That was truly a section of the battles spoken of in legends.
"The Sword Devil's twin blades danced, while the Divine Dragon's dragon claws that met them head-on whipped up storms.
Born as the apex of all living creatures, the pinnacle biological form, the Dragon—and among dragons, the Divine Dragon, which possessed exceptional abilities—its claws, its fangs, and its scales were nothing short of natural divine artifacts.
Each time those claws, brimming with tremendous power, swept through the air, the wind shrieked its death throes, the sky was wrenched and distorted, and one could feel the world itself growing hot. A single direct hit would make continuing the fight exceedingly difficult.
Yet the Sword Devil had a way to prevent those fearsome divine artifacts from being wielded to their full potential.
The reason the Divine Dragon had appeared before the Sword Devil was a crisis involving a girl who shared the same lineage as the Lion King. That girl was at the back of the room where the battle had begun, not even bothering to hold down her hair whipped by the raging winds, simply staring intently at the fight.
Shielding that girl with his back, the Sword Devil positioned himself so that the destruction wrought by the Divine Dragon would engulf him rather than her.
That way, the Divine Dragon—fearing the girl might be hurt, for whatever reason—would be unable to exert its full power, and the footfalls of death closing in on the Sword Devil would be somewhat softened.
And so— "The Sword Devil left the position where he shielded the girl with his back, and closed the distance to death's domain of his own volition.
Exposing his body to the raging storm of destruction and annihilation, gripping the two steel blades in his hands as his lifeline, he hurled himself toward the cliff of oblivion—one step from which meant certain death.
By exploiting the battlefield to his advantage and using the opponent's emotions against them, one could edge closer to victory.
But that was inelegant. Beyond mere inelegance—it was the height of rudeness, entirely pointless. What value was there, here and now, in a stolen victory achieved by making up for insufficient swordsmanship not with skill, but with cunning?
—The Sword Devil was a man who had lived on the battlefield.
He knew in his soul, weighted with the dried blood of old wounds, what it meant to fight to survive, what histories were told only by the victors, the living, and what it meant to suffer a defeat and a death that admitted no excuses.
But this moment was different. —No, from this point forward, for every battle in which the Sword Devil gripped a sword and faced someone down with that steel, a stolen victory held no meaning.
He must defeat the opponent he most needed to defeat, and do so with pure swordsmanship.
Along that path, the Sword Devil had no time to waste on detours. If he was to restore this aging, deteriorating body to the same steel it once was, there was no choice but to keep the soul steeped in scorching heat.
"Sword wind raged, tearing, sending dragon claws flying through the air. The space was narrow. Too narrow for swinging swords, too narrow for the Divine Dragon to fully employ its tail and fangs. The Sword Devil's heel shattered as his blade-light outpaced sound itself, striking the Divine Dragon's chest, and the space detonated.
A dragon's scales—their hardness was greatly determined by the total mana possessed by each individual.
The more powerful and long-lived a dragon, the greater its resilience and tenacity, and as the Divine Dragon occupied the highest tier, its dragon scales surpassed even diamond in hardness.
Against those diamond-hard dragon scales, the Sword Devil relentlessly swung, struck, cleaved, and thrust his steel in repeated attacks. And yet, the blades in his grip remained intact—the twin blades named Trias, which the Sword Devil had newly prepared to accomplish his purpose, were masterworks forged by the same line of swordsmiths that had crafted the renowned blades of the Astrea lineage.
The hilts fit naturally in his hands, the weight merged with his flesh, the blade-light clashed against diamond without chipping— "To the Sword Devil's ferocious assault, the Divine Dragon gave as good as it got. It was not one to simply take the beating.
Even if the heart concealed within was not its original, the Divine Dragon unhesitatingly unleashed the full performance of its dragon shell—said to be the strongest on earth—and easily manifested catastrophe-level devastation.
This was, without question, the right the Divine Dragon had been granted by Od Laguna: the right to reshape the world as it pleased, to paste convenient outcomes onto reality, and to screen them for all to see.
