Chapter 114 : Chapter 114

Translator: AkazaTL

Pr/Ed: Sol IX

***

Chapter 114 – Fragment (3)

Edan Rhapsody asked, What happened?

“I– I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Edan Rhapsody asked again.

He was not asking to assign guilt.

Answer again—What happened?

“The young master… he spoke falsehoods.”

“……”

“He suddenly looked up at the sky and said his oath was false. He… he confessed that he had sworn falsely, in the names of the Nine Goddesses and the Seven Lords…”

A lengthy explanation—But it did not take long for Edan Rhapsody to grasp what had occurred. Standing still, he closed his eyes.

“I see.”

His younger brother had confessed falsehood before the family. The Great House Rhapsody had acted without cross-verification, without even confirming truth or falsehood. And as a result, what came to pass?

The innocent were killed.

Those who deserved respect were humiliated, and the faithful bore responsibility for crimes they had never committed. The weak trembled before violence, and the good cried out in injustice before absurdity. Everyone believed Toma’s words. No one listened to the pleas of the powerless.

Only one Fighter — stood against the overwhelming tide.

Like a hero from an epic.

“……”

The Fighter of the humble lands had been right. And the great Rhapsody had been wrong.

The response of the Nine Goddesses and Seven Lords proved it.

Before that truth, Edan Rhapsody simply stood still with his eyes closed. Watching his silent lord, the Knight once again apologized—Forgive me, my lord. I could not protect you.

“Raise your head, Knight.”

Edan Rhapsody opened his eyes.

“You have done nothing wrong.”

“……”

“The one who sinned is Toma. The one who sinned is your master—Rhapsody. You merely obeyed our command. Therefore, the responsibility for sin shall be borne by your master.”

Edan Rhapsody turned his head—and looked at his younger brother, frozen in midair as if time itself had stopped. Separated from the world by the wrath of the Seven Lords and the Nine Goddesses, Toma hung suspended, gazing up at the heavens. Watching him, Edan Rhapsody murmured:

“Many commit sins. Only some repent, only some of those who repent confess, and only some of those who confess bear the burden of their sins.”

“……”

“It was behavior befitting a Rhapsody. Admirable, even.”

The sky was blue as steel.

The sun shone down upon the world.

“You have grown into an adult before I knew it, Toma.”

With his damaged body, Edan Rhapsody stepped before his brother.

“……But why did you do it?”

To ordinary people, an oath is a promise that can be broken at any time—morally condemnable, but not punishable. However, to one born of a Great House, an “oath” must never be taken lightly. Especially an oath sworn upon the gods themselves.

“Why, Toma?”

With great power comes great responsibility. And the responsibility borne by the Five Great Houses went far beyond the imagination of common folk. If those to demand that responsibility were the Nine Goddesses and Seven Lords, all the more so.

Edan Rhapsody gazed at his brother.

“Did you not learn how heavy the responsibility upon us is? No matter how much trouble you caused, you never crossed the line.”

“……”

“I am curious, little brother.”

One of Edan Rhapsody’s eyes had lost its light. The blood running down his face was hot. Now he would live seeing only half the world. The priests of his house could heal it in an instant if he wished. But the stubborn second son had no such desire. This was the wound that testified to an unforgivable sin—a scar he would carry all his life. Gazing with his one remaining eye, Edan Rhapsody spoke:

“……Was it truly done out of childish impulse?” It was not a question seeking an answer. It was one he posed to himself.

Edan Rhapsody recalled countless laws and codes at that moment. He remembered his brother’s demeanor within the house. Even their great father had never once suspected Toma’s words were false. That should have been impossible.

The absolute senses of a Swordmaster who wielded seven swords could not possibly fail to detect the lie of a mere boy.

Toma had believed it to be true—utterly, completely true. Because in his memory at that time, it was the truth.

Edan Rhapsody’s suspicion was razor-sharp. He was not only a mighty swordsman, but the second son of a great family. A noble born to such exalted blood must possess not only physical but also mental strength. And even without his sword, Edan Rhapsody was strong indeed.

He reasoned thus: If Toma had lied intentionally, punishment from the gods would have fallen instantly. The words of a Great House’s heir carried enormous weight. Yet Toma’s falsehood had gone unpunished—because he had truly believed it.

It was impossible for simple self-hypnosis. Even a psychological defense mechanism born of trauma could not achieve it.

A Swordmaster’s absolute sense penetrated all, seeking truth itself. If even Father had not perceived the lie, then there was only one conclusion—Someone had deliberately tampered with Toma’s memory.

Who was that “someone”? There could be only one answer.

A Swordmaster.

Since the birth of the continent, only another Swordmaster could kill one, deceive one, or evade the blade of one.

Upon reaching that point—Edan Rhapsody’s reasoning grew keen as a honed edge.

‘A Swordmaster greater than Father. One who has forged more than seven swords. A Swordmaster lingering near the Iron Kingdom. One who could gain real or political profit from such an act. Or perhaps… a Swordmaster connected to those who would benefit.’

Only one person fits all those conditions. Among the Swordmasters living today, the only one who served a lord.

The Prince’s Executioner.

