Sword Devouring Swordmaster

Translator: AkazaTL

Pr/Ed: Sol IX

***

Chapter 147. Legend (4)

The Sky Mountains — the forbidden realm of the continent, the land of mystery.

They were no mere geographical formation.

They were the first mountains, the ground that had received the heavens’ breath since the dawn of time. And within that sacred land dwelled a will — vast and solemn, nearing that of a god.

The will of the mountain existed bound to the oldest law written by the gods themselves:

Those unworthy shall not draw near to the heavens.

In the present age, the seven races called this “worthiness” many names: the Great Warriors of the Nine Goddesses and Seven Lords, the pure-blooded heirs of royal lines, the masters of the sky — the Dragons. But in truth, it was not they who decided worthiness. It was the mountain’s will.

And since the mountain’s birth, it had never once changed its standard.

The races of the continent believed that only Dragons met that standard— but that was only because Dragons happened to embody it.

True worthiness was simple: To be unbroken.

Throughout the long ages, almost no beings met that mark. Not the famed adventurers, nor the kings who led armies to conquer the peaks, nor the magi who claimed mastery of truth.

None.

Only the Dragons— and a rare few human Swordmasters.

Those who stood utterly convinced that their world was right, even when all others screamed that it was wrong. Those so certain, so unyielding, that the heavens themselves could not sway them.

「…A peculiar human.」

Thus, the mountain’s will fixed its gaze on one such human. A fragile being, yet with a spirit as unbreakable as any who stood at the world’s center.

Could it be, the mountain thought, that this human was truly of the Karavan bloodline? A descendant of the one who once ruled an Age of Steel?

Yet still… he was different from that man.

That man, too, had wielded the souls of blades, as all Karavans did. He crushed those souls beneath his will and consumed them like sap from a tree— for he was too great to coexist with anything lesser.

But this human…

「That was close, huh. Nearly got himself killed again.」

「Tell me about it.」

He was unlike his forebear. His inner strength rivaled that of transcendent beings, but the rest of him was utterly lacking.

Had he faced the trials of the elements, the spirits, or the heavens head-on— he would have perished.

Yet, unlike the ancient Karavan, he had reached Heaven’s Summit in his own way.

「Didn’t even get to use that pretty face before dying. What a waste.」

「Says the mercenary whose own face is half-burned.」

「What was that, you bastard?」

「Sky Mountains, eh… Dorothy would’ve loved this view. She always spoke of the splendid sights beyond the Labyrinth City.」

「Humans! Enough nostalgia! The Great Plains of my people are far more beautiful! Now that he holds my memory, he must visit them someday!」

「Shut up, you damn orc.」

The souls of the swords resting within him— they had protected this fragile human.

「If only we could always guard him like this.」

「The stars… so beautiful. More than in the age of stars itself.」

「For a second there, I thought he was gonna break.」

Their voices carried genuine fondness— these blades truly cared for him.

「…He would never break.」

Among them stood a man with steadfast eyes and a gentle smile.

「For Young Lord Arhan will one day leave his name upon the history of this continent.」

Watching him, the mountain’s will mused that it had not seen such a sight in ages.

From high above, amid the clouds, the enraged roars of divine beings echoed— but the mountain was not bound to heed them. It would open itself to any who met the condition.

And this one had.

Then the mountains will noticed something else— one more spirit hovering near the human, unlike the rest.

Not one of the devoured sword souls, yet the closest of them all.

A faint, flickering spirit radiating tender affection, holding tightly to an old book.

Its light shimmered like a firefly.

The cover of the tattered book read: “The Knight of La Mancha.”

***

There were no miracles in this world.

“Come on… sprout again, wings.”

My second attempt at the climb ended in failure.

This aged body was far beyond repair— a relic that should’ve been resting beside a warm hearth.

I had spent my last years chasing adventure, basking in fame alongside my son— and the price was ruin.

Then came the fall.

“I beg you…”

I survived—barely. But survival meant little.

My hands trembled too much to grip the rock.

My body creaked like old wood.

It whispered to me: Your time is over.

A worthless old man.

A father too feeble to carry on his genius son’s dream.

“Please… sprout again…”

The heavens themselves seemed to answer:

No more.

Every age, it seemed, demanded the old step aside.

There is no country for old men.

Under the same beautiful sky, I lost consciousness— falling like a bird that could no longer flap its wings.

One miracle had spared my life once before. There would not be another.

My body shattered beyond repair.

“Is that the old fool?”

I heard them.

“The madman who tried to reach the sky.”

“They say his son’s dead and he’s crippled now. The son was a fool too—couldn’t even speak right, a lump of meat pretending to be human.”

The sages once said: The son follows the path of the father.

But my twilight was the inverse.

The father was retracing the tragedy of the son.

Now I, too, was caged— a living relic, unable to move or even end my own life.

“Why did he dare challenge the heavens?”

The boy who had once dreamed of Flight was gone.

The father, too, was broken—punished for defying the sky.

“Filthy thing.”

“Humans should learn their place.”

How I despised that sky. Yet how beautiful it was— the same sky my son had loved.

My mind, though trapped in ruin, was clear as crystal. I gazed upward, day and night, for when I did… I could almost hear his voice. The voice of my son, once cradled in my arms, laughing, dreaming of wings.

Time passed. Hatred, grief, resentment—all eroded.

Even the people forgot me.

