Chapter 95
Chapter 95
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: [Abyssal Miner] Talented One, Strange One, Ordinary One
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Lumina Mining Village's mornings began with the cool breeze blowing in from the mine shafts.
Before the sun had climbed high in the sky, a faint mist wrapped around the village outskirts, and not a soul could be seen on the quiet streets.
There was one old man walking alone through that place.
His graying hair was roughly swept back, and he wore a shabby robe over thin, comfortable cloth garments.
With every step, the robe parted slightly to reveal bulging muscles that stood out sharply even beneath the loose fabric, and his somewhat wrinkled face carried a dignified charm that belied his age.
A plain, unadorned sword hung crudely from his waist, clinking with each movement. At a glance, he looked like a retired old mercenary or an adventurer unable to let go of his youthful glory.
However, if one knew his true name—if one knew who he was—they wouldn't dare lift their head in his presence.
Asina Pendragon.
The living legend revered by every swordsman on the continent, one of the mere twelve Sword Saints in the entire land.
He had claimed the title of Sword Saint at the youngest age in history, first called by that name at just twelve years old.
The boy who, on the day he first gripped a sword, defeated a knight in a duel... Within a year, he had become an unparalleled genius, a monster who outshone even the Sword Saints of his era.
Some said the arc of his swinging blade was as beautiful as art.
His stunning looks, worthy of being called the continent's greatest beauty, led people to dub him...
The Beautiful Sword Saint.
The noble of the world's most exquisite blade.
A boy swordsman who shone alone amid the endless death and scattering blood and flesh on the battlefield.
That was Asina Pendragon at the peak of his glory.
But flowers bloom brightest for a mere eleven days. Now over eighty, Asina Pendragon felt his body growing frailer with each passing day.
No matter how peerlessly handsome the boy had been, time would fade even that beauty.
His swordsmanship, deepened and matured by the years, was ultimately just a facade hiding his aged, worn body.
He felt only the emptiness of life.
Of course, he still held the title of the continent's greatest swordsman, earned by felling the previous bearer in a single stroke.
Even now, if he drew his blade, he could literally cleave mountains and split seas—not in metaphor, but in truth...
'A sword that cannot even cut the heavens—what can it achieve?'
Thus, his life held no meaning.
Though not officially announced, he had retired from active duty and now yearned only to spend his remaining days quietly somewhere.
He had slipped away incognito, ignoring the imperial family's earnest pleas and the knights' desperate begging, even discarding his name.
Wandering aimlessly, he had arrived here in Lumina Mining Village.
"Eh, tsk tsk. This place isn't quite right either."
The old man clicked his tongue and looked around.
It had been two years since he set out to find a suitable spot to spend his remaining fifty or sixty years, yet nothing had caught his fancy.
The village brimmed with vitality, had just the right roughness, and smelled of humanity—it had almost won him over.
"But the air is far too murky."
The demonic energy and dust spewing from the monster-infested mines, mixed with the sweat of the people, assaulted his nose.
Far better than the battlefields of his youth, but not quite ideal for a retiree's rest...
However.
'There are some interesting fellows here.'
One was a bit disappointing, but remarkably, there were three in total.
The first one he had spotted just a few nights ago.
They say you need less sleep as you age, and that night sleep evaded him entirely. He had left the inn and wandered the village outskirts.
Then, rough panting echoed from a nearby clearing.
'What melancholy at this hour?'
Out of curiosity, he approached stealthily and saw a young man swinging a wooden sword.
A youth with a radiant appearance that rivaled his own in youth.
'Heh...'.
But his form was a mess.
His body was covered in bruises, one leg trembling unnaturally as if badly injured.
The wooden sword in his grip was stained with blood and sweat from his torn palms.
Yet the blond youth gritted his teeth and swung anyway.
'Tsk. That brute. If your body's in that state, rest.'
The sight made him click his tongue involuntarily.
Training like that was poison—utterly useless.
Forcing torn muscles and a broken body only ingrained bad habits.
