“It must have been the right choice.”
Deep within the Vatican of the Cross Order, elders shrouded in shadow muttered to themselves.
“Yes. There was no other way.”
“Now that it has begun, we must see it through to the end. Anyone else sitting in these seats would have made the same choice. Even the High Priest of the Holy Empire, who always acts so sanctimonious, would have done the same.”
“We couldn’t afford to lose everything. It was only natural.”
Their voices trembled as they spoke.
In truth, they knew. They knew it was all an excuse—mere words meant to alleviate their own crushing guilt. The elders of the Vatican were not entirely corrupt men. Once, they had been more devout than anyone, dedicating their lives to the defense of justice. Because of that past, they could not endure the present without these justifications.
“…Yes, anyone would have done this.”
The reliable Great Warrior Ismael had committed betrayal.
The emergence of the Arhan Caravan in the Southern Continent had shaken the Cross Order’s standing to its core. In the midst of that upheaval, even the flashy debut of their newly appointed Great Warrior had ended in failure. At this rate, the Great Warrior of the Sun would soon defect to the Holy Empire. If the Great Powers of the external continents sided with a Holy Empire that already held the advantage, there would be no hope of victory. The Vatican, having tasted the threshold of triumph, could never return to the past—especially if that past was far more pathetic than they remembered.
“We are not wrong.”
The elders looked toward an old man sprawled in the darkness. He was blind and bound to a spear shaft, barely clinging to life as he cried out for the Sun. Every elder there knew who he was: the Holy Empire’s greatest asset, the one who had once made the Cross Order tremble. Monk Butcher.
The greatest warrior the Cross Order feared had finally reached the Vatican. Having pursued the cowardly Aaron, who had fled in disgrace, Butcher had discovered exactly whose hand the Vatican of the Cross Order was holding.
The old monk had spoken: “How could the Vatican fall so low? Where have the servants of the Cross gone—those who once defended justice under strict laws? Come to your senses, even now.”
The noble Great Warrior’s rebuke had felt sharper to the elders than any blade. Even being stabbed would likely not have hurt as much. He was a warrior so radiant that, though they worshipped different gods, his brilliance commanded respect. Faced with a nobility so pure it threatened to blind them, the elders eventually turned their eyes away.
And then… they had finally succumbed to the sweet temptation. The promise that everything would be resolved.
“Why… would you… do such a thing?”
A voice filled with lamentation and labored breathing echoed from the darkness. It was Butcher. The greatest warrior, barely alive, was sobbing. No one in the room could meet his eyes. Not a single one.
“Just why… why would you do this?!”
The Great Warrior of the Sun had been suppressed with pathetic ease. Yet, looking at the kneeling Butcher, the Vatican felt not a shred of satisfaction. Truly, not even a little.
“Do you… even know? Do you have… any idea?”
The Descendant of Khan had kept his word. He had gone out to ‘resolve everything,’ and he was likely capable of it. Everyone in the Vatican remembered the moment Butcher was subdued. Before the War God descended to earth, Butcher had been nothing more than a mere old man.
“You have… taken the hand… of a demon.”
Butcher was still sobbing. None of the elders looked at him, but his pathetic voice, echoing through the darkness, pierced their hearts.
“You have… unleashed a demon upon this land…”
It cut deep, like a razor.
*
For the residents of the port city of Vicente, tonight would be an unforgettable night.
The festival hosted by their grateful guest, Zeppelin Gold, had been brilliant and joyful. That sociable man had provided plenty of cold beer and meat, serving exotic foods the people of Vicente had never tasted before. Bards sang the ballads the residents had heard since childhood, and for the first time in a long while, people could laugh, chatter, and play while getting blissfully drunk.
Among the young men and women, some would surely fall in love tonight. Already, several handsome men and beautiful women had vanished from the crowd to enjoy their own sweet youth. The elderly remembered their distant pasts while enjoying the festivities; the young relished the moment, creating memories to last forever; and the children dreamed of a future where they, too, could eat, drink, and burn with the brilliance of youth.
Yes. For the residents of Vicente, tonight would be an unforgettable night.
“…Oh, God.”
Oren, Priest of the Sun, looked out at the fading scenery of the festival. Those who had been laughing and talking were now screaming and fleeing. Parents wailed as they clutched their dead children; children sobbed as they held their parents; and a husband, carrying the corpse of his young wife, burst into mad laughter, having lost his mind.
Cold beer spilled across the ground, and red blood splattered over the golden liquid. Delicious food lay scattered among broken plates atop the gore. In the festival grounds where everyone had been singing and dancing, there were corpses, and then more corpses.
