The instant the rising blade sliced diagonally across him, Yulgard Vollachia steeled himself to accept it as the first defeat of his life—no, of his entire existence, both living and dead combined.
For the first time, someone had crossed swords with him on equal footing—and even surpassed him.
While he acknowledged the sheer skill with which his opponent had fought, the fact that he had been defeated in a contest he simply could not afford to lose made the chest that no longer housed a beating heart ache with a dull, throbbing pain.
The wish he had never dared to hope for had been granted. And now that he had reunited with Iris once more, he had barely exchanged words with her. Had barely touched her. Had not yet been able to convey the full depth of his love.
Still, Yulgard's reunion with Iris had come to pass.
There must have been others who, wanting just as Yulgard and Iris did—to exchange words with those they loved, to touch them, to tell them of their love—had found it impossible.
And the same fate, the same cruel twist of the stars' turning, had befallen Yulgard and Iris as well.
—He had tried to tell himself that much.
"As someone who's total amateur with a sword like this, I gotta say, just one swing drains an absurd amount of my willpower, and it's honestly brutal, y'know?"
The pitch-black wolfman,
His expression reminded Yulgard of a familiar wolfman who, despite being the same race, looked nothing like Halibel at all.
In his memories, that wolfman had occasionally looked at Yulgard with a similar gaze.
"But it takes as much as it drains, so you can't really hate the thing."
Setting aside Yulgard's momentary sentimentality, Halibel continued.
It was clear enough that he was referring to the sword in his hand—the "Evil Blade" Murasame. But his tone suggested something different from a simple observation that the Evil Blade's hidden power had contributed to victory.
As though the Evil Blade had brought Halibel something beyond victory itself— "—A corpse's... delusion?"
Yulgard spoke the unspeakable sensation into words as he confirmed the state of his own body, which had just been slashed.
Having been resurrected as an undead, Yulgard carried a certain compulsive obsession—a hostility toward the living of the Empire, an instinctual aversion, and violent impulses that clawed at something primal.
That was probably not unique to Yulgard alone. And Yulgard had held those fierce impulses in check with an even greater love for Iris.
And yet, unable to resist the will of the mastermind who had brought him back to life, Yulgard had been forced to at minimum comply with his directives—which was how he had ended up crossing swords with the bearded wolfman and Halibel here.
That irresistible, inescapable compulsion had vanished.
As though severed by the "Evil Blade," wreathed in its dull, ominous miasma—it had simply ceased to exist.
△▼△▼△▼△ "Therefore, now nothing remains in my heart save my feelings for my star."
As Yulgard placed one hand gently against her cheek and spoke to her in that soft voice, Iris—or rather, Yorna—the woman who was both, lost all words and could only be captivated.
Not the pallid, lifeless skin devoid of warmth, nor the counterfeit eyes that floated gold over abyssal black. These were the original blue, unmarred.
Her expressionless face reminded her that, regardless of having been resurrected as an undead, Yulgard had always been a man whose facial muscles moved not at all.
—Without the slightest doubt, this was the Yulgard Vollachia that Iris Yorna knew.
"Cutting in without so much as an invitation—now that's some real gall."
A hoarse, spirited voice interrupted their reunion.
Despite the sharpness of the words, the tone was buoyant with welcome—as if celebrating the sudden intruder's arrival. The undead swordsman, the "Corpse Sword King," fixed Yulgard with a gaze so bloodthirsty it was as though he were licking his lips.
Meeting that gaze, Yulgard's expression did not so much as flicker.
"Your singular artistry is truly impressive, but I fear the timing is unfortunate. All the time I have left I wish to spend for my star."
"You say such cold-hearted things—"
Yulgard stated his desire with a cool detachment, but the Corpse Sword King was not one to listen. Or rather, he had been about to retort that he wouldn't listen—when the words caught in his throat.
"Get away from her!"
With that sharp cry, the small figure in Iris Yorna's arms twisted, her ice-clad geta striking the air as she launched herself with ferocious speed and drove a devastating kick into the Corpse Sword King's torso.
"What—?!"
The undead pressed his sheath against his hip and managed to avoid the direct blow, retreating backward.
