Time flows differently for a boy and an old man.
“Santiago, please teach me swordsmanship.”
“My skills are meager, lad.”
“I still want to learn your way of the sword, Santiago.”
Days and nights blurred into years. I grew from a boy into a young man.
“What I do can hardly be called swordsmanship,” the old man once said. “This blade I carry is just a rapier for self-defense, a gift from a friend. All I ever learned was how to stab and slash. I’ve grown too old to learn anything more, so I fight with only that.”
“Teach me even that, then. How to stab and slash.”
“That is something you come to know naturally. I will teach you something else instead.”
I grew taller. My frame filled out, and muscle clung to my bones. A beard began to sprout.
“No matter how strong a person is, they are bound to meet an enemy stronger than themselves—an enemy they cannot overcome. When that time comes, you must never abandon hope. To abandon hope is a foolish thing. I believe it to be a sin.”
“……”
“No matter the situation, do not lose your mind. Keep your wits about you and think like a man about how to endure the hardship. Don’t dwell on what you lack; think wisely about how to use what you have.”
Unlike me, who was blooming, Santiago only withered.
“No matter what trials find you, as long as your adventure has not ended, do not let yourself be broken. The sea is never wet by the rain. If you harbor a great dream, kid, you must not allow yourself to crumble under trials that are not your dream.”
Santiago still hadn’t managed a single victory.
Eventually, he could no longer enter the Arena every day. He went from dueling every other day to barely managing once a week as his health declined. In contrast to the aging and weakening Santiago, I was growing stronger by the day. Whether it was a difference in talent or merely the passage of years, I could not tell.
“Do you know?” he asked one day.
“Know what?”
“A soul is contained within the sword.”
By then, I had become a fighter of some renown. Unlike Santiago, I was a gladiator who enjoyed a streak of consecutive victories. My skill with the blade was more than enough to contend with the fighters of Steel City. Some of the city’s residents began to recognize me. I even had fans.
“Look at this kitchen knife,” Santiago said, holding up a rusted blade. “The traces of a housewife remain etched upon it. She held the knife differently to slice ingredients properly, and there are marks on the pommel where she must have frequently crushed garlic. And this broken section? This kitchen knife was found on a battlefield.”
“Do you think she went to war after hearing her son had died? Then those marks must have been made when she threw the knife in a fit of uncontrollable rage upon hearing the news.”
“Perhaps. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s the truth. It is merely an example. The sword… within this small blade, the parts that support it, and the heart of the metal itself, lies the soul of those who swung and used it. The minor scratches, the large chips, even the pristine sections—their lives are melted into them. It’s a wonder, isn’t it? That decades of a human life can be contained within such a small object.”
A soul is contained within the sword.
Santiago’s words left a deep impression on me. Even comparing Santiago’s rapier to mine, the differences were stark. My rapier was clean, without a single blemish, while Santiago’s was frequently broken. Having been sent to the smithy for repairs time and again, it bore the clear scars of being snapped and reforged.
That battered rapier resembled Santiago himself. It had broken countless times, yet it was mended to clash against other swords once more. A blade that shattered but would not break. It was as if his entire life had been transposed onto that metal.
“When someone inherits a sword used by another, it means they are inheriting that soul. In that case, the sword’s former master does not die but exists eternally through the one who succeeded them. It’s like the maxim of the Steel Legion: Old soldiers never die; they simply fade away. ”
The stories Santiago told of blades were enchanting. From a certain point on, when I examined a sword, I began to look for the ‘soul’ within it rather than just its sharpness or durability. There is a reason for every little thing. Nothing in this world exists without a cause. Santiago’s attitude toward life was beginning to influence me. It was the most precious thing an old man could give to the young. I had received a truly magnificent gift from him.
“Tom, what are you doing?”
However, there was no one else who understood.
“I’m looking at the soul of the sword. Looking at these marks, this is—”
“What are you talking about? A sword is just a sword. Stop acting weird and get ready for tomorrow’s match. Have you been tainted by hanging around that senile old man?”
“It’s just a weapon, Tom.”
Santiago entered matches constantly, but no one remembered the old fighter. No one cheered for the elderly gladiator in the amphitheater. No one cared to look at the will of an old man burning through the twilight of his life. The audience saw only a slow, weak blade and pathetic defeats. No one sought to see the soul of the sword. They didn’t care about the stories or the history of a weapon. Their only criteria for judgment were how well it could cut and how sturdy it was.
“Santiago, I’ve become quite a famous fighter.”
As my fame grew, many people flocked to me. Beautiful women who made one’s eyes widen, people who poured out sweet words, wealthy merchants, and nobles. Mingling with them in my youth and vigor, I naturally became like them. It was only to be expected. Environment makes the man, and a young man is easily swept away.
“Stop entering duels now, Santiago,” I said one evening.
“Are you worried about me?”
“I am, but it’s also meaningless.”
“Meaningless? What do you mean by that?”
“You’re getting weaker every day, Santiago. It’s not like you’re gaining some enlightenment in swordsmanship that makes you better as time goes on. You’re just hastening the day you die. You’d be better off putting down the sword entirely and resting at home. I’m saying this for your own sake, as a friend.”
Time changes people.
