Chapter 50 – It Wasn’t Just Some Meaningless Swordsmanship

–Did you see?–

Cariel awoke. Or rather, regained consciousness. A familiar sensation.

“Huff!”

He wasn’t as disoriented as the others.

“W-What was that?”

“Saint Cariel’s… memory?”

–Did you see?–

A heavy voice, echoing from all directions. Pale figures of barbarian warriors materialized, staring, surrounding them. Menacing eyes peered from beneath helmets, from hollow sockets.

–Did you see?–

“What… did we see?”

“Are you… talking to ghosts?”

Philbar scoffed, then—

–Then… you… didn’t see?–

“W-Wait… you can hear me?”

Philbar paled.

–……–

A heavy silence.

“I saw it! I did!”

Philbar’s shoulders slumped.

“Who… are you? I have an idea…”

Luke’s question was unnecessary. Their attire spoke for itself.

–We are… resentful.–

They spoke. Meaningless deaths. Futile sacrifices.

–Lamentable.–

Had they died gloriously… they wouldn’t be here, trapped. They’d be in the Eternal Battlefield, basking in glory.

–Why… are we here? Why can’t we leave? Answer us! Why this… meaningless suffering?–

They raised their weapons: axe, greatsword, hammer, spear. One smashed his head with a shield. Mutilated figures, missing eyes, limbs, gaping wounds. Dozens of them.

Saint Cariel’s victims.

Alesia stepped forward.

“You showed us this… why? What do you want?”

–……–

A long silence. Their hostility, palpable. They burned with resentment towards Saint Cariel’s descendants. Vengeance? Or just… a target for their rage?

Cariel’s gaze shifted. He was still there, the pale figure, precarious. The same as in the memory. No, different. After the battle. Wounded, but… no longer bleeding.

“Luelde?”

Alesia seemed to remember something.

“That name… did you choose it… knowing?”

“……”

A strange coincidence. Luelde, a random choice, part of his father’s name. He’d regretted it, but… it was just a name. An empty vessel.

“No.”

“Right. Luelde’s a common name now… thanks to… him.”

Inevitable comparisons.

“He had another child, didn’t he?”

Philbar added, remembering the rumors Cariel had tried to ignore.

“Is that… relevant?”

Roia, wary, scanned the spirits, Saint Alesia.

“We’ve just seen… our ancestor’s… humanity.”

Or perhaps… ashamed of his ancestor’s… less than glorious actions.

“If it were me… I’d have done the same.”

“Father…”

Ludhi looked at him, concerned.

–Boom!–

The spirits stomped the ground.

–We want… a reenactment. That battle!–

“??”

–We died… unsatisfactorily. We should have… died gloriously… here.–

“There’s… something we don’t know.”

Philbar whispered to Alesia.

“……”

She watched, her saintly senses alert. She could help these souls. But… heretics? Some demanded their destruction. Not Alesia.

Even Irenis… forgave those who stabbed her.

Could she, a follower, do less? If she couldn’t live up to those teachings… what was the point?

“……”

She’d seen the memories, too. Not Philbar’s doing, his shocked face confirmed that. But Saint Cariel’s life… a profound lesson.

“If… the reenactment… is impossible… what happens to us?”

–One lives. The rest… die.–

A cruel sentence.

“…And if we refuse?”

–All die. One chosen survivor… to spread the word.–

“No! That’s absurd! We’ve done nothing wrong!”

Philbar protested. The Baronenes family, though silent, shared his outrage.

“Prepare yourselves. We have the Saint.”

Luke cracked his knuckles. Then he realized…

“But… you’re all… unarmed.”

“A sword is…”

He drew his sword, then hesitated. Only Cariel was armed. He flushed. And the Saint… defenseless.

“The Saint… is a weapon herself… right?”

“…Want to die?”

Crack!

Her fist clenched, a bone-crunching sound. Philbar flinched. He summoned his servants, resigned.

“……”

“Luelde?”

Alesia whispered. Cariel stared at… nothing. She followed his gaze. Empty space. He seemed to see something. He turned.

“There’s… another weapon.”

“What?”

He pointed.

“That.”

“……”

An old, cracked, rusted sword. Saint Cariel’s sword. They knew it was true. But… a relic. A story.

“……”

Cariel took the sword. Chipped, cracked, rusted, but… intact.

“Are you sure?”

Alesia asked. He didn’t answer, just tested the grip, breathed deeply, closed his eyes, then scoffed. No point in hesitation.

“You want… a reenactment? That… humiliation?”

–Hmm?–

“Luelde?”

“What’s the goal? Victory? Or… a worse defeat?”

–No satisfaction. Only… life or death. Defeat us… and live.–

“And if… I satisfy you… but… I die… will they live?”

“Luelde?”

“What are you saying?”

“Don’t be foolish! We must work together!”

“Then… I have no reason… to hesitate.”

He raised his voice.

“Here! I am Cariel!”

He shouted.

“Fellow disciple! Same master! Same name!”

The spirits turned, their focus now solely on him. A storm of battle lust, a tempest of rage. A suffocating pressure.

“L-Luelde?”

“What… are you saying?”

“Wait! Your name… is Cariel?!”

He ignored them. He waited, endured.

–A fellow disciple!–

–The same swordsmanship?–

–Same clan? Same blood?–

–A descendant?–

–Not… born a hero?–

“The Cariel who defeated you… is a saint. A knight among knights. A… great warrior.”

Warrior. The title “knight” hadn’t existed then. Iland, the Great Warrior. He remembered.

“But you’ll never meet… another Cariel… like me. Same swordsmanship. Same name. This is your… only chance.”

Swear it.

“If you want… a glorious battle… accept my challenge. And spare the others.”

Unseen by Cariel, the phantom man turned, his blank eyes flaring with… something.

–Agreed!–

Cariel didn’t see, didn’t know. The spirits were focused on him, their battle lust burning. His legs trembled, his breath ragged. But he glared back, eyes bloodshot, unwavering.

This… is better. Than the capital’s… humiliation.

“Luelde! What are you doing?!”

Alesia, furious, tried to intervene, but the spirits blocked her.

–Do not interfere!–

–Don’t defile a warrior’s soul!–

“Warrior?! This?!”

The others protested, but…

The world dissolved, a brief submersion, a blink, and…

“……”

A vast plain. Cariel, alone, a battered sword in his hand. He smiled.

So… I finally… said it.

His name. That was all that mattered. He gripped the sword, a one-handed blade, unfamiliar.

“……”

It didn’t matter. He had no talent. The sword, a tool. What mattered was… his will, his intention, his resolve.

He’d learned that from the Demon King. Even facing Elhermina’s overwhelming power, he’d moved forward. Not swordsmanship, but… will. Intention.

[Why that miracle? Many reasons, but… the core…]

[A will… beyond desperation… pure… untainted… fueled by… conviction.]

The Demon King’s words. He remembered.