I Liked Swinging the Sword
I liked swinging the sword.
If someone asked what was so great about swinging a blade ultimately meant for killing people, I'd have nothing to say. Still, no matter how you sliced it, I liked swinging the sword.
The world has a rule that what you love doesn't always mean what you're good at. But by some stroke of luck, I was just as good at wielding a sword as I was obsessed with it.
As if I had been born to grip a sword and swing it.
The empire, which had seemed like it would reign forever, crumbled with the sudden death of the emperor. His children all claimed they were worthy of the throne and turned their blades on each other.
As the imperial family tore itself apart in factional strife, the nobles didn't sit idly by. Other kingdoms, eyeing the empire's lands, raised their armies.
Imperial squabbles, noble rebellions, declarations of war from kingdoms.
Seizing the chaos spreading across the continent, demons crossed from beyond the sea, and subjugated races pushed to the continent's fringes by humans surged back in. It was, without a doubt, the most chaotic era in continental history.
In this age of war where the word "peace" was fading into obscurity, the mercenary trade was booming. Even ragtag bands had more work than they could handle.
Born to a mercenary father and a whore mother, I came into the world in a mercenary company.
My company had plenty of kids my age.
We usually did odd jobs, but when the adults headed to the battlefield, we'd grab toy swords and play at sword fighting.
One brag: I never lost a sword fight game. One-on-one? I always won. In group fights? My side always triumphed.
I'd never had proper sword training, so it was clear—I was born with a gift for the blade.
The first real lesson I got about swords came when I turned eight.
"Finally old enough to teach properly."
My father, who'd critiqued my toy sword swings a few times before, stroked my now-sturdier limbs and handed me a wooden practice sword.
In our first spar—something like those play fights—I lost. To a seasoned mercenary like my dad, defeat was inevitable. But it was my first loss ever, and I was so frustrated and heartbroken that I plopped down and bawled.
"Son, you didn't think you'd win, did you?"
Before my father's bemused face, I made a tearful vow amid sobs.
One day, I'll beat Dad for sure.
But sadly, that day never came.
As I said, it was an era of endless war. Mercenary companies were thriving.
When I was ten, Dad never returned from the battlefield. The adults said he'd run into a knight there, of all things.
That day, I shed complicated tears for many reasons. Mom had died of illness when I was three, so Dad was my only blood kin.
Tears for his death's sorrow. Rage at his killer. And frustration that I'd never beaten him myself.
"Which knight killed my father?"
"Don't know the name exactly... but his armor had a blue rose on it."
The blue rose symbolized House Reberto.
The house that hired our company in that campaign lost the war and fell under Reberto's banner. We had to move on to the next job, a new battlefield.
House Reberto.
As we dismantled camp and loaded the wagons, ten-year-old me etched that name in my memory.
I had to leave now, and I was too weak yet. But someday—someday—I'd kill a Reberto knight and avenge Dad.
If I kill the knight who killed the father I could never beat, it's basically the same as me beating Dad, right?
Ten-year-old logic was airtight.
Five years later.
The era hadn't changed, but our company was done for.
We'd been crushed on the battlefield. The captain and most of our core were dead; we couldn't keep going as a company.
"Captain, what now?"
As everyone scattered to survive, the kids I'd grown up sword-playing with came to me. All orphans like me.
"Become bandits?"
Before I could answer, another piped up.
"Pirates?"
Another suggestion.
We only knew fighting; options were slim.
"Bandits, pirates, whatever. Let's just stay mercenaries."
Born a merc's kid in a company, becoming a mercenary felt natural.
"What name?"
"Crow Mercenary Corps."
I didn't overthink it. Battlefields were littered with corpses, always crawling with crows. At fifteen, the animal I'd seen most was crows, then rats.
"Crow Mercenary Corps? Isn't that taken?"
"So what? Plenty of companies share names."
And so the Crow Mercenary Corps was born from fatherless kids, with me as captain, naturally.
Five years after.
The Crows grew massively. Fame from battlefield to battlefield drew recruits; we even absorbed rival companies.
I swung my sword daily. On humans in battle. Sometimes non-humans, mostly orcs.
"Captain, House Reberto declared war on the neighboring Valken lands."
"Fuck, finally!"
Mercs get called to wars, not start them.
"We're with Valken."
"Uh... but Captain, Reberto's army is twice Valken's size?"
"Beating double the odds would feel fucking thrilling, right?"