The impact had not been entirely neutralized, but rather than anger at having been struck back, the Corpse Sword King wore a savage grin that radiated delight— "Tei!"
That vicious grin was crushed beneath an ice hammer swung down with tremendous force from behind.
Struck from head to toe, pressed flat by the blow, the Corpse Sword King's body shattered into splinters and dust. And yet, there was no room for relief.
If a single hit could put him down, they would have defeated the Corpse Sword King fifty times over already. Just as before, the undead would rise again without limit.
However, before they could deal with that Corpse Sword King again— "Hm. That was a strike far too earnest to come from a child. Given your potential, I shall overlook the offense."
"Get your hands off Yorna!"
"T-
Screaming, Iris Yorna watched as Yulgard's "Yang Sword" handle and Tanza's ice geta collided, producing a grinding, creaking sound.
Tanza had kicked the Corpse Sword King away to protect Iris Yorna, but her target had included not only that undead but also the unfamiliar Emperor who had abruptly intervened.
It was only natural that Tanza, caught by surprise, could not distinguish friend from foe.
"Even so, you shouldn't go swinging at someone right off the bat...! Your Excellency, this is my Tanza's fault. The girl had no ill intent—"
"There's no need to look so distressed. Whatever expression you wear, I find it precious if it comes from you. But to think I would wish to continue admiring you even as you plead so earnestly—that troubles my conscience."
"So this is what kind of man you were..."
As Iris Yorna exhausted her words in Tanza's defense, the replies she received from Yulgard never quite hit the mark. This was, in the days shared with Yulgard, utterly commonplace.
Yes, in the time spent with Yulgard, this was everyday.
"...Lady Yorna."
Tanza tightened her embrace around Iris Yorna, her arms pulling her closer.
But Tanza had not lost her composure or her judgment to the point of wrenching free and lunging at Yulgard. Even without understanding the relationship, she could tell that Yulgard harbored no hostility toward Iris Yorna.
And then— "Hey! It might still be a little too early for a leisurely chat!"
The one who came rushing over was
She had struck the undead mercilessly with her ice hammer from behind, and now, fixing Yulgard—who stood beside Iris Yorna and Tanza—with her violet eyes, she asked: "Are you on our side?"
"That would be fine."
"Great! You look incredibly strong! I'll count on you!"
"Understood. Leave it to me."
Accepting Yulgard's instant reply, Emilia let out a sigh of relief, placing a hand over her chest.
Iris Yorna blinked at how quickly she had sorted out friend from foe. But considering that Emilia was a half-elf, it would be presumptuous to speak of what constituted ordinary sensibilities.
In any case— "Your Excellency, your body..."
"I regret to say, but I am nothing more than the remaining embers before I burn out."
"————"
Even as he said this, Yulgard did not once avert his gaze from Iris Yorna, nor did he allow his expression to twist with sadness or loneliness.
And Iris Yorna had been expecting nothing less—that he would tell her with absolute, unflinching honesty.
Maintaining that unwavering gaze upon Iris Yorna, Yulgard continued: "But until those final embers gutter out, everything I am belongs to you."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
He did this not to merely sadden her or leave her feeling lonely at the end.
The gentle "King of Thorns," feared by all, always kept his heart rippling with a quiet stillness—ensuring he never wounded anyone except through the thorns that were his nature.
"All this, all of this... is a happy thing."
Even if only for a limited time, to touch Yulgard and exchange words with him.
At the end of those days, it was something she—Iris—had been unable to fulfill. And because of that failure, so many lives had been lost.
To atone for those regrets and mistakes, Iris had come to the Empire as Yorna— "I do believe that sword in your hand is the Yang Sword, Vollachia."
A sudden, heat-suppressed hoarse voice reached them, and Iris Yorna and the others looked up.
Some distance away from the four who had gathered, an undead rose from the ground as if emerging from it. And then, one after another, like insects swarming from beneath large stones, more and more of those wretched beings consumed by obsessive delusion—the Corpse Sword Kings—appeared.
They all shone with golden eyes, moved in flawless unison without a trace of individuality, and wore savage, predatory grins.
