Chapter 228
Translator: AkazaTL
Pr/Ed: Sol IX
***
Chapter 228. Matchstick (2)
“You cannot become me.”
That single sentence of yours tormented me my whole life.
Not just when I lived. Even after I died and wandered as a soul.
“Leon Karavan.”
You were a great man. You conquered a chaotic era alone, stood at the highest point of the continent with nothing but a single sword, and glorified your name and your family. The Age of Steel, the Family of Steel, the Continent of Steel, and the Kingdom of Steel. To me, you were my world—my everything.
Everyone praised you. I admired you too. You were a towering father, a strong man, and an unbreakable sword. After I learned the sword, your greatness only grew in my eyes. How could such a being exist in this world? With nothing but a blade, you had reached a world governed by the Seven Lords and the Nine Goddesses. How glorious you were.
I was blessed. The war’s aftermath had not yet ended, yet the honor and prosperity I enjoyed were entirely the result of your achievements. The grand estate, the rich food, the countless servants, the mixture of fear and admiration reflected in the eyes of others—everything was given under your shadow.
But blessings were curses.
“You are incredible, young master. Already forging Armor.”
“I take after my father.”
Your shadow was deep. Too enormous.
“You rival Liam Karavan.”
“You wield a sword equal to Liam Karavan.”
“Just like Liam Karavan……”
Large enough to bury all my efforts and life.
“Am I better, or is Father better?”
Creatures aged. Eras changed. The old exited the stage and the young became the protagonists. Generations shifted and roles changed. But.
“You cannot surpass the head of the family, young master.”
Transcendents did not age. The Absolute did not vanish.
“No one can become greater than him.”
You, perhaps— would never exit the stage at all.
‘You cannot become me.’
Your words pierced my chest. It was sharp for one simple reason— I knew it too.
You were an insurmountable wall. An absolute existence who would reign forever. Admitting that was not difficult. I was proud that a hero shaped by the era was my father. But still.
‘You cannot become me.’
I only wished for one moment of acknowledgment.
One moment of recognition.
One moment of affection.
One moment of warmth.
One moment of kindness.
One moment of embrace.
One moment of a smile.
Not Swordmaster Liam Karavan— but my father, Liam Karavan.
Yet—‘You cannot become me.’
You were made of steel. Closer to a sword than a human.
Not flesh and blood, but a blade with Steel Blood flowing within.
One by one, I began giving up.
You do not need to love me.
You do not need to smile at me.
You do not need to acknowledge me.
Just once—look at me. Look at your son.
See how your son grows.
Amid countless servants and a comfortable estate, I grew up like that. For me, that vast mansion was an empty wasteland—a frozen winter field. No matter how much firewood I burned, the cold never left. Whenever you visited, I showed off—how sharp my sword had become, what I had realized, how closely I followed your footsteps.
But I could never come close to you. The sword I spent a year building, you mastered in a day.
The blade I forged with every ounce of effort was something you had conceived long ago.
One look in your eyes was enough—I knew exactly how worthless I was.
That was when I understood. I would never be acknowledged as a swordsman. I would never receive even a single glance.
But then—If not with the sword, how could I ever be acknowledged by you? You were practically a human blade—a being made of steel. If not with the sword, what could draw your eyes?
I felt the wall. A wall I would never surpass. A wall that is growing even now.
My knees buckled. My hands tore. I spat blood as I swung again and again. But I could never reach you. What was natural to you was not natural to me. Every gaze of yours, every word, felt like scorn. Eventually, even the servants’ eyes seemed to ridicule me.
How could the child of Karavan be so pathetic? It felt like I heard the whispers.
The Age of Steel.
The World of Steel.
The Family of Steel.
The Nation of Steel.
Within steel, I thought.
“Leon Karavan.”
Was I Leon? Or was I Karavan?
Loneliness and isolation. Facing a question I could not answer, I wandered. During those days, I once saw a family walking down the street. A small boy asked his father countless trivial questions—all of which the father tried to answer. I crouched there, watching them.
Would you ever understand my pathetic troubles? Perhaps you would. You were great enough to answer instantly. But I also knew—I could never ask you.
I could not reveal even a sliver of my insignificance. I was already too lacking compared to you.
I could not allow myself to become even more pathetic.
Never.
The next day, I left the estate. I left my land and chose to wander the world.
Perhaps I would never return.
Perhaps I sought a background more fitting for “Leon” the man, rather than Karavan.
I abandoned the Karavan name and became a drifter.
And then—“Leon?”
I met her in a faraway land.
“A mercenary with a strange name.”
My life, filled with winter. Loneliness and solitude— into which a single match was struck.
“Nice to meet you.”
A woman among rough mercenaries.
A mischievous, lively woman.
“Let’s get along.”
A year passed since I lived only as “Leon.” In a distant land, I married a woman. A small wedding. Unbefitting of the heir to the greatest House of the Age of Steel.
And yet—I was happy. So happy it felt undeserved.