It just slowed recovery with no gains—a fool's errand.
He was about to turn away when...
Whoosh!
The youth's wooden sword cleaved the air.
A mundane downward strike, repeated thousands, tens of thousands of times.
To the ignorant eye, just clumsy motions from an unpolished novice.
'Oh...?'
But the old man sensed a glimmer of talent in that strike.
Not that the motion itself was impressive.
To him, it was sloppy and worthless.
And talent didn't make brute stupidity smart.
Yet, in that instant of the swing, shifting his center of gravity to adjust the sword's arc—that was decent.
Finding the most efficient path for power even with a wrecked body.
'Good.'
Watching further, he saw the form improving each time, instinctively seeking the optimal sword path.
No teacher could instill that.
It was innate talent, pure instinct forging the way.
'A raw gem. A true rough diamond.'
Unrefined, pristine.
Even left alone, it wouldn't be long before a thirteenth Sword Saint emerged.
With proper guidance... what heights might he reach?
'Tempting.'
For the first time in ages, a spark ignited in the retired Sword Saint's heart, filled only with thoughts of a pastoral life.
But he walked away.
He wanted to see how long the boy endured that pain—whether his will matched his talent in steel.
'Those with only talent inevitably break.'
That was the first: the "talented one."
The second he encountered the same night, elsewhere.
His mind lingered on the talented gem, extending his walk until he reached a wooded clearing just beyond the village.
Then, young panting reached his ears.
'Do these youths never sleep?'
Grumbling, he approached and witnessed another odd sight.
The black-haired youth there was the polar opposite of the earlier prodigy.
If that one rivaled his youthful handsomeness, this one looked like someone had crumpled him together haphazardly.
And moreover...
'Is that supposed to be a sword?'
The weapon was absurd.
A massive lump of metal bigger than the boy's torso.
He strained to lift the blunt, ridiculously oversized thing.
To the old man, light enough for one-handed swings, but for most, impossible to even hoist.
Yet sheer strength let him manage.
"Hup...! Grraaah...!"
Face beet-red, veins bulging on his neck, the youth hoisted it overhead and slammed it down.
Boom—crash!
The ground cratered, dust billowing.
His arms, at their limit, gave out, and he fell butt-first, sprawling and gasping.
"Pfft."
The old man chuckled despite himself.
Pathetic.
Form a disaster, grip all wrong, no technique whatsoever.
Just flailing on brute strength alone.
Not swordsmanship—mere labor.
No, calling it labor was an insult.
'He has power, but talent? None, even if you wash your eyes looking.'
Two such opposites in one night.
Merely curious.
Tsk tsk.
Clicking his tongue a second time that night, he watched the black-haired youth pant on the ground, shook his head, and passed by.
But soon, the air-whipping sound resumed from afar.
'What?'
Startled, he turned back. The boy who had collapsed was up again, swinging that monstrosity.
Exhaust, collapse; rest briefly, rise, repeat.
'Troll blood or something? Inhuman stamina and recovery.'
His face could pass for mixed heritage, but...
The old man's senses confirmed pure human—no mixed blood.
Faint mana, organs in human places—wholly man.
Yet that stubborn persistence and age-defying physique.
'No talent, but a decent warrior's vessel...'
The old man now watched with keen interest.
Failing as a swordsman, but thrown into battle, he'd survive tenaciously, ripping throats.
Above all, those eyes appealed.
Not mere desire for strength, but obsession, desire gleaming fiercely.
Don't people thrive on obsession and desire?
In that, he was excellent.
'Worth teaching?'
But no—he shook his head.
Teaching that dullard might kill him with frustration.
[This one?]
[No, not that—the other.]
[Ah! That one!]
Talented sorts communicate with "this, that," but blockheads need every muscle twitch explained.
Better to raise the blond instead.
The old man turned away.
That was the second: the "talentless one."
And yesterday's third encounter.
Having decided to stay in Lumina a while, he scouted outskirts for a home.
No initial intent to linger, but the blond nagged at him.