"That legendary blade renowned throughout the world—the Yang Sword forged beyond the bounds of reason, to stand alongside the 'Dream Sword' and the 'Evil Sword' that the young master carries... I've seen it with my own eyes, but I've never been so fortunate as to cross blades with it."
"...After all this, are you going to say the blood of a warrior stirs in your veins?"
"Embarrassingly enough... that is precisely what I'm saying."
As if embarrassed were anything but lip service—not a shred of genuine feeling. That was made painfully obvious by the gleam brightening in his twin eyes and the murderous, exhilarated grin that radiated an almost tangible cold heat.
Compared to the other Corpse Sword Kings, this one's demonic aura and obsessive fixation were plainly abnormal. Iris Yorna felt overwhelmed on a level beyond mere martial strength, clenching her fists at her own helplessness.
The hand she gripped tightly was gently enfolded by Tanza's small one within her arms.
"Child, I permit you to continue holding my star's hand, remaining at her side."
"...I would do so even without your permission."
Tanza's indignant voice could not crack the austere profile of Yulgard's face. But Iris Yorna could see that he had accepted the reply with pleasure.
Yulgard then advanced toward the Corpse Sword Kings, whose numbers were growing—ten, twenty, with no sign of stopping—and Emilia eagerly moved to follow at his side.
Yulgard stopped her with a glance.
"I appreciate your willingness to help. But leave this to me."
"But with just you alone—"
"My name is Yulgard Vollachia."
"Vollachia... does that mean—"
Emilia's eyes widened at the family name Yulgard had declared. She looked to Iris Yorna. At Iris Yorna's nod of confirmation, Emilia watched Yulgard's back as he walked away.
Yulgard came to face the Corpse Sword Kings across a distance of roughly ten meters.
"Yulgard Vollachia... Could you perchance be the Briar Emperor?"
"I never took that title upon myself, but there were those who called me so. A succinct way of describing me when I occupied the throne, I suppose. It would likely endure well in the history books of posterity."
"Ha ha, ha ha ha! How magnificent! To think I would meet the strongest Emperor in the history of the Sacred
The Corpse Sword King's voice rang with elation, and the oppressive sword aura radiating from him grew ever more savage.
Knowing that he now faced the "Briar Emperor" Yulgard Vollachia, the Corpse Sword King was far from terrified—instead, he steeled himself with an extraordinary and utterly irrational resolve.
The golden eyes of the Corpse Sword Kings glinted as they fixed on Yulgard—and on his Yang Sword.
"If I were to defeat Your Imperial Majesty, would the Yang Sword be mine to claim?"
"If the blade itself deems you worthy, then so be it. However, I cannot simply hand it over."
"Oh?"
"Many of my subjects staked their lives to make this sword truly mine within my hands."
The many subjects Yulgard spoke of—of whom Iris Yorna alone had shared in every memory—only she could understand the passion of this gentle "King of Thorns," feared by all the world.
—And before that very Iris Yorna, Yulgard and the Corpse Sword Kings moved simultaneously.
"——Sei."
A short, sharp exhalation. A step as quick as lightning annihilated the distance between them.
Twenty identical men split into four pairs, their flashing blades bearing down on Yulgard like a swirling gale.
The grotesque aggregation of first-rate swordsmanship, elevated to the supreme tier—a tempest of cutting force that surpassed even a sword wind. Tanza and Emilia held their breath.
But Iris Yorna did not harbor a single shred of doubt.
Twenty slashes came screaming in—yet the exchange was decided in a single crossing of blades.
The Corpse Sword Kings' storm of blades, each shaped like the edge of a sword, struck from every direction at once.
But before those blades could reach the King of Thorns, the resplendent Yang Sword flashed once—a single arc of light that burned away all twenty incoming strikes, and its crimson tip swept across the Corpse Sword Kings' necks.
"This is all—"
His neck carved open, but only the one directly in front had taken a fatal wound.
Even if his blade was severed, nineteen others remained—or so the Corpse Sword King twisted his cheek in a grin, confident that the next wave of himself would reach its mark.
But if he mistook the ability to revive after death for true strength— "That's the end of it."