“Or, I could teach you some swordsmanship. I became a 「Sword Runner」 recently. With that, I’ve become able to imbue my sword with lightning. It seems to be a Mystery born from my desire to defeat those Dragon bastards. There’s nothing better than lightning for bringing down things that fly in the sky.”
“It’s alright. You don’t need to teach me.”
“Is that so? It’s not easy to get a lesson from me, Santiago. I’m not that kid from back then. I’m the most famous fighter in Steel City, and I have the potential to spread my fame throughout the entire Iron Kingdom.”
“Even so, it is alright, kid.”
“Just how long are you going to keep calling me ‘kid’? I’m—”
“You are still a kid to me, Tom.”
Santiago did not get angry or annoyed at my disrespectful words. He never once challenged the things I spat out. He simply smiled, just as he had the first moment we met.
“Kid, your sword is much sharper and more magnificent than mine. But it has almost no scratches. In the sea, you see, even a big, strong fish will eventually get caught on a hook. And a fish that has never been caught on a hook doesn’t know how to fight, no matter how strong it is. It just flops around until it dries up and dies.”
“……”
“Getting a few more scratches and breaking a few times will help you in the future. Even so, do not bend. Even so, do not be broken. Take good care of the soul in your sword so that it does not change.”
“In a sword, something like a soul is…!”
I was about to say there was no such thing as a soul, but I quickly shut my mouth. Even though everyone around me laughed and mocked the idea, deep in my heart, I had always thought, ‘There is a soul in the sword.’
For some reason, I couldn’t lie in front of Santiago. I could be rude, but it was difficult to show him a falsehood. Seeing me like that, Santiago gave a thin smirk.
“Do not mind the gaze of others. Do not take their mockery to heart, and do not try to conform to their expectations. Being alone is something unavoidable as long as you are human. Someday, you too will be left alone, kid. Then, the life that unfolds before you will be nothing but a struggle. To fight until you die—that is the essence of life.”
Santiago stood up slowly.
“You must never forget that for as long as you live.”
That day, Santiago participated as a fighter in the Arena for the first time in ten days. I wanted to apologize to him, but my pride was wounded, so I didn’t. I didn’t go to watch his duel, either.
While Santiago went out for his own duel, I enjoyed a party in a glittering mansion in Steel City. Beautiful women, wine, and fatty meats. The wine and meat tasted good, but they weren’t as delicious as the cognac and stew I enjoyed at Santiago’s house.
Because I had drunk so much, my hangover the next morning was severe. Clutching my head, I headed toward Santiago’s house. I planned to nonchalantly say I was sorry about yesterday and ask if I could get a bowl of stew since I’d drunk too much. Since becoming a young man, it had become difficult to apologize sincerely. I had come to avoid bowing my head as much as possible.
But when I opened the door to Santiago’s house and stepped inside, I saw his dented and broken old helmet, his shattered sword, and his blood-stained clothes, neatly folded.
Sensing something was wrong, I ran to the Arena. There, I saw a newly erected tombstone behind the stadium. It was a nameless grave, but in the corner of the stone, these words were carved:
『The Old Fighter.』
It wasn’t hard to figure out who it was.
Santiago died like that. I didn’t see what the old man had tried to prove at the very end. I wasn’t there by the side of the old fighter as he passed through the end of his life. Santiago, who said he was happy because he had found a friend, ended up facing his final moment alone. No one would have cheered for him. No one would have respected his end.
The end of the old man who had befriended a boy from a strange land was lonely. The boy, now a young man, had forgotten what was truly precious. While the old man was dying and proving himself, the young man was drunk and playing with women.
I remembered the vulgar jokes shared last night; I remembered badmouthing Santiago while intoxicated with wine; I remembered mocking the old fighter along with everyone else. When my memory reached that point, I could no longer hold back the urge to vomit. I retched up everything inside me and clawed at the ground until my fingernails were nearly torn off.
When I came to my senses, tears were streaming down my face.
Wiping away the tears as best I could, I returned to Santiago’s grave to find a small boy there. The boy had placed a small flower before the tombstone. When I asked him, sobbing, why he was leaving a flower, the boy replied:
“I watched the match yesterday.”
“……”
“This grandpa… he finally won at the end.”
The boy said it so matter-of-factly.
“He died, but he wasn’t defeated.”
With those words, the boy disappeared. I stayed before Santiago’s grave until nightfall.
He won.
The boy’s words echoed in my ears. Santiago, who had been an old man from the moment I first saw him, had always entered duels. Until just a week ago, he hadn’t achieved a single victory. His sword was not one that could win against anyone. But at the final moment, Santiago had claimed victory. His lifelong proof had finally succeeded at the very end.
And I had failed to see what my friend had proven.
Could there be a greater sin than this? I felt an unbearable rage. Amidst the impulse to destroy myself, I recalled Santiago’s teachings.
A soul is contained within the sword.
Decades of a human life are contained within a small object.
The moment I thought that, I returned to Santiago’s house. There was the helmet, and there was the broken sword. I picked up the pieces of the rapier and slowly began to fit them back into their original shape.
There is a reason for every mark in the world. There is a cause and an effect. If one can see the soul within the blade, one can see the world the blade has experienced. After that thought took hold, I stayed up for three days and nights holding the sword Santiago had left behind.
The faint scorch marks, the tiny cracks—Santiago was contained in all of them. The life of the old man I hadn’t heard about and his final moments were all there.
I had a duty to witness it.