Hoping Valken wouldn't fold fast, we galloped over. The lord looked glum.
"We can't afford a famous company like yours..."
"Half price. Or payment after, if you can't now."
"Wh-what? Why?"
"Deep grudge against Reberto. Just promise one thing: their knights are mine."
Not everything went my way; I couldn't claim every knight. But Reberto had plenty.
"Ten years ago, in the Cameron territory war—did you kill a merc named Hans?"
I asked countless knights that. Never got a "yes." In this endless-war era, mercs were a dime a dozen; no knight remembered one from a decade back.
When the month-long battle ended and we burned Reberto's banners.
"Gotta get more famous."
Sad that no Reberto knight remembered Dad, I resolved.
"Famous enough that anywhere on any battlefield, they know me. So beating or killing me becomes their lifelong brag."
"Captain, do you really need to try that hard?"
"We're already super famous, and you're even more so."
Leading the Crows to victory over double odds, wiping Reberto—we were bound to blow up.
"Nah, not enough."
I knew it logically, but shook my head.
"Not enough."
What was lacking?
Fame?
The Crows' rep exploded. Mercs flocked without us drawing steel.
Kingdoms eyeing empire status sent letters cozying up. Some offered titles to make us knight orders.
"Not enough."
Burning piles of letters, I muttered again. Staring into the flames, I pinpointed my thirst. Not fame.
This emptiness was from finally getting revenge dreamed of for ten years.
Swung my sword hard for this day. But achieving it? Meh. Whoever the Reberto knight who killed my unbeaten Dad was, among the 117 I slew, none made my head spin.
Now what? Roam battlefields fighting hard—take a break? Grab a title, lord it as knights? Or retire rich somewhere?
Nothing appealed. As flames died, I drew my sword. Its orange glow matched my first grip.
No—even before holding one, seeing Dads or mercs show theirs. A vivid memory from fuzzy toddler days.
Swords were beautiful. I loved swords.
"Fucking not enough."
Strength brings fame.
At twenty, fame overflowed, but I felt lacking.
Not in fame—in strength.
"Who's the continent's strongest swordsman?"
Not me, at least.
"I wanna be the continent's top swordsman. But the Crows are too big now; it's a hassle."
Next morning, I gathered the drunk execs and declared.
"So today, I'm stepping down as captain. Wibel, you're next."
"What? W-wait, Captain, you crazy?"
"You're the strongest after me. You can run it—not as good as me, but fine."
"No, Captain! Too sudden..."
"Won't take pay anymore, just roam battlefields. Wanna join my crazy shit?"
"..."
"Thought not. Don't stop me."
"Captain..."
"Thanks for the hard years. Taking a horse and some gold as severance."
Parting stung a bit, but no regrets.
Looking back, I loved swords—not being a merc. Battlefields? For swinging swords, not gold.
After that.
I hit battlefields daily.
Alone, freer than leading the Crows. No contracts meant no ties to one side.
Fought whoever looked strong. Spot stronger on the other side? Charge them.
"Heard? The ex-captain of the Crows totally lost it."
Even I knew it was mad, but my name spread.
"Sword Ghost!"
"The Sword Ghost's here!"
Three years of that madness, and nicknames outpaced my real name.
"Stop, stop!"
"Sword Ghost incoming!"
"Kill the Sword Ghost first!"
Five more years, armies paused fighting to gang up on me.
Perfect—no choosing needed.
Two more years, battles halted at my arrival.
"You, you, you, you. Step forward, picked ones."
At thirty, I had gravitas; no more reckless charges.
"Won't kill you, relax. Just wanna fight. Not a duel—light, fun."
Two more years.
Fighters sought me out.
Three years later, self-proclaimed followers stuck around. Told 'em to scram; ignored.
Ditched them repeatedly. Roamed distant fields. New followers? Flee again. Lived like that.
I didn't always win, of course.
World's vast, strong abound. Nearly died plenty.
Swallowed rage, fled. Ugly? Better than dying. Survive, grow stronger, fight again, win.
"You spared me then; now I spare you."
That's what I'd say after fleeing, returning, winning.
"I didn't spare you—you ran, you mad Sword Ghost...!"
"Wanna die?"
"Yes, kill me!"
"Nah. Like I came back, wait till you think you can beat me, then try."
Three years like that.
The imperial throne war ended.
Forty years long.
By mid, no new emperor, but royals war-weary; imperial lands somewhat peaceful. Though "peace" meant war normalized.