Oren didn’t even stand up; he just stared blankly into the darkness. In that darkness were men on horseback. Swinging spears from atop their snorting steeds, the men spat out an unintelligible Eastern language. Every galloping cavalryman carried the heads of those they had killed like trophies.
Oren thought to himself: Am I drunk and dreaming?
If this is reality, isn’t it too cruel? Why is this happening to us? Why must we, who finally found happiness and were ready to enjoy peace and life, suffer such an ordeal? Is this truly the world God created? Is this end the fate the Sun prepared for us?
What were we born for? Just what… were we born for…
“Oh God, oh Sun…”
Oren questioned the heavens until the very end. But no answer came.
As he stared blankly at the sky, a thick rope suddenly flew toward his neck. With a choked gasp, Oren was yanked from the table and dragged along the ground. As his back and buttocks were scraped raw and his skin torn away, Oren gripped the rope tightly and looked back.
There stood a man with a joyful expression. A man enjoying all of this like a game. A man who burst into laughter while firing arrows at fleeing people and cheered as he tore the head off a parent shielding their child.
In Oren’s eyes, the man did not look human. He was a demon. Every mounted figure here was a demon. Demons… galloping across the plains…
“Oh… God…”
*
The Descendant of Khan.
The man nicknamed the ‘War God descended to earth’ did not appear alone. He arrived with his proud warriors. Warp gates opened all across Vicente, and the warriors of the plains, appearing on horseback, began to slaughter the innocent residents with feverish intensity, as if participating in a hunting competition.
“Ah…”
The site of the festival had become a slaughterhouse. The warriors of the plains laughed merrily as they cut down the weak, who couldn’t even offer resistance. And as I watched this horrific scene, I could save no one. I could help no one.
“Descendant of Steel, the Last Caravan.”
Because I was not permitted… to move.
“Are you truly the one chosen by the First Caravan not long ago?”
“…”
“Pathetic. I feel disappointed for having expected anything at all.”
The Descendant of Khan twitched an eyebrow as he looked at me.
“Carlos… why did that arrogant Sky Sword feel the need to be wary of such a deficient thing?”
He stepped right up to my nose. I bit my lip until it bled amidst the crushing pressure that felt like it would break my body. Then, with trembling hands, I somehow managed to draw my sword and swing. It was a wretched stance, a strike with no weight behind it.
The Descendant of Khan didn’t even bother to dodge. He stood still before the tip of my swinging blade.
“The Sky Sword, the Seven Chief Gods, and the Nine Goddesses… they were all cowards.”
With a sharp clang , the sword left my hand. The blade, deflected fruitlessly, fell to the ground and embedded itself in the dirt. The Descendant of Khan looked down at me with pitying eyes.
“What could such a meager thing possibly do?”
“…”
“To think they feared this insignificant thing… feared that it might one day become strong? I find it impossible to accept. Even if you were to become strong in the distant future, even if you harbor a brilliant potential, in the end, it is something that hasn’t happened yet.”
The Descendant of Khan drew the sword from his waist.
“War sweeps everything away.”
“…”
“War tramples all possibilities, war extinguishes every ember, and war buries all shining things deep within the earth.”
The pitch-black horse carrying the Descendant of Khan let out a powerful neigh. It wasn’t so much the snort of a horse as it was a horrific roar, like a scream from the mouth of a demon.
“Consider it a misfortune that you met me so early, you pathetic scrap of iron.”
“…”
“I have no intention of waiting until you finally achieve hardness. No war ever leaves a youth alone to grow.”
No matter how much I thought, I couldn’t see a way out of this situation. It was impossible to run from a Swordmaster at this distance. Fight back? That was out of the question. No matter how much I searched, no path to survival appeared.
But that was only natural. It was common sense that even children knew: Only a Swordmaster can kill a Swordmaster.
‘Ah.’
And… only a Swordmaster can face a Swordmaster.
“You shall vanish here—”
Clang!
A sharp ring echoed out. In that instant, the blade the Descendant of Khan had aimed at me was knocked upward and pushed back. No one should be able to push back a Swordmaster’s blade. There is only one kind of being capable of that.
“Why?”
An equal. Another Swordmaster.
“Why are you… here?”
I looked forward. Before me was a pattern resembling a wave. There is only one being who carries that emblem so boldly.
“Hugo Rhapsody.”
The Family Head of House Rhapsody, who had vanished without a trace. The former master of the Free City.
“Why are you… helping a Caravan?” the Descendant of Khan spat, his voice filled with malice.
To the question, Hugo Rhapsody gave a simple answer.
“Because he’s our youngest’s only friend.”