Its roar split the sky, its dragon claws tore the earth asunder. The dragon scales repelled the Sword Devil's full-power strikes a hundred times over, and the dragon aura released from its entire body dyed the
The tail swung, striking the aged Sword Devil head-on. —No, the Sword Devil braced his sword tip against the tail to dodge, then rode it upward in a single motion, closing in on the throat. The answering roar came. Head-on, light was cleaved, and slash-light surged forward. He blocked with the dragon scales on his shoulder, resetting in a split second—the clash resumed.
"The Sword Devil's spread wings became blades, and the gale of sword-storms the Divine Dragon raised split the Royal Capital apart. Slipping beneath that wind, tracing a trail that drew bands of blood, the Sword Devil's trajectory was followed by the tail—death's domain—which slammed down upon him. The deafening impact sent the Sword Devil's body hurtling violently backward. —No, judging the blow unavoidable, the Sword Devil matched the tail's rotation and went limp—fingertips, ankles, knees, hips, waist, ribs, shoulders, neck, crown—releasing every joint, extracting the lethal shock from his entire body, and flew, flew, flew.
Through one building, two buildings, three buildings, he burst through them and drove his sword into the ground. The Sword Devil raised his face. His will to fight had not wavered by a single shred. Then the Divine Dragon's breath, a column of white light, bore down upon him.
"Sword light flashed in a single stroke, splitting the tip of the breath with a slash, and the Sword Devil wedged himself into the narrow gap created, escaping the burning light, and soared into the air. There, the Divine Dragon beat its wings and lunged—the jaw slammed shut upon the Sword Devil without mercy.
The dragon fangs, boasting even greater strength and sharpness than the dragon claws, began to rend the Sword Devil's flesh. The Sword Devil pressed the tips of both swords together against them, propping the closing jaw open. Had the sword tips been aimed at the upper and lower jaw, the shutting jaw would have crushed his life to bits.
The refusal to accept death—no, the greed to seize victory—that prevented such a thing clung to life.
With the Sword Devil still trapped in its unshut jaw, the Divine Dragon abandoned its attempt to take his life with its fangs—and instead, a violent dragon tongue-flick, its explosion of space, struck the Sword Devil full in the front.
Blood sprayed from both ears, the ruptured eardrums and the semicircular canals beyond them shook. Gritting his teeth, the Sword Devil held his ground—only to be struck by the extending dragon tongue and flung, defenseless, outside the jaw and into the open sky above the Royal Capital.
Trapped in the jaw while the Divine Dragon beat its wings, the Sword Devil was carried skyward, then tossed free into a helpless freefall—buffeted by the wind, plummeting at a height that would make the faint-hearted lose consciousness just from glancing down, falling, falling, falling straight down.
If he fell like this, even the Sword Devil would not survive unscathed. This was the decisive gap between a human who lived on the ground, and a dragon granted dominion over the sky— "But even in this seemingly decisive situation, the Divine Dragon did not leave the Sword Devil to his fate.
Its dragon lungs swelled massively, preparing a breath—if released upon the Royal Capital spread below, the devastation would be immense, and the attempt at mercy killing would fail. —No, below, the Noble District had been evacuated of people.
Someone had designated this area as the battlefield in advance, evacuating everyone who might be caught in the crossfire, constructing the arena for this battle. The Sword Devil felt admiration—and gratitude—for those preparations.
"The breath released was larger and hotter than before—searing heat that bore down upon the Sword Devil.
Wingless, possessing no art to resist gravity, the Sword Devil had no choice but to receive the white light head-on—when, in that instant, something came hurtling from below, from the ground, to his aid in midair.
"It was one of the buildings the Sword Devil had burst through before taking to the sky—a tall clock tower—falling into the path of the plummeting old swordsman. Twisting his body, the Sword Devil used it as a foothold. Landing on the tower with bent knees, the Sword Devil drew back his twin blades and looked up at the sky. —Through the dissipating breath, the Sword Devil's and the Divine Dragon's gazes crossed, and in the next instant, a beautiful slash of light and a column of white collided head-on.