Checking near District 8 where he'd spotted him—plenty of empty houses, but poor security, noisy nights—not for old age.
"Eh, wasted trip."
Grumbling homeward, he spotted a familiar back at the first clearing.
The "talentless one."
As he moved to pass, the empty-handed youth reached into air, muttered, and summoned the massive sword from nights before.
Just a heavy lump, he'd thought.
An artifact with summoning? Undetectable by his senses—concealment enchantment too.
But that notion soon proved wrong.
A black-haired girl, who'd hidden her presence well, appeared.
"This is my innate ability. Pulled it from my subspace."
"Subspace? Wow... amazing!"
"Capacity limit. Only two slots."
They chatted casually.
'...Subspace.'
The old man had ducked behind a wall to observe.
High magic even grand mages struggle with—from this brute?
Innate, self-awakened, limited—but intriguing.
Freely swapping weapons mid-fight? Tricky for foes.
"Gotta look cool for you, but straining ruins the vibe."
"Pfft, don't sweat it."
'Damn kids.'
They seemed a couple; skill getting that girl, but chasing skirts at training age?
Unfit as disciple.
And then, he nearly exploded.
"Erika. Got something to say."
The black-haired fool critiqued the pretty girl.
'That, that, that.'
His brow twitched furiously.
That hack ruining her—far superior talent!
The upstart dared.
Grah!
Forgetting his hiding spot, he almost yelled.
But the advice—stance, slash, relax power—made sense.
'Hm... sharper mind than he looks.'
Was ready to intervene, but it was usable counsel.
Training resumed: still clumsy, brute.
But...
Whoosh—!
In a flash, his wrist twisted.
The blade traced an eerily fine arc.
Raw, yet completion beyond prior showings.
"Hoo..."
The wielder, oblivious, reverted to form.
Next swing: disaster.
'What was that?'
Confusion gripped him.
Undeniably inept, yet that differed from before.
Watching: amid brute swings, rarely... truly rarely, fine trajectories emerged.
Too blatant for coincidence.
As if a god guided his hand fleetingly...
Good form one instant, back to trash next.
No talent, yet something there... utterly bizarre.
The more he watched, the less he understood.
Innate subspace, solid build, dim-witted yet cunning.
Meager skill contrasting rare flashes.
Like a patchwork chimera of scraps.
That dissonance nagged him.
Thus, the second "talentless one" became the "strange one."
And her sword: unique.
Hilt etched with cherry blossoms, rippling blade gleaming like moonlight on water—elegant, deadly demonblade. Eastern style? A katana, perhaps.
Fine blade, decent talent.
Solid, but ordinary compared to the extremes.
The other two skewed it; still passable. She: the third, "ordinary one."
'Whatever.'
Next time, he'd speak.
With that, he left for the next village—his gear was there.
And today, back in Lumina to buy a home for real.
'Again.'
The black-haired guy and his girl training right in his path.
This vast village, yet everywhere he went...
'Third meeting with that punk.'
Three chance encounters without plans: fate, not coincidence.
A form of connection.
He'd ignored it before.
Now, curiosity burned.
'Time to take disciples.'
He decided unilaterally—no asking opinions.
In eighty years, none defied the once Beautiful Sword Saint— or they ceased to exist.
Approaching with audible steps, both turned.
Presence not hidden; their quick reactions impressed.
'Response time: pass.'
The girl especially—hand on hilt, ready to draw.
Ordinary relative to others, but skilled nonetheless.
He nodded to himself.
'Three isn't bad.'
The youth asked.
"Who are you?"
"Just a passerby old timer. Enjoyed watching you young folks sweat it out."
"Ah, yes. I see."
The black-haired youth's expression shifted, deep in thought.
'Sensed my identity?'
No, impossible.
No one in this backwater knew his face.
Without a name, unknowable—even with one, maybe not.
As he concluded, the youth smirked.
'What? Those eyes?'
He'd liked them before, but...
That greedy gleam fixed on him unsettled Asina Pendragon with an inexplicable unease.