoal kiln he had followed Rimer to.
Thanks to him, I was able to learn the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames.
Back when he had been training alone at the 5th Training Ground, restless and anxious because he could not grasp aura, he had found a hint in that charcoal kiln — and with it, he had learned the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames. He had even reached the second star in a single leap.
Vulcan had thanked him for producing Gold Charcoal, but if anyone owed a debt of gratitude, it was Raon.
He remembered his promise to forge me a sword...
Honestly, even if Vulcan had never kept that promise, Raon would have had no grounds to complain. The Gold Charcoal had been a product of chance, but it was thanks to Vulcan that he had learned the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames and even taken frost energy into his hands.
And yet Vulcan had not forgotten. He had reached out again. Raon was grateful beyond words.
"You going?"
Rimer followed Raon's gaze to Bukmang Mountain and smiled.
"Of course I am."
Raon nodded at once.
I can't let an opportunity like this slip away.
Those who had reached the pinnacle among blacksmiths were called Continental Master Smiths, or Grand Artisans. Their skill was said to rival even the dwarves. A Continental Master Smith was offering to forge him a sword with his own hands. Who in their right mind would refuse?
"With the way you are now, I bet they'll make you one hell of an interesting sword."
Rimer's eyes traveled down Raon's gaze, his arms, his aura core, and a crooked grin spread across his face.
"Then head to the blacksmiths' village. The old man's over there building up his body."
"Building up his body?"
"You need stamina to forge a proper sword. He's been conditioning himself for you. You're going to be in for a shock when you get to Mirtan."
"Mirtan..."
He had heard of it. A village at the edge of House Zieghart's territory, where the geothermal heat ran so strong that blacksmiths had settled there in droves, turning out fine weapons and equipment.
"Hey, so, Raon..."
Rimer's eyes rolled this way and that.
"You remember who introduced you to that old man, right?"
"That would be you, Squad Leader."
"That's right! You'd better never forget it. Thanks to yours truly, you're getting a sword from a Continental Master Smith!"
He tilted his chin up as if the entire affair were his doing. In truth, Vulcan was forging the sword because of Raon's own efforts, not Rimer's — but Raon held his tongue for now.
"So, uh... about those gold coins you took. Just a little. A tiny bit, for me..."
"No."
Raon shook his head without a shred of hesitation.
"Aren't you being a little cold? I'm still your squad leader, you know!"
"I'll give you some if you promise not to gamble. But we both know that's not happening."
"I-I won't! I won't even go near a gambling den!"
"Might as well leave a fish with a cat. I don't trust you, Squad Leader."
"Hngh, I really won't go, I swear. I just don't have drinking money..."
"Hah..."
Watching Rimer crumple to the ground and sniffle, Raon let out a hollow laugh. Was this truly the man they had once called Zieghart's Sword of Light?
Raon shook his head, reached into his coat, and held out ten gold coins.
"This should cover your drinking for a while."
"Ohh! That's plenty! Plenty!"
Rimer sprang to his feet and scooped up the coins. Naturally, there was not a trace of tears at the corners of his eyes.
"All right, everyone go get your uniforms and swords as instructed, and we'll meet again. I'm heading out first today!"
He even used footwork, vaulting onto the training ground wall in a blink.
"Ah, Raon! Mirtan isn't used by Zieghart alone, so be careful out there!"
Rimer spun a hand in a lazy wave and bolted toward the Zieghart Commercial District. From the distance came a shout that this time, he would have his revenge.
"He's going to blow it all at the gambling den."
Wrath clicked his tongue, staring after the vanished Rimer.
Obviously.
"And thou still gavest it to him, knowing that?"
This was a test.
"A test?"
That's right. Now that I've seen that performance, I'm never leaving money with him again.
Raon wore a chilly smile. Rimer would never know. His own behavior was going to seize him by the ankle hard enough to snap it.
"Raon."
He turned at the voice behind him. Runaan was looking up at him with that vacant expression of hers.
"Are you going to get a sword made?"
"That's how it turned out."
"I'm coming too."
"You're having a sword made as well?"
"Yeah."
He had assumed she would simply receive a sword as a gift from her father, Lokan Sward. This was unexpected.
"Dad gave me materials for making a sword. I'll share them with you, Raon."
Come to think of it, she had said something recently about sharing a gift. So that had been sword-forging material.
"I'm leaving first thing tomorrow. Will that be all right?"
"Yeah!"
"Then I'll see you here in the morning."
"Okay."
Runaan gave a big nod and left the training ground. She seemed to be going to prepare at once.
"The ice cream girl's face has grown considerably brighter."
It has, hasn't it.