"The surface of water shattering, the sound of thin glass breaking in rapid succession—white light was cut open from within.
It was the Divine Dragon's breath. It possessed the power and the right to swallow everything it collided with, peel away their surface, and strip bare what lay beneath. And yet, the strike the Sword Devil unleashed ignored all of that at will, and split the light clean through.
—A slash of light so purely, immaculately forged that no trace of corruption could find foothold, cutting everything beautifully apart.
"The severed breath spread radially across the earth, and the Noble District of the Royal Capital was flattened with surgical precision.
Only the tower carrying the Sword Devil—the epicenter of the explosion—and the crimson mansion under the Divine Dragon's protection were spared direct damage. Everything else laid bare the magnitude of the dragon's power.
The Sword Devil, whitened by soot from the aftermath of the white light, jumped down from the collapsing tower. The Divine Dragon, still beating its wings, continued to radiate hostility from the sky above, and their gazes clashed between heaven and earth.
And then— "Unfailing—indeed, surging forth—sword aura and the crushing dragon pressure collided once more, and every living thing in the Royal Capital of Lugnica, organic and inorganic alike, trembled.
△▼△▼△▼△ "Do you... like flowers?"
In a whiteness-veiled world, the voice of a beloved woman spoke, a yellow flower field behind her.
Distorting under the dragon aura, writhing against the lethal wind bearing down upon him, the Sword Devil cleaved through with the blade-light borne in both hands, and countless feelings raced through Wilhelm's heart.
"Have you come to like flowers?"
She was his beloved woman. Drawn to her at first sight, the fool of a man had put a lid on that inexplicable feeling.
And yet, the connection was never severed. Leaning on that environment, afraid to cut into it, soaking body and mind in a terribly, terribly cowardly and sluggish time, Wilhelm had scorned the passing of days.
"Swinging your sword to protect someone. I think that's wonderful."
A beautiful flash of sword-light that had saved Wilhelm's life from a burning hometown wrapped in flames.
The fact that a woman who had no desire to hold a sword, yet was loved by the sword, gave him a reason to swing—Wilhelm denied this to the point of scorching his soul, and countless rages filled him.
Rage at weakness, at secrets, at his own inadequacy—rage, rage, rage.
Only by cutting down and subduing all of that rage, devoting himself to lodging every last fierce emotion into the blade, did he finally stand before her and earn the right to cross swords.
And so, he reclaimed his beloved woman from the side of that detested Sword God, and made her his own.
"Do you love me?"
—No. Had he made her his own, or had she made him hers? He did not know the answer.
All he knew was that he was happy. Blessed. The greatest blessing one could receive had begun the instant he met Theresia, and it had continued to fill him right up until the moment it was lost.
—Theresia's death was, without question, a tragedy.
Without even properly exchanging parting words, without conveying what should have been conveyed, Wilhelm was consumed by grief and wailing, and in his despair, he overlooked many things and made mistakes.
But the days he had spent with Theresia had been happy ones for Wilhelm.
Could it truly be concluded that those happy times, from the moment their final day ended in tragedy, had been washed out and ruined—as if they had never existed at all?
Even if they had temporarily lost their color, could he have wished for them to never regain that vibrancy again?
Absolutely not.
To ensure Theresia's death—her life—did not end in tragedy, he had pursued vengeance.
And if, by swinging his sword for Theresia's sake, he could bring color back to those faded days, then he would wish for color to return to that faded landscape once more, and could not stop himself from struggling.
The wind howled. The wild, unleashed roar of the Divine Dragon echoed.
Driving his sword tip into the searing white fury of the Dragon burning the world, the Sword Devil cut through—and beyond the clearing field of vision, regrets he still needed to slash through lay before him, blood still spilling from his mouth.
—Clouded skies. A bare tombstone. Unending sobs and voices of mourning. Prayerful words wishing for peace.
At the center of the many tearful people gathered for his beloved wife, he could not remember what he had said, what he had conveyed, or what words he had chosen to ensure Theresia's presence was etched deeply into them.
What he remembered was regret. Strong, overwhelming, indelible regret.
The words a child too young to understand reason—the child who should have been with his father and mother—had chosen out of kindness and comfort, and which he had rejected, unable to accept them.
That child's pale face in that moment—the sky, the earth, the faces of the people, his own, and the child's— "—I'm all right, Grandfather. When Grandmother died, she was not the Sword Saint. That means the Sword Saint did not lose."
"...Stop it."
"Because the Sword Saint must not lose. That's what Father said."
"I'm begging you, stop."
"Therefore, even without mourning,
"Not now, not here... please don't talk about this."
Repeated words of powerless refusal.
Layered upon them, the comforting words of a child who had found something to believe in.
And then— "I am the next Sword Saint. —I received it before Grandmother passed away."
"—Enough! What more do you want me to say! Because of you, Theresia—your grandmother died—don't you dare make me say that!!"
"..."
"Don't make me... say it..."
In the faded landscape, everything else fell away, and only he and the child remained. In that moment, driving his sword into the immature, foolish version of himself from that day, Wilhelm stepped forward.
Words not spoken aloud never reach the other person. Even if feelings are transmitted between them, the thousand words, the ten thousand words that should have been offered cannot be delivered.
Conversely, words once spoken aloud will reach the other person, in one form or another.
What they take from it depends on the capacity of the listener.
But how foolish it is to pour more water into an incomplete vessel than it can hold, and then blame the vessel for overflowing.
The faded world—that day, the child's—Reinhard's face. He could not remember it.
It was not that he could not remember. It was that he could not bear to look at the face after having let those words slip, so he did not know what it looked like.
And the words spoken aloud are not received by just one person.
"...I heard you chewed out that child at his mother's funeral. And yet, you want to see Reinhard? You, a father who can't tell the difference between things you should and shouldn't say—what right does that child have to see you?"
"That child is mine and Luaanna's...! Killing Mother, stealing his divine blessing—none of that is anything but some kind of mistake! I'll... I'll prove it!"
"I'm not his father. I am. —I'm the one who has to do this."
Words once released cannot be retracted.
Wilhelm's outburst against Reinhard spread in an instant, reaching even Heinkel's ears—who had not attended the funeral—and the opportunity for apology and explanation was lost.
At the same time, the grandfather's foolish rebuke of the grandson spread beyond the household, and more scandalous than the scandal itself, the fact of the Sword Saint's divine blessing's succession became widely known.
Heinkel never allowed Wilhelm to meet Reinhard.
Reinhard, following Heinkel's instructions, avoided Wilhelm, and all contact between them was severed.
Wilhelm was driven away by both Heinkel and Reinhard, alone, consumed by his quest for vengeance.
This misaligned triangular relationship was once again connected at the water gate city where Theresia's corpse soldier was involved, and once again produced a decisive rift. —If that had been the end, it would have ended in tragedy.
But Wilhelm, who had chosen not to let Theresia's death—her life, her existence—end in tragedy, also objected to letting this relationship end in tragedy.
And the only way he knew to voice his objection to an inexorable fate was with his sword.
—Reinhard was the Sword Saint.
As long as he continued to bear that mission unshakably, the chance to exchange feelings with Reinhard on the other side of the Sword Saint's mantle—and to bring color back to that faded landscape—would never come.
Therefore,
△▼△▼△▼△ —To reiterate. That was truly a section of the battles spoken of in legends.
The battle between the Sword Devil and the Divine Dragon, despite being fraught with various factors, became a back-and-forth exchange, pitting tempered steel swordsmanship against the innate power of a creature born at the apex.
The Royal Capital—the Noble District that had become the battlefield—was reduced to bare earth. Crumbled buildings and destroyed streets testified to the ferocity of a collision between beings that occupied a realm unreachable by ordinary people.
