Flight magic is inherently unstable. Several spells for aerial flight exist, but whether you're manipulating gravity or controlling wind, maintaining balance is said to be extraordinarily difficult.
Simply floating one's body was one thing, but moving freely in the air was another matter entirely. A mishap could send you plummeting, and even among first-rate mages, those who struggled with flight magic were far from rare.
That was precisely why flight-type Treasure Weapons and rideable winged magic beasts traded at such exorbitant prices. Flying solo was hard enough — attempting to carry multiple passengers at once ramped the difficulty up exponentially. Some nations even trained mages exclusively for flight operations.
Meanwhile, my Lucia happened to know multiple flight-capable spells.
Aerial stability and posture control were closely tied to the caster's physical coordination, but Lucia Roje of "Myriad Forms Freedom" — who'd been put through brutal training with a magic tome that reflected my own yearning for the skies — found little that was truly impossible. Probably.
"All right, hold on tight, Leader. I've got the hang of air-stepping, but balancing is really, truly difficult."
"...Ah, that kite-flying trick. