Becoming the Blind Sword Saint
One day, a voice of unknown origin spoke to me. It asked if I desired anything for the new life I would live in this dark fantasy world devoid of dreams or hope.
I answered.
"In a dark fantasy world without dreams or hope, I'm just a fearful, weak human. So please take my sight, that I might face any situation without fear."
"In exchange, grant me the power to overcome any danger that comes my way."
The voice replied once more.
"Commendable, sacrificing one of the five human senses to banish the emotion of fear. But it's still not enough. If you wish to triumph even in situations where your life hangs by a thread, you must offer one more price."
I pondered briefly.
But the answer came quickly.
Having already paid the price of lifelong blindness, what greater sacrifice could there be?
So I offered up one arm as well.
Only then did the voice seem satisfied, leaving behind a message straight out of some middle-school chuunibyou delusion—"The contract is established..."—before vanishing.
And so I was cast into the dark fantasy world as a blind, one-armed child.
Age one.
My commoner parents took one look at my condition and decided I couldn't work the fields or be tutored for success.
I was abandoned.
Age three.
Fortune smiled as a passing slave trader picked me up. He took a liking to my "birthright" as a one-armed blind boy, dubbing me a rare novelty slave worth keeping as an ornamental pet, and afforded me something resembling care.
Age ten. They say humans sharpen their remaining senses when one is lost. To overcome the fatal flaw of blindness, I recalled knowledge from my past life about echolocation.
In time, I mastered sensing terrain and objects via ultrasound, moving almost like a sighted man.
My value as a slave skyrocketed.
And from that moment, the system—having claimed my right eye and arm—bestowed the talent I would need to survive this brutal dark fantasy world.
The talent named Sword Saint.
Age eleven.
While honing the crude swordsmanship of the slave traders with a rough wooden sword, my talent was accidentally exposed to the boss.
But instead of whipping me or confiscating the sword, he handed me two top-quality wooden blades and said,
"A blind, one-armed slave with insane talent... I'll raise you up, sell you off, and quit this damn slave-trading life."
"...Thank you."
At first, I'd tried using informal speech to survive this harsh world and avoid scorn as a one-armed blind kid. But coming from a culture of Eastern courtesy, it was hard against elders—especially when it might backfire spectacularly here.
A month later.
The instructor the boss brought was a third-class mercenary from a once-renowned company, now a down-and-out drunk scraping by in the alleys—a common sight in this dark fantasy world.
"Pfft! Hey, Bedin! You're seriously paying two silver a month to teach swordsmanship to this crippled freak?"
He scoffed at first, mocking the boss for assigning him a one-eyed, one-armed brat.
But when I mirrored his swings using only sound and air currents, his face hardened.
"Ahem... Well, talent's there, huh? Fine, I get paid either way."
Grueling training began that day.
Age thirteen.
Nine months into serious sword training, the mercenary declared he had nothing left to teach at his level.
He even admitted my talent unnerved him since losing his first real-sword spar to me.
No wonder. Physical superiority, experience—none mattered against the overwhelming gift I'd gained losing sight and arm.
Above all, my ultrasound perception left no blind spots.
"If you become a famous swordsman someday, proudly say Roman taught you the basics."
"No thank you."
"That's awfully firm. What's wrong with me?"
"Is that even a question? You're the mercenary dishonorably discharged from the ranks, aren't you? How could I claim a Sword Master learned from a man like that?"
"...Damn, you leave me speechless."
He left after that.
My status rose to guarding the caravan.
And despite the sudden real combat with no prep time, my blindness kept fear at bay as I dispatched the rat-like bandits raiding the slaves.
Age fourteen.
I began wielding energy beyond form.
Channeling mana from my dantian to the blade tip came smoother than expected.
One arm meant no two-handed heft, but lighter, erratic strikes exploited gaps masterfully.
From then on, the boss treated me less like merchandise, more like a trusty bodyguard.
Age sixteen.
I fully adapted to this dark fantasy world's thick stench of blood and constant pillaging.
I couldn't see the carnage, but smell and sound painted it vividly.
Yet the system-erased fear kept my mind a serene lake.
I simply ate, slept, swung my sword, day by day.
Age nineteen—the finale.
The mana swirling in my body finally coalesced beyond sword energy.
Sword Master.
Ten years faster than Claire, the tower master hailed as the continent's youngest.
'Claire... that name rings a bell. Probably nothing.'
The day my sword energy glowed blue, slicing steel like paper, the boss dropped his beer mug.
He stared blankly, then chuckled in disbelief.
"I didn't raise merchandise. I raised a monster."
I debated briefly, then decided to repay the man who'd sheltered me and placed a sword in my hand.
I recalled his drunken mutterings about quitting the bloody slave trade for a normal life.
Plus, for a dark fantasy slaver, he'd treated slaves decently enough.
After mastery, I used my power to cleanly settle the back-alley turf wars.
With the funds, I helped him and the crew form a legitimate caravan company, securing promises to hire the remaining slaves as full staff.
On parting day:
"You're really leaving?"
"I owe you all so much. Take care."
Leaving the boss sniffling uncharacteristically, his disappointment plain, I stepped lightly out of the city.
My aimless wandering truly began.
. . . .
A year of drifting continent-wide.
At twenty, having glimpsed part of the world, I finally grasped the nagging deja vu.
'This is the world from that game I used to play.'
Sightseeing and new info had planted the seed of doubt—this wasn't your average dark fantasy.
It was a doomsday RPG of extreme difficulty, overrun by mad disasters and fallen demons.
Combining current events with memory fragments, the main story wouldn't kick off for five more years.
I tossed a branch into the campfire, thinking,
'Perfect.'
No grand purpose anyway—just endless wandering.
Might as well seek out key figures early, redeem them before the world crumbles.
'If time allows, track down the parents who ditched me.'
Not for revenge. I'd understood their position the moment they left.
Just... to show I'd thrived despite it.
Decision made, I stood, brushing dust from my clothes.
"Then let's start by rescuing Enetua, the Corrosion disaster undergoing human experiments right now..."
"Hah... hah..."
Ragged breaths echoed through the dark forest.
Princess Rihella Leyseras of the Leyseras Kingdom ran blindly onward, oblivious to her dress tearing on branches.
Beside her, her maid staggered on the verge of collapse.
Behind, the clash of steel and screams mingled endlessly.
The rebels and their hired assassins pursued relentlessly.
Bloody spittle trickled from Rihella's lips.
Her legs trembled; her heart pounded to burst.
Her stamina had long hit its limit.
"Nngh... Your Highness."
Knight Captain Rowen, bloodied in dented armor, blocked her path.
Three surviving knights gripped swords tightly behind him, gasping.
All bore grievous wounds.
"R-Rowen? What are you doing?!"
"We'll hold them. Keep running—once you're out of the forest... there'll be a way."
As he readjusted his grip and glanced back—
"Ah..."
The maid pointed shakily ahead.
Rihella's gaze followed.
In a moonlit forest clearing stood a lone, eerie figure.
A greatsword half a man's torso slung on his back; three differently shaped swords at his waist.
His upper face shrouded in thick cloth.
His ragged coat fluttered, revealing an empty left sleeve flapping limply.
Common sense screamed caution at such a bizarre sight.
But terror and exhaustion shattered Rihella's reason.
Clutching at straws, she stumbled forward.
Collapsing to the dirt, she squeezed out,
"Pl... please... help us..."