Chapter 133. You’re the Weakest One Here
Tatak, tatak— pahsseuk.
At the pressure Sion let loose, the campfire that had been burning flared up violently.
In the height of summer, the sweltering heat dropped as if someone had tossed a sheet of frost over it.
No—temperature hadn’t actually gone down. It was just that the razor-cold aura was sharp enough to make the brain misread reality.
By this point, even Aster could tell the other party wasn’t some ordinary uninvited guest.
Naturally, his own aura turned vicious.
“What, you wanna hit me?”
Perfect.
I was already feeling stifled, just running my mouth.
I’d been trying to keep things as quiet as possible since we had something to hide, but if the other guy wanted to come at us like that first, then…
Even Parun, who’d been silent until now, took up a stance as the mood shifted.
“He’s no ordinary man. Be careful.”
“Here, you’re the weakest one. Worry about yourself.”
Ppajik.
That was the moment a vein bulged up across Parun’s forehead, the first crack in his steady blank expression.
“Come to think of it, I’ve never crossed blades with you before.”
“Do we need to? You’d lose to a parasite too.”
“You’ve got a first-rate mouth. I’m truly curious if you’ll still wag that tongue after it’s been cut off.”
“If you’re curious, try it.”
The spark of battle that had been lit between Sion and Aster shifted in an instant into a face-off between Aster and Parun.
When the two of them raised their auras with intent, the scale was nothing like when it had been only Sion.
Tudduk, tudduk!
Ppagak!
A collision of pressure erupted between them, so fierce that nearby branches snapped with dry cracking sounds.
Fwoosh—
The campfire, already precarious, didn’t take long to die completely.
At the sight, Sion let out a “Ha!” and burst into laughter.
‘These guys…’
Now that he looked, both of them weren’t herb gatherers at all—they were mages.
More precisely, we’d claimed to be an herb gatherer and a bug catcher, and it wasn’t like he’d fully believed those ridiculous excuses, but still.
“If you hid your identities, then your intentions surely aren’t proper. Both of you…”
Sion stepped forward, fully releasing killing intent.
And then—right then—
Chaeng!
“……?”
A cheap iron sword slid up diagonally from below, blocking across his chest.
‘What?’
Sion’s gaze naturally followed the blade upward. At the end of it stood a short knight in pitch-black armor.
But…
‘…I didn’t sense him?’
No matter how little killing intent there was, a sword came that close and this body didn’t react?
As Sion froze in shock, the black-armored knight spoke without even looking at him.
“Don’t interfere. It’s getting fun.”
“…….”
Not an ordinary expert.
That was Sion’s first thought as he gauged Shine’s skill.
But separately from that, the sheer absurdity of the situation was so unreal it felt like reality itself was evaporating.
“Think your bones will knit back together alright, huh? You’re old now—bones won’t heal as well.”
“You half-grown runt talks too much. Even a dog knows when it’s time to bark.”
The two rat-like mages were bickering in childish spite, acting like he didn’t even exist.
And—
“To the winner between you two, I’ll grant the chance to challenge this body. Go on, rampage all you want.”
The black-armored knight, looking amused, actually egged the fight on.
When had the Young Lord of House Lortel ever been treated like this?
It was… a very fresh experience. But it wasn’t pleasant.
“Fine. Good….”
Crunch.
Sion grabbed Shine’s blade with his bare hand. Ssk— his grip was cut and blood ran down the steel, but he didn’t care.
He was already in a sour mood, thanks to those disgusting Deculan bastards.
And now, those same disgusting mages were running wild right in front of him, and there was also a knight right there worth measuring himself against.
“So you want to do this?”
Sion grinned.
“No reason we can’t.”
Tat!
Sion released Shine’s blade and let his own sword hang loose. Pajik! A terrifying pressure rose—nothing comparable to before.
Chijijijik—
As Aether surged from the other’s entire body, Shine rose as well and took her stance.
“Fine. If you want to get beaten that badly, I’ve got no choice but to oblige. You’d better brace yourself.”