Perhaps she had not seen Siria since that day. Runaan's expressions had been growing, little by little. Of course, she only showed them in front of him, so no one else would have noticed.
I should get going too.
Before he had a sword forged, he needed to commission the uniforms first.
Raon headed for the Five Flowers Squad Workshop with the swordsmen still remaining at the training ground.
"Fufu."
A laugh that mixed nobility with a languid, coquettish lilt. Raon swallowed dryly as he looked at the middle-aged noblewoman standing right in front of him, covering her mouth as she laughed.
How did it come to this?
He had arrived at the Five Flowers Troupe with the other swordsmen, but before he knew it they had all fallen away, and he had been ushered alone into the office of the troupe's head. They had not even given him a proper introduction — just stuffed him straight into the director's office. This place was not normal either.
"It is an honor to meet the vice-leader of the Light Wind Squad, of whom I have heard so much. I am Shiran, head of the Five Flowers Troupe."
She seemed to already know who he was. She bent at the waist with a posture steeped in elegance.
"Raon of the Light Wind Squad greets the head of the Five Flowers Troupe."
Raon set aside his bewilderment and bowed with equal courtesy.
"This is the first time I have seen your face so close. I knew the people of Zieghart were famous for their looks, but I have never encountered anyone quite like you, Sir Raon. Lady Sylvia was remarkable in her own right, but you... you simply take one's breath away. Fufu."
Shiran turned his face this way and that, pouring out admiration without end. The way her eyes shone, as if she were appraising a work of art, was so uncomfortable he thought he might die of it.
"...I've come to have uniforms made."
If he left her to it, he had a feeling he would not make it home today. He stepped back and stated his purpose.
"Ah, of course. I heard from Sir Rimer. Did you have a design in mind?"
Shiran gestured to the mannequins behind her. The uniforms on display were so ostentatious it was as if someone had taken the word splendor and slathered it on with a trowel.
"I prefer a simpler form to something that flashy. As for function, though, I'd like as much variety as possible..."
"Mm, what a shame."
Shiran smacked her lips and closed the distance again.
"Your face is far too striking. If you wear something simple, the design simply dies. That would be a greater pity than dying by the sword."
"That doesn't matter to me."
"It matters to me, the one making it. Art must be elevated as art. Leave the design to me, and I will make something that brings out that face of yours to the fullest!"
Shiran whirled around the room as if she were dancing, beaming all the while.
Why isn't there a single normal person in this place?
A sigh escaped him on its own. In this damned household, finding a genuinely ordinary human being was next to impossible.
"Hah... Very well. Make it splendid, then, but as convenient as possible. Keep the function light, and make sure it doesn't hinder movement."
"You needn't worry about function either. I will weave in as much Cloud Spirit Silk as I can, densely enough to withstand blade aura several times over."
"Cloud Spirit Silk..."
Cloud Spirit Silk was thread spun from Cloud Spirit Moths and then magically processed to raise its strength to the utmost. Cloth made from it resisted a blade's bite and even offered resistance against the four elemental attributes. It was a treasure whose price was whatever the seller cared to name.
"That would be quite expensive, wouldn't it?"
"Ordinarily we use Cloud Spirit Silk only on the vital spots. But Sir Rimer paid an additional fee, so the Light Wind Squad's uniforms will have as much of it as possible. Most of the garment will be covered in Cloud Spirit Silk."
"The squad leader did?"
"He asked me to keep it a secret, but I thought the vice-leader ought to know."
Shiran winked, gesturing for him to keep it to himself.
"I see."
So Rimer had come here ahead of time, paid out of his own pocket, and asked for the finest uniforms they could make. He was a gambling addict, no question — but it was just as certain that he cherished his disciples more than that.
I really can't bring myself to hate him.
Raon looked at the bundle of Cloud Spirit Silk Shiran had brought out and smiled faintly.
"Then I'll take your measurements."
Shiran approached with a measuring tape. As her hands moved along his arms and legs, taking their length, her expression went rigid, stiff as bark.
What is this?
The length of his limbs and the density of his muscle had achieved a harmony that was very nearly perfect.
In all her years of this work she had confirmed the physiques of countless people, but a human body this close to perfection was something she had not seen since Glenn.
More astonishing still was that Raon's body was not yet finished.
His growth plates had not even closed, and already he stood on the threshold of a perfect martial artist's physique.
She had not believed the rumors that he had defeated warriors of the Heavy Martial Division without using aura at all — but with a body like this, it was entirely possible. He would be capable of strength and speed that surpassed human limits.
And it was not martial power alone that was remarkable.
His gaze and his aura were under his complete control. A swordsman of this caliber at seventeen was unprecedented in the history of House Zieghart.
