Chapter 1 - The World Where Swordsmanship Disappeared
"You are the pride of our family."
Those were the words my father used to say to me every single day when I was young.
I was born with an overwhelmingly greater amount of mana than anyone else. It was only natural that my father, the head of one of the five great magical houses, would have such high expectations for me.
After all, one's foundational mana is directly proportional to one's magical skill.
Possessing an unprecedented amount of mana, I was destined to become an archmage who would go down in history.
…Or so I thought.
"He has that much mana and he's only just reached the 1st Circle? Isn't he just a cripple?"
When I turned ten.
I finally managed to form my 1st Circle.
And as if they had been waiting for it, people began to tear me down.
"If I were him, I'd be at 4th Circle by now."
"Rich coming from the guy who made his 1st Circle at thirteen. It'd make more sense if I said it."
"Don't get cocky just because you did it a year earlier than me…"
"Still, we're better than that cripple, aren't we?"
"Heh heh! That's true!"
In truth, the average age to form the 1st Circle was between thirteen and fifteen.
But that was the story for children with little to average mana.
For a child born of a great magical bloodline, it was normal to form the 1st Circle by at least eight or nine.
So, for me to have only formed the 1st Circle at age ten, despite having far more mana than any child from the other magical houses…
In a word, it meant I had a hopelessly desperate lack of magical talent.
Time passed like that, and by the time I turned twenty.
My father said to me.
"You are the shame of our family."
That was the day of the party celebrating my younger brother, Aslan, reaching the 4th Circle.
Unfortunately, I still hadn't managed to surpass the 1st Circle.
"To think I had such high hopes…"
It was probably from that moment.
The moment my father stopped having any expectations for me at all.
Even so, I did not give up on the path of a mage.
I couldn't give it up.
I thought that if I worked steadily, if I didn't give up, I too would one day see the light.
In the end, after that day, I began to train in magic alone, without any help from my family.
And 10 years passed.
I was now thirty, and after blood-boiling effort, I succeeded in forming the 2nd Circle.
The next day, a party was held at the estate.
A party to celebrate reaching the 2nd Circle.
However, the star of the party was not me, but my youngest nephew who had just turned ten.
That day, for the first time, I quit my daily magic training.
No, to be precise, I quit being a mage.
Because I realized that the uphill path of a mage I had struggled so hard to climb was, for others, a gentle downhill slope.
…Not long after that.
"Would you not try holding a sword?"
Having left the family estate on my own two feet, I happened to meet a man.
A single phrase, spat out indifferently.
That one phrase changed my life.
"A genius…! I have never seen or heard of a genius like you!"
It was as if all my magical talent had been diverted into swordsmanship.
I showed a genius-level talent for the sword. However, there remained one enormous problem.
"Aura… will be difficult."
In the year I turned thirty-one.
My sword master spoke those words to me.
Of course, I knew as well.
A swordsman's Aura was a power akin to a mage's mana.
The important thing was that Aura and mana were powers of complete polar opposites.
'What kind of blessing is this…'
My body had mana, far too much of it.
For the first 10 years of my life, it was my blessing.
And for the next 10 years, it was meaningless to me.
Now, another 10 years later, this overflowing mana was my curse.
No matter how talented I was with the sword, for this body to learn Aura was next to impossible.
'Don't give me that shit.'
But I didn't give up.
Because the only future left to me was this path.
I couldn't let go of the glimmer of light that had only just begun to appear.
And one year later, I succeeded in making my Aura bloom.
From that day on, my swordsmanship improved day by day.
The Second Coming of the Sword God.
At some point, I began to be called by that name.
And in the year I turned forty.
I finally became the continent's sole Sword Master.
That day, I decided on my life's goal.
To teach the sword to those who couldn't make their talents bloom—whether because they were poor, ignorant, or exploited.
It was with the hope that they too could protect what was precious to them with their own strength.
Because of this, my own swordsmanship grew more slowly than before, but it didn't matter.
I was already stronger than anyone else in the world.
This much is enough.
…Or so I had thought.
10 years after becoming a Sword Master.
A city was established in my name.
Most of the people who lived here were my disciples, and to me, they were no different from family.
"Hah…"
I lifted my head with difficulty.
I slowly looked around the city.
"Please save me…"
A man trapped under debris is pleading for help.
He was my fifth disciple.
"Ah, ah…"
A woman with a large hole in her stomach groans in pain, tears streaming down her face.
The woman's eyes are fixed on her child, who has already passed.
She was my twelfth disciple.
The towering buildings had all collapsed, and the ground was covered in corpses.