“That’s something I’m looking forward to.”
Heh.
A greasy smile curled at the corner of Sion’s mouth.
Shine gave a small snort at the sight.
The location was perfect, too. Mount Fleek was rugged to begin with, and this slope was on the exact opposite side from House Lortel.
“I’ll yield the first move.”
“I won’t refuse.”
Tat—!
The instant Sion’s shoulder twitched, the sharp tip of his blade rushed straight for Shine’s chest.
A clean strike with not even the slightest wasted motion.
Kang!
“The first move wasn’t bad.”
Shine knocked the blade aside, then immediately charged Sion as he was pushed back by the recoil.
Kwaang…!
Sword met sword—
Kagagagagagak!
Sparks flew.
As Shine and Sion’s blades collided at blistering speed, Aster glanced at them and spoke.
“If you lose, admit it cleanly, yeah?”
“Like you’re one to talk—”
Kang!
Before he could even finish, a fist came crashing in. Parun hurriedly spread a barrier and blocked the blow.
“First hit wins.”
“You’d be miserable if you weren’t second to anyone in lacking dignity.”
Pajijik, pajik.
As Aster’s fist pressed down on the barrier, a “woong—” metallic sphere floated up into the air.
Eight Heart.
As eight spheres orbited in the air, Parun’s eyes flashed with a “giing—” as he prepared.
“Don’t come whining with regret.”
Flash—
Kwaddeudeudeudeudeuk!
Countless spears of ice slammed down into the ground.
Lightning struck from above, and a slicing gale swallowed the muggy summer air as it swept through.
And in the middle of it—
“Regret? I don’t do that.”
Aster, who’d already retreated far back, kicked off the ground and leapt up.
Kwaang!
…The battle began.
The Third Sword, Zeke, sat cross-legged at the edge of a cliff, his eyes gently closed.
Jjirreuk, jjireuk.
A quiet mountain where the chirping of insects echoed.
It wasn’t long before Zeke’s closed eyes opened slightly.
“Hoo…”
A deep sigh spilled out.
“…What in the world am I supposed to do?”
With a suffocating heart, Zeke let out a bitter lament.
‘…I am a knight.’
But at the same time, he is the sword of Lortel.
As a knight, he should pursue justice and protect the weak, but even if an act is righteous, if it brings even the tiniest harm to Lortel, then it is right to refrain.
However—
- I’ll yield on the Infinite Chain matter. But… I’d like you to help me as well.
A request for help from the Young Lord.
His hatred for Deculan was no different from usual.
But this time was special.
The Young Lord had decided to draw his blade himself.
If that were all, the Third Sword wouldn’t be agonizing like this. It was something bound to happen someday; it just meant that day had come.
But the ripples that request stirred in the Third Sword’s heart were not small.
Because the Young Lord’s request created a collision between his conviction as “Lortel’s sword” and his conviction as a “knight.”
- Doesn’t it seem strange?
- What do you mean, sir?
- Why the Eighth Elder tried so desperately to accept Deculan’s deal.
- What are you—…
The Eighth Elder was among the more open-minded of Lortel’s elders.
As a member of Lortel, he revered the martial path just like the rest, but he was also, in a way, more open to magic.
So it wouldn’t be that strange for him to argue that way, would it?
But what the Young Lord said next shocked Zeke.
- He’s been taking scraps from Deculan.
- …What do you mean by that?
- Should I call it collusion? Well, maybe it hasn’t reached that level yet. But…
…The reason the Eighth Elder supported this deal wasn’t purely for Lortel’s benefit.
Whether he truly sided with Deculan, or it was a temporary alliance for personal gain, it didn’t matter—either way, it was certain he’d joined hands with Deculan.
—that was the Young Lord’s claim.
- It might be hard to believe. If you want, I can show you proof.
- No, it’s not that. It’s just…
Zeke couldn’t continue at the unbelievable revelation. But he didn’t think the Young Lord was lying.
He simply needed time to organize his thoughts.
And it wasn’t long after that when the Young Lord’s thunderbolt of a declaration dropped.