Body size, footing, the contest of decisive blows—sword-light and dragon aura remained locked in equilibrium.
A battle between a human and a dragon—an encounter so rare that even in the present age, one might not see another in a hundred years. Yet remarkably, it was the Sword Devil's second such fight.
It could only be described as destiny: the Sword Devil's consistent willingness to step into the most dangerous battlefields in the world, and the great power that governed fate continuously supplying opponents worthy of him.
In terms of raw conditions, the Sword Devil was overwhelmingly disadvantaged.
His twin blades could not pierce the Divine Dragon's tough dragon scales, while the Divine Dragon's claws and fangs could easily rip the life from the Sword Devil's body with even a grazing blow.
The Sword Devil evaded this with every technique at his disposal, pouring his life into each one, but eventually a limit would come. —In theory, yes.
But who could picture the Sword Devil—bathed in blood, whitened with soot, his back scorched—finally exhausting his strength and falling to the Divine Dragon's claws?
His demonic visage, the dense sword aura so thick that merely being near it gave one the illusion of a blade pressed to one's life, the sword power that had once pursued the Sword Saint in her prime—all of it denied the natural order and inspired in those who witnessed it an extraordinary hope and expectation.
—The Sword Saint was the sword of the Kingdom of Lugnica, and the bearer of hope.
When that hope was struck down by the Sword Devil, the people should have despaired and looked to the sky. The Sword Saint had fallen, after all—that was only natural. But reality told a different story.
When the Sword Saint was defeated and set down her sword, everyone did not mourn—they celebrated. Because a new hope had taken root: expectations had been placed in the Sword Devil who had defeated the Sword Saint.
The Sword Devil, who had pursued nothing but strength and, like the steel in his hands, had done nothing but sharpen himself.
His straight, unyielding way of being—the Sword Devil's way of existence—made many people raise their heads, fill with hope, and look forward to the future.
In this very moment, the reason one could not picture a future of defeat for the Sword Devil facing the Divine Dragon was the same. —People saw hope in the Sword Devil's existence.
As long as there was a landscape to behold beyond the cut of his sword, one could not help but believe he would reach it.
And so, the battle between the Sword Devil and the Divine Dragon stalled, with neither side able to land a decisive blow, each devoting themselves to a life-or-death reading of how to outlast the other.
—And therefore, the trend of the battle between transcendents could not be assigned to either the Sword Devil or the Divine Dragon.
"The Sword Devil and the Divine Dragon, in the center of the streets that had become a battlefield, their gazes clashed and silence passed between them. Yet though both results were silence, the quality of that silence differed.
One was endurance. The other was astonishment. Both were emotions worthy of silence, but what followed them was different.
A faint groan, accompanied by a flood of blood, spilled from the Sword Devil's mouth.
But still gripping his twin blades, the Sword Devil did nothing to stem the flow of blood. He looked down at his own body—and saw the blood-soaked sword tip protruding from his abdomen.
A blade that had entered from behind, piercing the Sword Devil's torso, blood flowing out. He knew the sword that had done this well. —It was none other than his own former beloved sword.
Its inscription read Astrea, and its current owner was— "...Heinkel."
The murmur, coated in welling froth of blood, may or may not have become a clear sound.
But the vibration of the sword that pierced him, and the intent behind the act, were unmistakable. If he turned, his torso might tear apart. The Sword Devil gritted his back teeth and held firm.
Behind him, gripping the hilt of the sword that had pierced the Sword Devil with both hands— "...Your way won't bring Luaanna back."
"..."
"You're not... my father. I am. —I'm the one who has to do this."
It was a voice wrung out, choked with the sound of someone's chest being clawed apart.
Listening to it, the pierced Sword Devil let out a long, deep breath, and remembered.
During training, the child who had cried and been scolded by his wife, only to endure the tears and beg for more—that was his own son.
Come to think of it, ever since those days, whenever someone cried on him, he never stood a chance.
—And so it was: a section of legend, the trump card that decided the apex battle between man and dragon, delivered by a sideways strike.