I still became older. My body decayed, my mind sharpened. And the sky remained—blue, endless, pure. Just like Heaven’s Zenith — the Azure Heaven.

I could no longer feel.

How had my son endured such torment for so long?

How had he never lost hope?

I began to admire him more than I ever had.

Sometimes, I wondered if I was already dead, trapped in some cruel purgatory.

I could not speak. I could not move. I could only pray for the gods to take me. And still, I could not look away from the sky.

“Please, stay still.”

The priestesses of the Goddess of Light tended me. A rotting husk that soiled itself, stinking of decay— yet still alive. Still clinging to the world I no longer wanted.

Until one day—“Father.”

A woman came to me. Middle-aged, blue-haired, flanked by two boys.

Their faces were bright, innocent— and so achingly familiar.

“My apologies for being late. It took years to find you.”

She was my son’s wife. Back when my son had been a famed inventor, she had carried his child—two children.

Now she stood before me, bringing my grandsons to the wreck I’d become.

“They wanted to see your face. He always spoke of you, you know. Said he could dream of flight because of you. That you were the reason he never gave up.”

I wanted to deny it.

I was a poor father, unworthy of such praise. But when I tried to close my heart— tears fell instead.

Hot, searing tears.

“Grandfather.”

I looked upon my grandsons—twins, it seemed.

“We want to fly too.”

“Up there, like birds.”

Their eyes held the same light I’d once seen in my son.

The same fire.

“Mother said you can’t talk anymore. But you can hear us, right?”

“Then please remember our names, okay? So when we meet in heaven, call us. When you call, we’ll fly to you.”

“I’m Wilbur Wright.”

“And I’m Orville Wright.”

Their eyes sparkled.

“Everyone calls us the Wright Brothers. One day, we’ll fly higher than anyone.”

Ah…

Dreams endure. Invisible threads, passing from father to son, to grandsons. Almost as if by heaven’s will.

But heaven is cruel.

The same cruelty that struck my son returned.

Dragons — the lords of the sky.

They descended once more to erase the third generation.

Wings unfurled. People bowed in terror.

My daughter-in-law shielded her sons, pleading for mercy.

And I— still trapped in my useless body— could do nothing.

Heaven spoke again: This is your fate. You will serve as proof that man must never dream of the sky.

My son. My grandsons. All to be erased, mocked as fools for daring to rise.

“Ah…”

Then, suddenly—clarity.

My body moved.

Gasps filled the room. Even the Dragon’s eyes widened.

The relic of a man stood, burning from within.

“Ahh…”

What is Flight, truly? To fly— is to resist.

Every being is born bound to the earth.

To rise is to rebel against the natural order.

To defy gravity, fate, and the will of the heavens.

“Sprout again, my wings.”

At last, I understood what my son had sought his whole life.

The foolish old father had finally glimpsed the truth his son had seen in youth.

Flight was resisting.

The defiance of the low against the high.

The poor, living with dignity.

The old, dreaming like children.

The broken, refusing despair.

Every act of defiance—was a form of flight.

“Let’s fly, just once more.”

I gripped the short sword I once carried in our journeys together.

The Dragon roared— and I soared.

Not metaphorically.

My body truly rose.

Faster than sight, I reached the beast. The world turned blue— from earth to sky, everything was Azure Heaven.

“Let’s fly once more…”

Thud.

The Dragon’s head fell. Its body collapsed into pieces.

Blood drenched me, but I lifted my gaze.

Above me spread a flawless blue sky.

And in that brilliance, I saw faint forms— eyes watching from beyond the clouds.

The gods themselves.

I met their gaze, and smiled.

“Well then… exalted ones.”

My body was breaking apart. But I had one last thing to say.

“…Do you know the story of the Taxidermied Genius?”

That— was the final moment of one old adventurer.

***

When I opened my eyes—

『Noble youth who lives with purpose. You who defy the heavens and leave a path of greatness.』

The old adventurer stood before me.

『Contrary to what you think, I never reached Azure Heaven— not even the mists you’ve passed. What my son and I saw was merely a clear sky we mistook for heaven. We were fools.』

His spirit began to fade, dissolving into light that flowed into me.

『My end was pitiful compared to your world. I only wanted to rise once more. Whether that was meaningful or not… who can say? I only hope my old blade serves you well.』

He smiled.

『Ah… that cloudless blue sky… how beautiful it was.』

Behind him shimmered countless faint souls— his son, his grandsons, every life he’d touched.

They merged together— and became a sword.

『May our small legend aid you.』

Under the blue sky, within a single ray of light, 「Flight」 was fully absorbed into me.

Fulfillment surged through me— and then the final voice echoed:

『Now, nothing will bind you again. Nothing at all.』

『For that is our legend.』

When I opened my eyes again, my master’s voice spoke:

「It won’t be long now.」

A tone filled with satisfaction.

「The day the world pays the price for forgetting the Karavans.」

***

The mountain shook.

Boom!

The ground trembled violently beneath my feet.

A landslide’s prelude— the earth itself roaring.

But I did not panic. I lifted my sword calmly.

From above, the heavens’ tidal wave of power cascaded down.

It felt as though the world itself was collapsing.

And yet— I felt no fear.

Not anymore.

With the new power of my sword, I had no reason to.

“Hoo…”

I closed my eyes. Opened them again.

And spoke—

『Wings… sprout anew.』

The world before me turned blue.