Translator: AkazaTL
Pr/Ed: Sol IX
***
Chapter 111. Ballad (2)
Bards road the world, singing. Of legends, of heroes, of love, of lyricism—and of life itself.
The world called their songs Ballads.
***
In the western reaches of the continent lay the Iron Kingdom of Cherville. Far to the south sprawled the Verdí region, a land so insignificant that people often called it a backwater or frontier rather than by its na. Its people were as humble as its soil.
The residents of Verdí were unlike those of the Iron Kingdom. Their lives were ruled not by strength, but by practicality. They fard, raised livestock, made milk and cheese, and produced wines they sold to the cities. Most had never once held a sword. The only blades they handled were scythes or kitchen knives.
A land of uneducated peasants who could barely read—and there, one day, a clever boy was born. He ca from a poor but honest family. His parents, who had made cheese all their lives, hoped their bright son might live differently.
They knew he was sharper than they were. So they decided to send the boy to serve the most noble lord of that remote land—for if he stayed, he’d surely spend his life making cheese until the day he died.
Thus, the boy ca to live not in a shack, but in a manor.
“You’re the new servant, eh?”
“Yes, sir!”
And with the eagerness he’d been taught, the boy answered, “Please, call Sancho!”
Sancho. That was the na he ca to bear. Like all boys, he grew up quickly. He tended the small manor—humble by city standards, yet the grandest house in Verdí.
He began as a servant, rose to a butler, and in ti beca the most capable of all the household retainers. And then—
“Sancho, look at this.”
Now a man, middle-aged and part of the manor itself, Sancho saw the dazzling smile of his master—a smile so radiant it made him think, so a person can smile like that.
“Co closer, my friend.”
When Sancho approached, he saw what his master held tenderly wrapped in cloth—a tiny bundle of life.
“Hold him. Go on.”
He obeyed, taking the fragile bundle into his arms as though it were made of glass.
“How is he?”
Small, frail—like a candle that might vanish with a breath. The baby breathed softly. So light—so delicate.
“I’ve never had a clear goal in life, Sancho. I’ve just drifted—like a man swept by the current. Wandering.”
“……”
“But today... I think I’ve finally found my purpose.”
His master—hair tousled, face dusty, smiling like a boy—gazed down at the radiant little bundle in his arms.
Sunlight stread in through a crack in the shutters, warm and golden over the Karavan lands.
“To protect this fragile, fleeting thing from the cruelty of the world—”
Sancho, the butler, never forgot that day.
“Will you help , my friend?”
“……”
“You’re my greatest friend, aren’t you?”
Sancho still rembered the warmth of that mont.
“What... is the young master’s na?”
He still rembered the tiny hand that grasped his finger that day.
“Arhan.”
Perhaps he would rember it forever.
***
Through thick brush and dusky mountain paths, an old man rode a worn-out donkey.
A pitiful sight—an old man, and an old donkey.
Far removed from the world’s heroes.
The protagonists of this world were always young, strong, and beautiful—knights of renown, adored by maidens, praised by the continent.
“Run, Paddle.”
Sancho was far from any hero.
The cleverness that once made him exceptional in Verdí was nothing beside the scholars of the city.
He rely rembered well and calculated quickly. No brilliance, no genius insight, no creative spark.
Sancho was neither special nor great. And an unremarkable, ungreat man was never ant to be a protagonist.
“Run harder. Just a little more.”
He was not handso—short, round, his belly pressing against clothes that no longer fit.
No lady, no princess would ever love him for his looks.
He was no longer young either. He’d grown old, his face scarred beyond recognition by the Absolute who once ca to the Karavan estate. More than once, city guards had mistaken him for a leper and driven him away.
“Keep going. We can’t stop now.”
Unremarkable, unbeautiful, aged—a man at life’s edge, unfit for the stage. Panting, wheezing from a brief run through the forest. No one would call him a hero.
“I must run. I must run.”
But Sancho ran. Because there was sowhere he had to return to.
“The young master... he’s still fighting.”
His donkey, Paddle, was far too old to bear a rider. Running up a rough mountain path was agony. It panted and limped, but never stopped—as though it, too, understood there was sothing it must do.
“Yes... he’s still fighting.”
And so was Sancho.
“Even now...”
He rembered his words—the harsh truth he once told his master, the boy left alone in the world when he could not protect him.
Young master, you must forget. It’s the only way to live.
Only a Swordmaster can kill a Swordmaster, my lord.