The greatest sword on the continent.

“……Swordmaster Carlos.”

From the circumstances alone, Edan Rhapsody had reached that conclusion—who had created the vortex that had swallowed his younger brother. But he still did not know why such a thing had been done. As confusion clouded his mind, Knights approached him.

“You must let us treat the wound at once. Without immediate care, you may lose your eye forever. To lose it to a mere Fighter—it’s unthinkable…”

The Knights lacked the vision to grasp the situation. They had lived their lives as pieces upon a game board, not as those who moved them. So Edan Rhapsody did not scold them.

“It’s fine. Rather—”

And then—

“We should contact your father—”

Crash—!

A pure white sword appeared between Edan and Toma Rhapsody. A flawless blade of perfect white, not a speck of darkness upon it. It seemed less a weapon to kill and more a work of art. The moment he saw it, Edan Rhapsody’s gaze trembled.

“Step back, great one.”

A deep, resonant voice echoed. The next instant, dozens of swords plunged silently into the earth. Along with them, a banner appeared—a banner embroidered with a pure white emblem that mirrored the landscape of winter. As the banner fluttered, a chilling silence fell. And within that silence, figures clad in white appeared.

“You have violated the sacred laws of the continent. You declared war unjustly, raised false banners, committed dishonorable acts, and trampled upon the small things that should have been protected with respect.”

All present knew what that banner signified. They knew who those white-clad figures in the heart of the legion were. Throughout the continent, only one group wielded such swords, wore such garb—pure white swords, helmets, and armor. Beings who symbolized immaculate justice.

The righteous Watchers, guardians of order.

“By the primordial law, you shall be punished for your wrongs and bear responsibility for your actions. The primordial Watchers declare: from this moment, none may make contact with Toma Rhapsody. Until the Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses deliver judgment, his person shall be under our protection— in accordance with the duty inherited by the House of White.”

One of the Five Great Houses—the White had intervened. Feeling the chill of winter’s frost sweep through the air, many there froze in place. But some, having grown up only within the Six Free Cities, did not truly understand what White meant.

A Knight from such a small world said:

“Come out at once! This is our affair. To draw your blades before our young lord—have you lost all fear—!”

The Knight was visibly furious. And—

“Enough.”

The one who stopped him was Edan Rhapsody.

“They are not wrong. And opposing them will gain us nothing. We should withdraw for now. Once the Watchers have intervened, there is nothing more we can do. All shall be done according to the will of the gods.”

“But—”

“But what?”

Edan Rhapsody’s face grew grave.

“Would you stand against them?”

“……”

“We have no cause. We acted dishonorably on false information, and there were actual casualties. If we act rashly now, the other Four Houses may intervene—or even the Sky Empire.”

“……”

“Besides, even if you forget all that, making enemies of them is foolish.”

Edan Rhapsody spoke in a dry voice.

“In the history of the continent, the Winter Fortress has never fallen. Not once.”

There was nothing more foolish on this continent than to stand against the White who fulfilled their sacred duty. No one in recorded history had ever escaped their blades. No one.

Edan Rhapsody knew the old saying about the House of White—You cannot defy the Winter. No one can.

***

I was born in war. Swords, spears, shields. Children who returned from the battlefield as corpses, parents who screamed in despair, graves increasing by the day, headstones thrust into mounds of earth. Crushed helmets and broken swords, love and hate, lives without breath, skies without answer.

The nameless one once said: All life is war. And this cruel world is a battlefield without answers.

I agree with the nameless one. My life can be explained by war.

My mother, unprepared, described my birth as a battle. A half-blood child, born of both Dwarf and Human. My body was too large to be born of a Dwarf woman. I was too big for her, and in bearing me she was gravely wounded—wounds far beyond what the midwives of a poor village in the Sky Mountains could heal.

My mother died. Her tombstone was forged, polished, and shaped by my father, a blacksmith—a shabby lump of iron carved by hammer blows.

Upon that worthless piece of metal was etched a single line to mark a worthless life.

My mother had died fighting her own private war.

The half-blood Dwarf born from his mother’s ashes was accepted nowhere. Not even by his father. To him, his son was a hateful creature—a life that had killed his wife upon birth.

When I was seven, my father threw himself into the furnace and ended his life. I stared for a long time at the smelting pit where he had jumped.

Swords and spears, shields. Flame and blood, parents and children. Hope and screams, the ballads of bards. Dying youths, mourning elders, newborns knowing nothing.

The shape of this harsh world—goodness unrewarded, trials unreasonable, violence beyond understanding.

No Dwarf in the village made a tombstone for the human father.

The unloved seven-year-old son made one himself before the furnace into which his father had leapt—just as his father had once made his mother’s.

With tiny hands I gripped a hammer, clumsily struck soft metal with feeble strength, enduring the heat as I hammered again and again. With my face flushed red, I glared at the hateful sky.

It was clear. The sun blazed brilliantly. Staring at that cruelly radiant sky, I asked:

Do the gods truly exist?

No one answered, no matter how I pleaded. To seek an answer, one had to earn the right.

A being so great that all life looked up to him, so high that even the Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses could not ignore him. Only those worthy could ask the blasphemous question.