—in the very next instant, the entirety of the slain Corpse Sword King's body burst into flame, and the fire spread to the remaining nineteen Corpse Sword Kings. All at once, every one of them was swallowed by inferno.
"N—"
"Gu..."
"—Ooogh!"
Ravaged by the tremendous blaze, the Corpse Sword Kings were reduced to ash and cinder one after another. Each time a body perished, a new one rose to take its place—but that, too, was swallowed by the flames.
Again and again, over and over, rolling ten or more of his own charred remains across the ground until there was no longer any room for doubt, the Corpse Sword King finally looked down at his own hands—which the undying flames continued to consume.
And then— "Aaah, aaah—damn it all... like hell I'm gonna... end here...!"
From a throat scorched by fire came a slurred, indistinct voice. The undead swordsman twisted his burning cheeks.
For one instant, it called to mind the last desperate thrashing of one who could not accept defeat. But that concern was extinguished as the Corpse Sword King's final form crumbled into charcoal and ash.
Crumbling, his ruined hands reaching toward the heavens, the Corpse Sword King's figure vanished.
At last— "Did he... disappear?"
Tanza's voice, unable to grasp certainty despite having witnessed the same thing.
Iris Yorna, whose hand was still being held by Tanza, answered that unease by gently wrapping her free hand around the girl's small one.
"...Did that person burn all of them up?"
"It's somewhat difficult to find the right words, but yes. The Yang Sword's flame burns away whatever its master desires. A soul is no exception."
"I see. ...Thank you. That was incredibly helpful."
Emilia expressed her gratitude, but her gaze lingered with a trace of sorrow on the many charred remains of the Corpse Sword Kings.
Even though her opponent had been an undead—and an undead whose nature had been used in such a vile way—the fact that a life had been lost still wavered in Emilia's violet eyes.
Iris Yorna had once felt that same emotion. —One of the things she had been forced to let go of across her many lives, she thought.
But there were things she could never let go of.
"——My star."
Called anew, Iris Yorna faced Yulgard head-on.
Resurrected as an undead, freed from that abominable collar of thorns. His refined and elegant features, the voice that resonated too deeply in the chest relative to its volume—all of it was a continuation of that day.
But there were things that alone could not explain.
"Your Excellency... the thorns..."
The "Curse of Thorns," which bound others and drove spikes into the heart.
That curse had isolated Yulgard—and it had been the catalyst that led him to share those precious moments with Iris. Even in death, it clung to his soul, a binding that would not release him.
And now, she could not sense it. Not from Iris Yorna, nor from Tanza or Emilia either.
That meant Yulgard had been freed from the Curse of Thorns.
"Has the curse... been broken?"
"Not exactly. The Curse of Thorns has not been broken—it remains. It was not removed from within me but transferred to something else."
"Transferred...? Is that even possible?"
"That one accomplished it. It was something that could not be achieved in my living era. Time has passed since then, and a great deal of wisdom has been born. What a magnificent age."
Yulgard Vollachia had been liberated from the Curse of Thorns.
The quiet dip of his chin as he answered carried a deep reverence for the one who had accomplished it. Yulgard had always been the type to praise and acknowledge others without reservation, but this held something beyond his sense of duty as Emperor or royal—it was the admiration of one mortal life for another.
"Your Excellency's curse..."
On the other hand, Iris Yorna found herself at a loss for words at Yulgard's answer.
She understood that Yulgard, in his precise way, wished to accurately convey that the Curse of Thorns had not truly vanished. But for Iris Yorna, this was the fulfillment of her deepest wish.
If Yulgard's soul had been freed from the Curse of Thorns—even in death.
"Lady Yorna, this man is..."
"Tanza, His Excellency Yulgard Vollachia... He is my, my beloved, troublesome man."
At that introduction, Tanza's eyes widened ever so slightly. Then, raising her face to meet Yulgard's gaze, she hesitated for a moment before speaking: "My name is Tanza. I serve as Lady Yorna's attendant."
"I see, Tanza. While I was absent, my star has been in your care. That is no small thing."
Tanza offered those words tentatively, and Yulgard nodded.