So that legend was not an empty thing after all?
The Legend of the Family Head, which had surfaced at the Selection Ceremony.
Shiran — head of the Five Flowers Troupe, and one of the central figures of the Elder Council — thought of that legend, which she had now witnessed for the second time after Glenn, and smiled faintly.
I may yet end up making the Family Head's coat for this child to wear.
Dawn the next day.
Raon came out to the 5th Training Ground even earlier than yesterday. Unlike before, the grounds were empty.
"Ahem. We shall be unable to enjoy the annex's meals for some time. Can we not at least have breakfast before we depart?"
Wrath rubbed his belly, smacking his lips.
That's not a bad idea, but hunting down new delicacies is good too, isn't it?
"N-new delicacies?"
That's right. Mirtan is a village of smiths, so it draws a lot of visitors and is fairly well developed. Wouldn't it be fun to find a decent restaurant there?
"Hmph! Not a bad notion. Very well."
In truth, eating at the Annex and hunting for restaurants in Mirtan were entirely different propositions — but Wrath nodded as if he understood. As expected of a Demon King who had taken a cover job for the food. The moment meals entered the picture, his thinking narrowed to a single track.
"Well then..."
Raon looked up at the dim sky, where the sun had not yet risen, and drew his sword.
He did not begin with the Refining Sword Technique as he usually did. He went further down, to something more fundamental, and practiced horizontal cuts, vertical cuts, and thrusts in turn.
The tremendous power dwelling in the blade tore through the cold air with a sharp hiss, unfolding Raon's will into the empty sky. Sword strikes carrying swiftness — that most basic principle of martial study — carved the air without mercy.
Not bad.
Both the Refining Sword Technique and Garam Footwork were well-balanced martial arts, so even without having delved deeply into the swift sword, he could still pour speed into his cuts.
"Why hast thou been pursuing speed of late?"
Wrath cocked his head. Lately, whenever Raon was alone, he practiced nothing but the swift sword, and Wrath seemed to find it strange.
I'm looking for a place to put it to use.
Raon raised the energy of Glacia along the edge of his blade.
"Art thou researching a way to wield Glacia?"
That's right.
With the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames he had already poured strength, change, and illusion into his sword. With Glacia, he wanted to try wielding something far removed from all of that: speed.
"Hmph. Thou hast used thy head, I'll grant thee that. But dost thou truly believe a mere human can make use of Glacia so easily?"
Wrath clicked his tongue, as if to tell him to know his place.
You were the one who said it. The most important thing when using Glacia is imagination. If I keep painting it in my mind, it should be possible.
"Guh! Damn it all!"
Wrath, who had been sneering, seemed to regret his own past words; he smacked himself in the mouth.
This one doesn't lie.
Wrath had said that with a proper image, Glacia could do anything. If that was true, then developing an attribute of his swordsmanship with it should certainly be possible.
Silver frost spread across the floor. The cold pouring from his entire body was drawn back inside him, compressed into a single image: speed itself.
Through Glacia's mental imagery, he painted only speed. Wishing for a swift sword that could cut even the wind, he thrust his blade forward, carrying the formula of Swift Current Fang — the fastest form among the techniques of the Mad Fang Sword.
The frost energy racing through his mana circuits burst forth like an explosion, driving the sword strike out at a terrifying velocity.
But that was not the true blow. Along the trajectory the sword had already traveled, a silver line unfurled.
A strike of tremendous power and speed shot out first — and behind it, the frost Glacia had wrought came following after.
A single swing, and two swift cuts. A wondrous swordsmanship.
A single swing. Two cuts. The blade's path, then a trailing edge of Glacia frost along the same trajectory.
"Hah..."
Even Wrath seemed stunned. His eyes flew wide.
"D-don't tell me thou actually conceived of this?"
No. It was a coincidence.
He had only wanted to try wielding the swift sword with Glacia's frost. A two-stage attack had never even crossed his mind.
Maybe it's because of a technique I used in my previous life.
When he had lived as an assassin, he had often used a Hidden Edge — concealing a secret strand of aura behind the blade. That might have been why.
"If I can put this to proper use, it will be a great help."
Raon looked at the frost blooming along his sword and the shards of ice scattered through the air, and smiled faintly.
For now, I'll call it Dual Strike.
He would give it a proper name later. For the time being, he coined the temporary name Dual Strike.
"Raon."
Runaan's voice drifted in from outside the training ground. She still sounded half-asleep, all the strength gone from her words.
Raon erased the ice shards hanging in the air with the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames and walked toward Runaan, who stood holding a silver box.
Having found a new path of growth, his face shimmered — bright, as if it held the rising sun.
"Let's go."