“Run, Paddle. We can’t be late.”
Sancho had to go back. The old butler had to return.
To fulfill the promise he once made—to his master, now long gone.
You’re my greatest friend, Sancho.
So the old man and the old donkey ran—into the dark.
***
When Edan Rhapsody’s wooden rod struck my blade, I saw it clearly—his Path. No, not rely a Path—a world.
A world forged by the sword of one man.
「All Paths are Connected.」
My master’s words were true.
But Edan’s Path was unlike any Sword Walker’s.
He had but one Path—a single spiral expanding outward, filling the entire arena.
This duel ground was his domain.
A perfect, unbroken world. There was no gap, no place for my Path to reach. Touch it, and mine would vanish without a trace—like pouring a bucket of water into the sea.
The sea remains unchanged.
Was that the gulf between our realms? Despair gave way to awe.
I could almost lose myself in the brilliance of Edan Rhapsody’s sword.
But—I couldn’t.
“Hup—”
I burned my breath as fuel and broke my limit. For an instant, I tasted the Wings of a Sword Runner —acceleration. Ti itself seed to slow.
The world of stars within 「The Light」.
The world of wind within 「Gale」.
But that wasn’t where I could stop. I had to find my world.
Before that vast sea, I had to forge my own. If not, I’d drown—swallowed by the waves, leaving no trace.
The first ti I faced that sea—in my final duel of the 「Infinite Duel」 against Toma Rhapsody—I had beco Steel. A fla that burned him.
I had to reach that again. To rise above the tide, to survive, I had to fly—higher, ever higher.
Crack.
Edan’s wooden rod ate into my blade.
A perfect world clashing with an imperfect one.
It was like lightning struck. Was this enlightennt? Or terror before death? Or madness, like the fever that once took my father? I didn’t know. Only that I chased that bolt of lightning.
His Path was perfect—beyond my reach. So instead of imitating, I would forge my own.
Edan Rhapsody had created a vast ocean. And in that ocean, I saw the sun. Even the sea cannot swallow the sun. It rises beyond the horizon and lights the world.
Yes. The sun is everywhere.
On the day I was born. In my happiest years. On the day I lost everything. Even when I first held a sword. The sun had always been there.
What is the sun? What is the world?
“...Ah.”
The Nine Goddesses and Seven Lords—the omniscient deities reigning above.
Why did they watch my tragedy in silence?
Why does the world go so wrong?
Why is the sword that destroyed my life hailed as a hero’s weapon?
If the gods truly exist, why was that man never punished?
Why does his glory only grow, while I—who lost everything—fade away?
Why was he chosen by heaven to be a Swordmaster of Swordmasters, and why must I remain a forgotten boy from the frontier?
「You’re blooming at last.」
What truth hides behind my tragedy? If my father’s words were true, why did the gods never bless the boy who swore vengeance?
The continent’s law says: The wicked will be judged, the righteous rewarded. The child who lost all shall be repaid. The greedy shall lose what they hold.
If that law is real, why was I never rewarded? Why do sinners still thrive? Why is the world so wrong? Why is it built on such unbearable injustice?
Why—why?
「Yes... that’s it.」
My second heart—my Mana Heart. My blood—my Path.
The swords I’ve consud. The souls within them. Every technique I’ve honed. All of it was unraveling. Every piece of was being undone and rebuilt. From my Mana Heart, a Path coursed through my body— from head to toe, and back again—until it burst through my back and blood. All could see it now. All knew its na.
「That is your world.」
Now I understood what I’d seen.
The sky and the earth.
The sun and the steel.
The sky I had seen—was the wrong world.
The sun I had seen—were the false gods.
Everything I had seen—a mistaken reality.
My earth was my people.
My father, tornted by madness, who fought till the end.
My neighbors, who raised farming tools against a Swordmaster.
My mother, who wept and begged never to hold a sword again.
Fetel, who struggled against a cruel fate.
My steel—was my doubt. The defiance that refused to accept this broken reality.
My crooked, unyielding doubt that stood firm no matter what storm ca.
That was my Steel.
“Ah.”
Why is the world like this? Why do the gods only watch? Why is there no judgnt? Does justice truly exist?
In that mont, a dreamlike scene appeared before . The sky, the earth, the burning sun—and a lone boy standing beneath it, staring upward. And the boy asked:
Do gods truly exist?
『Doubt.』
The question I had long carried within . And as I reached it—a distant voice echoed—my own voice.