Happy enough to forget the name “Karavan.”
Happy enough to wish to live forever as just “Leon.”
But— the name “Karavan” could not be abandoned.
Steel Blood ran in my veins. And the world called for steel. Because of you.
.
.
.
“-!”
I opened my eyes. Before I could even hear the sword’s voice, 「Matchstick」’s memory engulfed me. It wasn’t merely glimpsing someone else’s memory— for a moment, I had become “Leon Karavan,” then returned to reality.
It felt like a dream— but unlike a dream, Leon Karavan’s memories remained vividly. His unpleasant emotions—confusion, anger, sorrow, helplessness, and the love found amid loneliness— left me unable to distinguish whether I was Arhan Karavan or Leon Karavan.
But I regained my senses quickly. Because my ‘anger’ was far stronger than his loneliness or sorrow.
Leon Karavan had everything—yet suffered because he sought acknowledgment and love? His story was tragic, yes. But it was nothing compared to mine. His love discovered in loneliness was nothing compared to my loss and helplessness. Nothing.
“Whew.”
I opened my eyes. A world filled with darkness spread before me.
Leon Karavan’s 「Matchstick」.
The authority contained within the 「Matchstick」— Solitude.
The loneliness and sorrow Leon experienced manifested as a power. Once unleashed, darkness swallowed the world, and all beings trapped within lost their strength. The Dragons’ mighty, unreasonable authorities disappeared completely in this world.
And the sliver of memory I had just witnessed— the momentary hope born within loneliness— that match-like spark in the dead of winter— also manifested as an authority.
Short-lived but intense.
The second authority—Ignition. Just as hope was found within cold loneliness, when Ignition manifested, I could freely use my power within the darkness. Not only that—my original power burned explosively, like the flare of a matchstick.
Solitude. And Ignition. These two were all the powers inherited from my distant ancestor.
Simple—and terrifyingly strong.
A power that originally should not have been granted to me.
『How blessed was the age when one could gaze upon the star-lit sky and read the paths one could walk? And how blessed was the age when starlight illuminated that path?』
But for now, I had been granted it— briefly.
“───!”
“───”
I advanced toward the Dragons trapped in silence and darkness. Unable to see even an inch ahead, they thrashed blindly, while I walked toward them—not slow, not fast, but at the perfect pace.
Reaching one of them, I swung the sword gracefully—like lighting a torch.
When weight settled into the blade, the tip reddened and a flame flickered.
The 「Matchstick’s」 light parted the darkness, drawing a beautiful line. Along that line, the Dragon’s body fell apart into pieces. The moment one died, the Matchstick went out. With a click, the flame vanished, and panic spread among the Dragons.
Again, a spark—tick— and another died.
Flame, steel, and death. Before this absolute authority that was borrowed from a Swordmaster of ages past, the Dragons could do nothing. Only a Swordmaster could face a Swordmaster. The truth that once tormented me now applied to others.
“──!”
Looking at the Dragons— those creatures that had crushed the Dwarves’ pride and drowned them in despair— I saw an old scene overlap. My people, gone with one swing of a Swordmaster’s blade. My land, vanished. My family. My life.
The Dwarves had screamed for help, begged for salvation, longed for vengeance. Just like I once did.
But unlike me—who received no help and died slowly— here, in this moment, I was here for them. Not the Seven Lords or Nine Goddesses who never answered.
For the Dwarves who were too weak to avenge themselves— I was the one to wield the blade of vengeance.
“…….”
Silence descended.
The arrogant Dragons were all slaughtered. Only one remained.
The Matchstick’s authority faded. Darkness vanished, light returned, and murmurs filled the air. Under the returned light lay a fallen Dragon— and countless Dwarves watching this execution as spectators.
The Dragon, close to death, did not resist.
No breath.
No attack.
“Spare me.”
“…….”
“Please. If you kill me too, you won’t handle the Dragons’ wrath. But if you spare me, I’ll go back and convince them. I’ll tell them Karavan acted justly. I’ll warn them never to harm the Karavan.”
“…….”
“It—it wouldn’t be a bad deal for you, right?”
It only begged for its life.
Pathetically.
Disgracefully.
And then—“So please—agh.”
There was no reason to listen.
“──”
The Dragon’s head separated and spun upward. Blood sprayed, and icy silence followed.
The large head spun, turned, and finally fell— onto an old metal statue in the Dwarf Kingdom’s plaza.
Countless Dwarves looked up at me.
Dwight. The Dwarf King. The surviving citizens.
All of them gazed at me— as if expecting something.
A heroic speech. A grand declaration. Something like that.
Instead of words, I acted.
I raised my sword— the blade drenched in Dragon blood.
The Dwarves did not erupt in cheers, did not chant my name, did not clap with exaggerated gestures.
Instead, they quietly closed their eyes and bowed their heads— as if in prayer.
And then— I felt something within me grow full.
「You are getting closer, young descendant.」
Just like in the Southern Continent.
「It won’t be long before it is complete.」