Everything I had built up until now was burning away in an instant.
"..."
I turned my head again.
There stood the cause of this disaster.
Aslan Erwell.
The man who became an archmage at the youngest age in history, known as the strongest of all mages.
And…
My younger brother.
Thud— Thud—
Aslan began to slowly approach.
"Why…."
I gasped for breath and opened my mouth.
"Why would you do this?"
There was no warning at all.
Just suddenly, four archmages gathered and attacked the city where I lived.
They massacred innocent civilians and killed my disciples.
"Just why!"
If it had been just one, no, even if it had been two, I might have been able to handle them somehow.
But there were four of them.
Considering that there were only four who had reached the level of archmage in the entire world, it was as if all the mages in the world had attacked me at once.
Even in such a dire situation, I succeeded in killing one of them, but…
"Cough…!"
That was my limit.
"You pitiful bastard."
Aslan, who had stopped in front of me.
He continued with a bitter smile.
"Do you want to know? Why we attacked you, this city."
His gaze as he looked down on me felt colder than ever.
The eyes of someone looking at a loser.
It was miserable.
Memories of my powerless past flickered.
My own form, kneeling before my brother even after becoming this strong… It was so pathetic.
"…I want to know."
I suppressed my boiling anger and barely managed to voice the words.
"Heh heh heh!"
A laugh of clear ridicule.
But there was nothing I could do now.
All that was left in me was the mana that interfered with the circulation of Aura.
"I will tell you. About the great change that is to come."
Aslan's eyes gleamed.
His eyes, filled with swollen anticipation, were somehow ghastly.
"Are you really going to tell him?"
Just then, a woman named Mel stepped between me and him.
She was also one of the archmages who had attacked me.
Following her, a man named Sacnil also came closer.
He grabbed me by the hair and said to the other two.
"What does it matter? In this state, he'll die soon enough even without us doing anything."
"Pfft. That's true."
Mel laughed as if in agreement.
The three of them briefly glanced over the ruined city, and then Aslan turned to me and spoke.
"Now, swordsmanship will disappear from the world."
"…What?"
"It means that at long last, the age of magic has arrived."
Swordsmanship will disappear, and the age of magic will arrive?
What kind of bullshit is that?
It was so absurd that even as I was dying, a hollow laugh escaped me.
"Ha…! Did you really think I'd… just to hear a joke like that…"
"Does it look like a joke?"
"..."
The eyes of the three looking down at me were cold.
Sacnil's were blue as the sea, Aslan's were red as the sun, and Mel's were white as light.
The Magic Eyes, the symbol of the 9th Circle.
Staring at them, I even began to think that they really could change the world.
And because of that.
"Why."
A question arose.
What on earth was swordsmanship to them.
What great thing could they possibly gain by doing this.
"Why…"
Did thousands of innocent people, living peacefully, have to die?
"What the hell is this 'age of magic' to you!"
I shouted, filled with indignation.
"Are you truly asking because you do not know?"
Aslan turned his head with an indifferent expression.
He briefly looked at the corpses that filled the city.
A woman in a blood-soaked dress, a father and mother cradling a small child, an old man clutching a wrapped toy.
He looked at those who, regardless of age or gender, had left the world on the same day at the same time.
And, toward those he had killed with his own hands, he spoke softly.
"Pitiful things."
He turned his head again.
He looked down on me, dying, as if in contempt.
"You asked why."
Aslan continued speaking calmly.
"It's because of you."
"Because… of me?"
"Yes. The deaths of all those pitiful people are because of you."
"…I can't listen to this anymore."
What he was saying was the typical self-justification of a criminal.
I wasn't clinging to life through extreme pain just to hear this kind of nonsense.
"If you won't talk, then just kill me."
"One day, we realized a certain inconvenient truth."
"..."
Aslan continued speaking his piece, regardless of my wishes.
"We didn't want to admit it, but your existence stood in the way. In the end, we had no choice but to admit it."
"…Admit what."
"That swordsmanship is superior to magic."
"..."
"You look like you don't understand. You, of all people, should know it best. Born of the same blood as me, you who once dreamed of being a mage."
Just as he said, I couldn't understand.
And the words that followed, even less so.
"So we decided to erase it. Before you could become even stronger than you are now. So that a being like you could never stand above us again."
"You call that a reason…!"
"It was fortunate."
My hoarse voice was buried by Aslan's.
"That you were born with the same vast mana as me. If you had possessed such talent in a body with little mana… we wouldn't have even been able to resist you."
He extended a hand toward me.
A golden haze shimmered in his red eyes.
He then spoke in a slightly softer voice.