『Ironically, it is through doubt, not faith, that humankind takes one step closer to God.』
My mind hazed. The two swords within lted like fire. Beyond them, the faint, pale blade appeared again. At last, I began to understand. The third sword—the one my master once spoke of. But I was still one step away.
Just one more step—And then.
“Young master—!”
A voice pierced the frozen world.
Through the knights, through my people—an old man shouted.
“I also... I also haven’t forgotten! I can’t accept this cursed, broken world either—!”
My butler. The butler who had once left this place.
“So don’t forget! You too, young master!”
My Sancho.
“You—!”
The words he scread, ragged and desperate—were enough to bridge that final step.
“You will beco—a Swordmaster!”
Truly, they were.
“You will—!”
Thump. Thump.
My heart thundered like a drum.
As it pounded, I opened my eyes wide. A surge of indescribable power welled up from my chest.
I saw Edan Rhapsody’s wooden rod eating into my sword. I couldn’t face it head-on.
I twisted my blade, lowered my stance, and leapt back. He couldn’t pursue it. Because—
“You…”
My retreat happened like teleportation—a burst of speed beyond even a superhuman’s limit.
“Those Wings... what are they?”
Wings. The way of the Sword Runner.
“...And this fla—?”
Edan’s expression twisted. Flas flickered along the wooden rod, spreading to his body, burning his world.
I frowned, seeing him through the blaze. I couldn’t see myself—but I could feel sothing growing from my back. And still my heart thundered—the overture of an opera yet to begin.
The Wings on my back were still changing—as though there was still further to go.
And then—
『I was born in war.』
The pale, shapeless third sword began to take form—a radiant blade, one I knew all too well.
『The phoenix always rises from ash.』
A voice bood, heavy and deep as a lion’s roar.
Unfamiliar—yet intimately known.
Of course. I knew exactly whose sword it was.
『The world cast into the fire.』
The family treasure of Karavan. The sword of the Karavan family’s founder and greatest master—a blade said to have been forged five centuries ago, yet still sharp enough to cut the world itself.
The first sword I had ever consud.
『The world broke . Crushed .』
As the voice roared, an old man’s face erged in my mind. A hero’s face. Wrinkled, yet bright and sharp as steel.
The Swordmaster who once ca to save a broken boy.
『But the world did not kill .』
In the ruined hall of the manor, he called out to his young descendant.
“Have you forgotten the first words I spoke to you?”
Liam Karavan.
「Eat , heir of Karavan.」
His sword—
「Then you shall obtain what you desire.」
—was my third sword.
***
He had run too far. The old donkey was dead. But the old man was not.
He reached the stage of being young. A brilliant stage—where a new era was unfolding.
Breath ragged, mouth tasting of blood, vision blurring—yet he did what he had to do.
“Sancho,” his master had once said,
“They call mad. Do you think so too?”
He rembered the words of the man he’d served.
“I think not. Who is mad—, who dreams of a world that could be, or they, who accept the twisted world as it is?”
His master, tornted by madness—his eyes burned like the sun. Pretentious words, perhaps—lines plucked from a knightly romance. But those words still shook Sancho’s heart.
“To dream the impossible dream. To fight the unbeatable foe. To endure the unbearable pain. To reach the unreachable star—that is my destiny, Sancho.”
Yes. They all called it madness, but the old butler never forgot his master.
Never forgot the star-bright glint in his eyes.
“Please, my lord, listen! This is madness! We must run! Throwing yourself into death—what’s more insane than that? The greatest madness a man can commit is not killing others, but choosing to die himself!”
He rembered even his master’s end—burning to death as he reached for his star.
“Ah.”
His master never beca a star. But—
“Ahh...”
His son did.
The boy who had stood alone beneath the burning sun, amid the graves of countless dead—now shone brilliantly.
The boy raised in the love of a romantic father, a gentle mother, an awkward nanny, and a devoted butler—
“Can you see him? Are you watching, from the heavens?”
—had beco a star.
“The age of glory you dread of was real. Your son has reclaid it. Can you see it? Tell you can see it...!”
Brighter than anyone else upon that field—the most radiant star.
***
「Na: Liam’s Beloved Sword.」
「The sword once wielded by Liam Karavan, founder of the Karavan family.」
「Though centuries old, it remains unrusted and sharp.」
「The treasure of the Karavan family.」
...
...
「Currently undergoing Ingestion.」
「Ingestion has progressed slightly.」
...
...
「‘The First Fragnt’ awakens.」
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