The Blade Sovereign's Broom
In the days when Max, later revered as the Blade Sovereign, was still known as the Gale Blade—a swordsman whose name carried whispers through every valley of the Martial World—an event unfolded that would forever mark his legend.
At that time, the Lord of the Venomblood Clan had departed for Velmora City, summoned to face a rift known as the Hell Gate, where a tide of nightmarish creatures had clawed their way into the mortal realm. With the clan's leader away, opportunity stirred in darker hearts.
That was when the Evil Drake, a martial artist who had long surpassed the peak realm, descended upon the Venomblood Clan with his fearsome host. The Black Dragon Army, hundreds of first-rate martial artists clad in blackened steel, moved like a rolling storm. Their intent was clear: to devour the Venomblood Clan whole and seize control of Velmora before news could ever reach its absent master.
If fate had turned its head that day, the Venomblood Clan would have been reduced to ashes. But fate is a fickle thing, and the Evil Drake had miscalculated one simple truth—he had not accounted for the presence of the Gale Blade.
What followed was not a battle, but a massacre.
Hundreds of the Black Dragon Army fell, their cries drowned in the wind's song. And at the heart of it, the Gale Blade moved, his sword flashing like silver moonlight across a blackened sky. To those who watched from afar, it looked less like combat and more like a dance, beautiful as the crescent moon—yet every arc of that blade left only carnage and silence behind.
When the blood-soaked storm finally ended, corpses littered the Venomblood courtyard. The Evil Drake himself lay broken, and amidst that mountain of death stood only one man—the Gale Blade.
The Venomblood Clan, overwhelmed with gratitude and awe, forged a gift for their savior: the Silver Blade, a masterpiece born of the finest blacksmiths in all the Martial World. A weapon worthy of legend.
And yet, years later…
"It's just a broom," Max muttered, the once-revered Silver Blade now wrapped in cloth and bound with straw, sweeping dust from the Fireheart courtyard.
Was this really alright?
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The afternoon sun poured warmth over the courtyard, its golden rays settling gently across the stone tiles. I sat cross-legged on the floor, the light bathing my skin, and to anyone passing by I might have seemed to be meditating. But in truth, my eyes were fixed on the hunched figure of a gray-haired man methodically sweeping the ground.
Max—the Blade Sovereign himself—was tending to my family's household with nothing more than a broom. Each stroke was patient, vigorous, and strangely dignified, as though sweeping dust were a martial form in its own right.
"…I still can't believe I'm watching the Blade Sovereign clean my courtyard," I whispered, half to myself.
Was this really okay?
Two days had passed since Max and his granddaughter, Isabella, had entered our household as servants. Two days in which my mind had been thrown into chaos more times than I could count.
I'd even asked the Steward why in the world the Blade Sovereign was sweeping floors and why his granddaughter was doing laundry, and the Steward's answer had been as short as it was infuriating:
"It was the Lord's command."
Of course it was. Deep down, I had already expected as much. And even if I had wanted to argue, what could I do? Barrell into Father's study, demanding explanations? No—though part of me almost thought it might have been better to kick up a fuss, perhaps even drive them out.
But the thought of standing against the Blade Sovereign—did I have enough spare lives to gamble with that? No. I abandoned the idea as quickly as it came.
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My gaze shifted from Max to Isabella, who was struggling not far from him.
"Isabella, it's dangerous to carry all that by yourself! Let me help."
She puffed her cheeks, balancing a bundle of laundry twice her size. "No! Isabella can do it herself!"
"Wait, in front of you—!"
"Huh? Kyaa!"
Crash.
"…," I muttered, turning away as the freshly sorted clothes spilled across the ground like a flood.
It wasn't her first blunder. Isabella was treated kindly by the other servants, almost like a younger sister they had to dote upon. But truth be told? She was terrible at chores. Laundry, cleaning, even carrying water—tasks she should have handled with ease given her martial talent—always ended with something falling, spilling, or breaking.
This time the other servants rushed to console her as tears welled in her eyes. At least the laundry had been dropped before it was washed. Small mercies.
I sighed and rose to my feet. Before I could say a word, Isabella bounded toward me.
"Why don't you finish your work first?" I asked.
"I was told to always follow the young master!" she said proudly.
"…Who told you that?"
"My grandpa!"
"…I see."
Of course he did. Max wanted me saddled with a personal servant. Yet to me, it felt more like an excuse than a necessity.
The truth was, the other servants tolerated Isabella because she took on the worst tasks—the ones everyone avoided. And yes, she brightened the air with her cheerful presence. But still… I was the son of the Fireheart Clan. Shouldn't my personal servant be chosen with a little more care than this?
'Did Father and the Steward truly know who Max is? Or are they just throwing servants at me because so many others quit already?'
The more I thought about it, the more likely the latter seemed.
Isabella tried to fuss with my clothes, attempting to straighten the folds of my robe, but her clumsy hands only made it worse. When I told her to stop, her face fell and her eyes shimmered with tears.
'No… is it even right to have her do this?'
I couldn't rely on her. Not yet. And maybe not ever. Still, the sight of her disappointment dug at me.
Time wasn't something I could waste, though. One of the reasons I left the house that day was exactly that—I had no time to idle.
I coaxed Isabella to stay behind, sending her to help with other chores under the excuse of her clumsiness. She looked crestfallen, lips pressed together as though holding back a protest, but she obeyed.
Her disappointment lingered in my chest as I turned toward the gate.
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That was when my eyes met Max's.
He stood with the broom in hand, and though his back was bent and his hair gray, the weight of his presence was undeniable. When our gazes locked, the Blade Sovereign inclined his head in a bow—deferential, respectful.
The gesture sent a cold shiver down my spine. For someone like him to bow to me? I couldn't endure it. I quickly looked away and strode outside, almost fleeing the suffocating air of the courtyard.
At the gate, my escort was already waiting.
Kevin stood with his sword at his side, posture sharp and eyes steady, as though he had been carved from stone.