Seven royals split the lands, calling themselves kings. Rebellious nobles carved independents, dubbing themselves kings too.
World still chaos, empire too—but rolling somehow.
Then it ended.
Empire stabilized long ago, no brutal wars; skipped it.
Ten years back, world similar. Wars routine, no fierce ones.
I chased war news, but blood cooled; no hot fights. Throne war ending? Jaw-dropping mid-meal.
"Ruin Alastor? Who's that?"
Followers said one man ended it.
This guy appeared, beheaded six of seven throne-warring royals.
Sole survivor: Fifth Prince. His lands livable compared to others.
"Dunno. Some hermit training in empire hinterlands... came down 'cause 'enough'."
"What of the royals' knights?"
"Killed all who blocked."
"What?"
"For real. Throne war over; Fifth Prince emperor."
Throne war sparked continental chaos. Ending stabilizes empire, then world.
I love swords, swinging them—but no war-mad wanting eternal war. Peace? Fine. Too many battlefields; war sickens me too.
War's endgame after forty years. Era shifted years ago; people I knew, my circle, me—all changed.
Crows thrived west, no bust.
Followers I shook off? Now fixtures.
I accepted them.
"Leaving mid-meal?"
"To the empire."
"Pardon?"
Couldn't sit still.
One man ended forty-year war. Breached royal guards, beheaded six princes.
Me, Sword Ghost, never pulled that mad stunt. Yet some no-name sword swinger from mountains did.
Curious. Wanted to fight. See his strength myself.
Stormed empire headlong.
Leapt palace walls, bellowed "Ruin Alastor!"
Conclusion: I lost.
First loss? No. Thirty-six years, over ten defeats.
Save Dad's (who died before I beat him), all revenged. True loss? Only Dad's.
Now two. Couldn't retreat like before.
Ruin Alastor's sword.
His sword—how to put it. Even sensing defeat, didn't wanna back off.
"Whoa."
Lifelong sword swinger, countless fights. Plenty losses, way more wins—too many to count.
But first like this. Sensed loss, yet no retreat. Knew more meant death, still no. Clashing blades pure joy. Time vanished. Just a bit more. Swung to the inescapable brink.
Fought long—maybe long. Result: right sword arm severed, chest deeply gashed.
Saw it all with my eyes.
Defeat. Joyful fight over. Death near.
"Whoa..."
I—marveled.
Awe. Even as arm gone, chest slashed, blood poured, death raced—even now.
Loss barely registered; captivated by Ruin Alastor's sword that killed me.
Couldn't stand. Collapsed, looked up at Ruin Alastor.
Blood-red hair. Golden eyes.
Human like me, yet to my eyes—a sword incarnate.
I'd thought born to grip and swing swords.
Loving swords, swinging them.
Loved, loved back.
Arrogant folly, realized before this man. True sword love? His alone.
"One question."
Breathing hard, voice tough, but squeezed it out.
"Among those you've cut down... how do I rank?"
"Top right now."
Forced blurry eyes wide on Ruin Alastor. Wanted to etch life-ender, sword-ender in eyes.
Odd expression—disappointed? Awed? Regretful?
"Right now, huh?"
"Many left to cut."
"Should've... come... later, then."
Chuckled at empty words.
"Sword Ghost Raikal."
He named me. Good I got famous. Dad forgotten by killer; me, remembered.
"I'll remember you."
Wanna reply, couldn't. Vision blacked, strength drained.
Dying. Accepted. Regrets—
Many. Too many.
Didn't wanna end defeated. Fight Ruin again. Win.
Why lose? Training short? Probably. Train more, stronger.
Ah.
Regrets galore, like longings. Fight joyful beyond flight instinct. But wanted rematch.
Lose again probably. So challenge till win.
Till I win.
Aaah...
Why does death end it? Why not savor this joy repeatedly? Dying, truly wished for next life.
Over twenty years wandering. Swords in every field, earned Sword Ghost.
World stabilizing, never quit. Always—always—felt lacking. Fight more. Stronger. Better swings.
See?
Forty war years, no-name ends era. World so vast.
Regrettable.
—Sword.
Something touched limp left hand. Sword hilt. Fallen with right arm. Last move: gripped it.
Sword...
Regrets aplenty, like longings.
Sorry to the sword. If I'd done better. Loved more. Swung harder—no such defeat.
If grip sword again, love it more.
If grip again...
"Waaah!"
"He grabbed my finger!"
My sword-gripping hand clutched someone's finger.