- Eighth Elder.
- ……
- I’m going to strike him.
He’d already made up his mind. If so, then he must already have evidence sufficient to move. Of course, whether it was truth or falsehood…
‘…That is not the important part.’
Even aside from Deculan, the Eighth Elder was practically the Young Lord’s political enemy.
The Young Lord’s resolve would not waver.
So there was only one thing the Young Lord needed now.
- Become my sword.
A single line that forced a choice.
‘Will you remain Lortel’s sword… or will you remain the Young Lord’s sword?’
In truth, the answer had already been decided.
No—ever since the day he first met the Young Lord long ago, the answer had been decided.
And yet, his heart was still in turmoil because the moment had arrived so suddenly.
No. More than that…
‘…What is the right thing for me to do?’
If he is the Young Lord’s sword, then it is right to strike the Eighth Elder.
He didn’t know about the other Ten Swords, but the Lortel inside Zeke was not “the current Head of House’s” Lortel—it was “the Young Lord’s” Lortel, and that will was Lortel’s will as well.
But as a knight… no.
As Lortel’s knight, not as a sword, it was also true that doubts rose.
Is purging the Eighth Elder truly beneficial to Lortel?
Is this merely an outburst of hatred toward Deculan, or bloodshed meant to eliminate a political rival named the Eighth Elder?
He could not be certain.
A time of confused choosing, where he could not answer anything readily.
In this chaos, there was only one thing he could be sure of.
‘The Young Lord’s hatred for Deculan… has grown deeper.’
He’d thought that with time, the hatred might fade little by little… but the hatred in the Young Lord’s eyes only intensified.
‘He still cannot forget.’
The death of his friend, more than ten years ago.
The pitiful child who’d followed someone out, saying he’d become a disciple of a Deculan mage—only to return as a cold corpse.
Because he was a powerless commoner child, even Lortel buried that day—yet the Young Lord still held it in his heart.
Zeke still hadn’t forgotten that day either.
- How… how can Father be this indifferent? A child of Lortel has died. A poor child—someone we were meant to protect and guard—has died!
- ……
- An accident during training? Look! This body—how… how is this the proof of training!
A young Young Lord clutching his friend’s cold body, shedding tears of blood.
With unresolvable rage filled in his eyes, he wept and wept.
- I heard Deculan is the greatest gathering of mages on the Eastern Continent… Then mages… are they people like this?
He didn’t say it out loud, but Zeke too felt a vicious fury toward mages.
Is this what mages are—people who trick an innocent child with their devious three-inch tongue, then throw him away like worn-out shoes once he reaches death?
That face, smiling brightly as he said he’d become a disciple of a Deculan mage, was vivid in memory—yet the child returned as a cold corpse to greet the Young Lord.
Even that body—if Zeke himself hadn’t gone to Deculan at the Young Lord’s request, they would not have been able to retrieve it.
“Hoo…”
The Third Sword, recalling those memories, let out another lament.
He closed his eyes again at the ripples in his heart that wouldn’t settle.
And then.
…Kwaang.
“……?”
From far away—somewhere—an explosion rang faintly.
It wasn’t once or twice.
…Kwaangkwaang! Kwaang!
As the explosions continued, Zeke narrowed his eyes and tilted his head.
‘What in the…’
Is there a battle?
Otherwise, there’s no way such a roar would carry.
Zeke spread his senses wide, trying to grasp the situation.
But if the fighting was happening far away, it was beyond reach—no matter how he pushed his senses to the limit, he couldn’t catch it.
“…Hmph.”
In the end, Zeke rose, heavy as stone.
Mount Fleek was practically a place Lortel had abandoned, but still—it was Lortel territory.
Zeke moved to identify the disturbance.
And when his steps reached the battlefield, Zeke’s eyes widened as if they might split.
‘…Young Lord?’
Wild magic. Brilliant sword-light scattering through the air.
And among those creating that chaotic mess, the Young Lord—who should have returned to the family—was blatantly there.