The nameless one said: The phoenix rises from the ashes.

That day, I pulled up my mother’s tombstone. I stopped forging my father’s. Instead, I melted down the tombs of my departed family and began to forge a single blade. With my still-tiny hands gripping the hammer, I struck the heated iron as if to destroy it—to create one thing.

A blade with a long edge.

A weapon for cutting and thrusting, with a short hilt and a long blade.

The world called it by one name: the sword.

On the end of that crude, poor, miserable piece of metal, I carved uneven letters—hoping that someday that name would resound beyond the continent, to the gods themselves.

I engraved thus: Liam Karavan.

...

“Haa—!”

With a strange feeling, I opened my eyes. The moment I sat up, I looked down at my hands.

They were trembling, as if I had just been holding a hammer, striking metal again and again.

‘So vivid… it’s maddening.’

What I had just witnessed was a memory contained within the shard.

Liam Karavan. The life of my master, his memories. They were more vivid, powerful, and sharp than anything I had ever seen—to the point that I could no longer tell dreams from reality.

「Have you finally come to your senses, young descendant?」

As I caught my breath, Liam spoke. Looking down at me, he murmured:

「First, recover.」

Calmly gazing at me, Liam slowly turned his eyes—not to me, but somewhere beyond.

「There is a long road ahead.」

“……”

「This is not the end—it is only the beginning, young descendant.」

There was a peculiar emotion in his voice.

「You resemble me.」

“……”

「Prepare for the coming storm. Do not flee—face it head-on.」

And then—the same words I had once heard within myself came forth.

「The phoenix rises from the ashes.」

“……”

「If you do not break, you can soar.」

Liam’s eyes turned to me.

「I did it, young descendant.」

His eyes were sharp as blades.

「Therefore, so can you.」

Without a flicker of doubt.

「For in your veins flows the Blood of Steel.」

***

In the Blade Palace built upon steel—among the noble ones who resided there was the most exalted youth of all: the sole heir of the Iron Kingdom of Cherville, the only youth of royal blood.

The Iron Prince, Ian Cherville, sipped wine with a relaxed face.

“Iron Prince.”

A man spoke to the leisurely prince. He was out of place in that palace—unkempt hair, tattered rags draped over his body, his face smudged with black stains.

“The boy you ordered me to watch—he survived.”

“Did he now?”

“He overcame an unjust trial, triumphed against an unbeatable foe, and proved his worth— just as the scenes written in forgotten history.”

“Khuh, puhuh, puhuhuhu—”

At the man’s words, the Iron Prince set down his glass and burst into laughter. What began as a chuckle grew into uncontrollable madness. His laughter echoed through the vast palace like thunder. After laughing for quite some time, the man asked:

“Are you satisfied?”

“Satisfied? Of course I am satisfied.”

“……Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid? Sadly, not yet. But I hope to be! Someday I wish to be terrified—to tremble, to scream, to lie awake shaking in fear. I long to feel such emotion. Desperately!”

Meeting the Iron Prince’s deranged gaze, the man bowed his head. It was instinctive discomfort—something beyond reason. Suppressing his fear, he murmured:

“And if that boy’s blade reaches you one day, what then?”

“I hope it does. I hope his blade pierces my throat. If I am lacking, then I shall die, pierced through, rolling in the dirt like my brothers before me. If that day comes, I shall meet it with a smile. For it would mean there exists one greater than I.”

“……”

“But that will not happen.”

The Iron Prince’s gaze turned upon the man.

“Because I am the greatest in this continent.”

The man heard the mad yet unshaken words.

A confidence bordering on insanity—a complete faith in himself.

Looking into the prince’s strange eyes, the man bowed deeply.

“……As you say, Your Highness.”

When the man lowered his head, the Iron Prince abruptly stopped smiling. With a perfectly blank face, in a dry, emotionless voice, he said:

“Now go, and do your part.”

“……And the boy?”

“You may cease watching him for now.”

The Iron Prince lifted his glass once more, sipping wine as he gazed out beyond the window—past the jagged blade-like walls of the fortress, to the far horizon.

“……As you command.”

Confirming the prince’s attention had waned, the man bowed deeply once more—then scattered into black smoke where he stood. After he vanished, the Prince’s Executioner, Swordmaster Carlos, entered from outside. Looking straight at his lord, Carlos asked:

“Your next command?”

Hearing the brief question, the Iron Prince kept his eyes on the distance. The Iron Kingdom was too small to contain him. For one as great and supreme as he, the kingdom was insufficient. An empire? Too small still. Then what should he possess? To Ian Cherville, there was only one answer worthy of him.

“It is time I make use of your sword.”

The world.

This continent created by the Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses—vast lands divided by names like kingdoms, empires, archipelagos, and Free Cities.

Under its great sky lived the Seven Races. He wanted all of it in his grasp—not a single thing left behind.

“Carlos.”

“Yes.”

Now, the first step of his grand and arrogant plan was to begin.

“Cut down my father.”

“……”

“It is time I took the 「Throne of Swords」.”

At Ian Cherville’s words, his executioner answered calmly—“……As you command.”