"Thank you. For being born as my brother."
"You crazy bastard…"
"From ancient times, it has been the lot of the mad to change the world."
Aslan twisted the corner of his mouth as if in a sneer.
"Do you have any last words for your little brother?"
A final word, before death.
A last will.
What meaning could that have now?
Once you die, you can achieve nothing.
You can protect… nothing.
If I give up like this, nothing…
'Am I… really okay with dying like this.'
No, of course not.
It can't be.
The massacre that happened in this city must absolutely not be allowed to spread to the rest of the world.
…I cannot die like this.
"Sssuuu…"
I took a deep breath.
I scattered the Aura that had kept my stopped heart beating throughout my entire body.
With this, I will draw my last breath in a few seconds, but it doesn't matter.
Just one more.
If I can just take one more of them with me to the afterlife, to make their plans futile.
Only then will I be able to finally close my eyes in peace.
"Haaah…"
I exhaled.
I moved my legs.
I pushed my torso up.
I lifted my head.
"This bastard can still move…!"
Before their momentarily panicked voices could even finish.
I opened my mouth.
"Ragna."
My sword.
The Ghost Sword, Ragna.
I called to it.
Thwip—
In that instant, the sword that was stuck in the ground was in my hand.
The three of them raised their mana to stop me.
Dozens of brilliantly colored magic circles unfolded before my eyes.
"Stop him!"
Woooong—
I focused all the Aura in my body into one place.
Through the heart, to the right arm, the right hand, and finally, the sword.
Thump—
The final heartbeat moved my body.
I drew my final sword strike.
"…Hah."
I breathed my last.
KAGAGAGAGAGAK—!!
A single great line that split space itself.
The dozens of magic circles shattered like glass, and a powerful shockwave engulfed the three of them.
'With this, now…'
What damage my final strike dealt to them, I can no longer know.
I can only hope that I was able to send at least one of them off.
That swordsmanship, which was my everything, will not disappear from the world.
That is all I can wish for.
"Heok… Heok..."
"Son of a bitch…"
The three of them let out ragged breaths.
Sacnil's arm was torn off, and Mel had a deep gash on her face. Aslan, however, was largely unhurt.
They caught their breath, unable to take their eyes off the corpse on the ground for a long time.
"I thought he was dead, where the hell did he get that kind of power!"
Mel shouted at the corpse, covering her face with her hand.
"SHIIIIT!!!"
Next, Sacnil cursed and picked up the sword lying on the ground.
The sword named Ragna.
Stab— Stab— Staaab!
He stabbed the corpse with it over and over again.
"Stop."
After he had stabbed it about ten times.
Aslan stopped Sacnil in a low voice.
Stab—
He finally drove Ragna into the corpse's heart before stepping back.
Then Aslan continued.
"We were careless. Let this be a lesson so that something like this never happens again."
At his calm voice, the other two calmed their anger and nodded.
No matter how much they vented on the already dead man, nothing would change.
"Hoo… how about we regroup here after a day of reorganizing?"
Sacnil suggested, pointing to his severed arm.
"Let's do that."
With Aslan's reply, the three immediately dispersed to recover their bodies.
And exactly one day later, they gathered in one place again.
The reason was singular.
To create an age of magic, a world of their own.
With the biggest obstacle out of the way, time passed faster than they thought.
…1 year passed.
The families known as the great sword houses were all exterminated.
Naturally, people criticized them heavily.
After all, what they were doing was no different from a massacre.
But no one stepped forward to stop them directly.
No, it would be more accurate to say that there was no one left to step forward.
…10 years passed.
All those who identified themselves as swordsmen vanished without a trace.
Because they feared death.
Because they had faced death.
The world was filled with blood.
…30 years passed.
The term 'swordsman' disappeared.
Everyone in the world began to learn magic.
Magic is right, and swordsmanship is wrong.
That became the natural order of the world.
…50 years passed.
The existence of Aura was forgotten by the world.
…100 years passed.
The history of swordsmanship was erased.
There was no one left who remembered its existence.
…200 years passed.
The world was unified under the name of the Magic Empire.
Emperor Aslan established a new era name to commemorate this, and the sun rose on the 1st year of the Divine Calendar.
…300 years passed.
The three great mages.
Aslan, Mel, and Sacnil.
Now, even in their memories, the existence of swordsmanship was fading.
They hadn't forgotten it completely, but it was no longer important.
And one year after that.
A child named Lael Peron, also called the incompetent of the Peron family, recalled a forgotten past life.
That he had been the continent's strongest and sole Sword Master, Luke Erwell.