Sword Devouring Swordmaster

Translator: AkazaTL

Pr/Ed: Sol IX

***

Chapter 198 – Ruin (1)

“We made the right choice... didn’t we?”

In the Papal Palace of the Order of the Cross, old men hidden in the shadows murmured to one another.

“Yes... we had no choice.”

“Once it began, we had to see it through. Anyone else in this seat would have made the same decision. Even the sanctimonious High Priest of the Holy Empire would’ve done the same.”

“There was no way we could let it all slip away. This was inevitable.”

They spoke in trembling voices. But the truth was—they knew.

They knew it was all an excuse. Words to numb their own guilt.

The elders of the Papal Palace were not wholly corrupt men. Once, they had been more devout than anyone. Once, they had lived to uphold justice.

Which was precisely why, without such excuses, they would not have been able to endure.

“…Yes, anyone would have done the same.”

Their once-trusted Great Warrior Ismael had betrayed them. Because of Arhan Karavan’s rise in the Southern Continent, the standing of the Order of the Cross had crumbled. And the newly appointed Great Warrior’s grand debut had ended in utter failure.

At this rate, the Great Warrior of the Sun would join the Holy Empire, and when the victorious Holy Empire attracted the great powers of other continents, the Order would stand no chance.

The Papal Palace had once tasted the threshold of victory. They could never return to how things were. Especially if what lay behind them was far more pitiful than they’d imagined.

“We were not wrong.”

The elders of the Papal Palace looked toward the old man sprawled in the darkness. He was blind, strung up on a spear shaft, barely clinging to life, still invoking the name of the Sun.

They all knew who he was.

The mightiest force of the Holy Empire— The very figure the Order had feared most— The Great Warrior of the Sun, Monk Buddha.

He had reached the Papal Palace.

Having chased the fleeing Great Warrior Aaron, Buddha had learned the truth— that the Papal Palace had taken the hand of something else.

The old monk had demanded an answer.

How could the Papal Palace fall to such depravity? Where were the disciples of the Cross who once upheld justice beneath solemn rule? Come to your senses, even now—That righteous rebuke had been sharper than any blade. Being stabbed would have hurt less.

Such nobility, such brilliance. Though they followed a different god, Buddha’s light was too dazzling not to revere. Blinded by his brilliance, the old men could only avert their eyes. And then.

“Why… did you do it…?”

They had fallen, at last, to a sweet temptation.

“Why in the world… did you do such a thing?”

A ragged breath broke the silence, followed by a bitter, grieving voice.

It was Buddha. Even as he barely clung to life, the greatest Great Warrior wept. No one could meet his eyes. Not a single one of them.

“Do you even… know…?”

The Great Warrior of the Sun had been subdued far too easily. Yet as they looked upon the kneeling monk, not a shred of triumph stirred in the hearts of the elders.

Truly—not even a little.

“Do you know… who you brought in? Whose hand… you took?”

The Descendant of Khan had kept his word. He had gone outside to “take care of everything.” And surely, he could. They all remembered the moment Buddha was struck down. Before the god of war descended to earth, Buddha had been nothing more than an old man.

“You… have taken the hand… of a demon.”

Buddha was still crying. None of the elders could look at him. But his mournful voice, echoing from the darkness, pierced their hearts.

“You’ve released a demon upon this land…”

Sharper than any blade.

***

Meanwhile…

Tonight would be a night the people of Visente would never forget.

Thanks to their generous guest, Zeppelin Gold, the celebration was dazzling and joyous.

That sociable man had supplied barrels of chilled beer, mountains of meat, and exotic dishes the townspeople had never tasted.

Minstrels sang ballads the people had grown up hearing, and for the first time in a long while, the townsfolk laughed, drank, and danced without restraint. Among the young men and women, some had surely met each other’s eyes tonight.

Some beautiful couples had already slipped away from the crowd, to enjoy a sweet moment of youth for themselves.

The elderly would smile, remembering days long past.

The youth would cherish this moment as a memory for life.

The children would dream of the day they too would feast and revel in their own bright youth.

Yes. Tonight was supposed to be unforgettable.

“...Oh, gods.”

Sun Priest Oren looked out over the festival, now washed of its light.

The ones laughing moments ago now screamed and ran. Parents held the corpses of their children and wailed. Children wept over their dead mothers and fathers. A husband carried his young wife’s corpse on his back, laughing madly.

Cold beer lay spilled across the ground, and red blood splashed across its golden foam.