At a distance where they could see each other's faces, where voices carried, where they could reach out and touch if they wished—Yulgard and Tanza exchanged words.
In the past, the only person who could stand at that distance from Yulgard without wincing in pain had been Iris and no one else.
"I'm Emilia—just Emilia. Yulgard, will you keep helping us?"
Riding the wave of Iris Yorna's emotions, Emilia addressed Yulgard without hesitation.
To her words, Yulgard inclined his chin in affirmation.
"Of course."
And then: "The one who freed me from the thorns that tormented me for so long... Gruevli Garmlet entrusted something to me in his place. I must fulfill his role."
"Gruevli... so he was the one who broke Your Excellency's curse—"
"My star."
"Y-yes."
Distracted by the sudden revelation of her benefactor's name, Iris Yorna's voice came out like a village girl's at the sudden call. In that instant, Yulgard's aura softened, and she took it as proof that he found her response endearing—but she did not dwell on it.
Instead, Yulgard held Iris Yorna within the depths of his blue eyes and continued: "My words are no lie—everything I have, I wish to spend for you. Therefore—"
"You needn't even ask. I will be at your side. —I no longer wish to be separated for even a moment."
I want to keep this miracle on my lips until the very instant you disappear.
That was Iris Yorna's sincere, heartfelt answer.
△▼△▼△▼△ —The stench of a soul being scorched filled his nostrils.
He felt no pain. Even as his entire body was wrapped in flame and the searing heat ate away at his flesh, it felt like nothing more than a gentle breeze.
But this breeze could not be shaken off. It consumed every newly reconstructed body, turning it to ash and cinder, seeking to bring his very existence to an end.
Even dousing himself with water could not extinguish it. Trying to spread the fire to something else only left it burning in place. Even if he severed the部位that had begun to burn, his entire body would ignite in the next instant—an inescapable, final conflagration. Yes, final.
He had senses. He understood. This flame would not die. Not until the end, it could not be extinguished.
"Aaah, aaah... oh, how absurd..."
The path of the sword he had pursued—slicing his own flesh, falling into the body of an undead, all to reach the absolute summit.
The flame of the "Yang Sword" he had encountered along the way was now scorching and trying to burn away the soul of
Refusing to remain in that place any longer, Rowan fled the battlefield, running.
Each footfall crumbled beneath him. When his lower half was gone with the next step, rather than waste time, he severed his own neck and let his next step be taken by the next iteration of himself.
Again and again, Rowan ran—putting distance between himself and the Briar Emperor, racing to reach the place he had to arrive before the flames consumed him entirely.
"How absurd... I really am, after all... blessed."
With fire erupting from his entire body, Rowan wore a smile of terrifying beauty.
Having transformed himself into an undead, Rowan had come to understand the nature of his own soul through direct experience. He had placed his toes upon the stair that led to the "Heavenly Sword." This was the next trial—needed to firmly plant his foot upon the next step.
Rowan's soul would burn out before long. But the last flicker of a candle's flame burns brightest of all.
—For Rowan Segmunt, reaching the "Heavenly Sword" was a lifelong, desperate wish.
He had already proven that he could throw his life away for it without a shred of exaggeration.
In truth, Rowan had experienced death, come to know the shape of his own soul, and steadily drawn closer to his desire.
And if Rowan could reach the "Heavenly Sword"—even if only for a single second, it did not matter.
If he could reach it for just one second, a mere instant, before his soul burned out, that would be enough.
What was necessary for that— "Oh my, oh my, oh my—here I thought someone was sprinting full tilt, and they arrive in a blaze of glory! Now isn't that just the most spectacular entrance you've ever seen?"
A voice he heard—and the place he had been trying to reach before he burned out.
Spotting the owner of that voice in the far distance of his burning vision, Rowan felt gratitude toward his own destiny.
He had arrived at the place he needed to be. All that remained was the final step.
Yes, with the flame-wreathed Rowan smirking before him, the brown-skinned boy cradling a girl in his arms smiled in return.
As both fitting and ironic, it was a smile that held something in common with Rowan's own. The boy spoke: "It's the first time I've ever thought of you as my dad.—I don't hate it. Actually, I like it."