Plates overturned, fine food scattered over it all.

Where once there had been music and dancing— now there were only corpses. And more corpses.

Oren stared blankly at the darkness without even rising to his feet.

In that darkness, there were men on horseback. Riders who swung spears while yelling in a language from the East.

They galloped through the city, with the heads of the slain swinging like trophies from their saddles.

Oren thought to himself—Is this a dream? Am I drunk? If this is reality, then it’s far too cruel. Why must this happen to us? We had found joy again. We were ready to embrace peace and life— Why are we suffering this trial?

Is this truly the world the gods created? Is this truly the fate prepared for us by the Sun?

What were we born for? What… were we born for…

“O Sun, my god…”

Oren looked up and asked the sky, even until the very end.

But the heavens gave no reply.

As he gazed upward, a thick rope came flying and wrapped around his throat.

Kekh.

With that choking sound, Oren was pulled off the table and dragged. His back and hips were scraped bloody as he clutched the rope and turned his head.

There stood a man grinning with joy.

A man treating this all like a game.

He laughed as he loosed arrows into fleeing crowds.

He cheered as he ripped the heads off parents shielding their children.

To Oren’s eyes, this man was no human.

He was a demon. They were all demons.

Demons riding across the grasslands…

“O… god…”

***

The Descendant of Khan— the man called a war god descended to earth—had not come alone.

He arrived with his proud warriors.

Warp gates opened all across Visente. Warriors on horseback surged through the city, and like hunters in a great contest, they rode down and slaughtered the innocent with great enthusiasm.

“Ah…”

The site of the festival had become a killing field.

Cutting down the helpless with wild joy, the warriors of the plains laughed with abandon.

And I, I could do nothing but watch this nightmare unfold.

I could save no one.

I could help no one.

“Descendant of Steel. Last of the Karavan.”

Because I had not been granted the right to move.

“So you’re the one who was chosen by the First Karavan not long ago?”

“……”

“Pathetic. It’s almost disappointing how far below my expectations you are.”

The Descendant of Khan twitched his brow as he looked at me.

“Carlos… that arrogant Sword of Heaven—why was he so wary of someone so lacking?”

He approached. And under the crushing pressure that felt like it would shatter my body, I bit down on my lip until it bled. With trembling hands, I somehow drew my sword and swung.

My stance was broken. There was no strength in my swing.

The Descendant of Khan didn’t even bother to dodge.

He stood there, unmoved, as my blade came toward him.

“The Sword of Heaven. The Seven Lords. The Nine Goddesses. All of them were cowards.”

Klang. My sword flew from my grip. It hit the ground and stuck upright.

The Descendant of Khan looked down at me with scorn.

“What can something so pitiful possibly do?”

“……”

“Is this what they feared? That this would grow strong one day? I cannot understand it. Even if you grow powerful in the distant future, even if you hold brilliant potential—it’s all just possibility. It hasn’t happened yet.”

The Descendant of Khan drew his sword.

“War devours everything.”

“……”

“War tramples all things with potential. War extinguishes every spark. War buries all things that shine.”

His jet-black horse let out a cry. It wasn’t a whinny. It was a scream—an inhuman, demonic wail.

A cry so terrifying it chilled the soul.

“Regret meeting me so early, pitiful scrap of steel.”

“……”

“I will not wait for you to harden. No war ever allows the young to grow.”

No matter how I thought it over— there was no way out.

Running at this distance from a Swordmaster was impossible.

Fighting back? Not a chance.

No matter how deeply I doubted, no path revealed itself.

Of course not. Even children knew this truth—Only a Swordmaster can kill a Swordmaster.

Ah.

And then—“You’ll vanish here, and now—”

Only a Swordmaster can face another Swordmaster.

“……!”

Klang! A piercing sound rang out.

The sword the Descendant of Khan had pointed at me was suddenly pushed back.

No one could force back a Swordmaster’s blade.

No one but another Swordmaster.

“Why…”

An equal. Another Swordmaster.

“Why… are you here?”

I looked forward. There, before me, was an emblem. A crest shaped like a wave.

Only one man bore it so proudly.

“Hugo Rhapsody.”

The long-missing Head of House Rhapsody.

The former ruler of the Free City.

“Why… are you helping Karavan?”

The Descendant of Khan’s voice dripped with venom.

But Hugo Rhapsody answered plainly.

“Because this is our youngest’s one and only friend.”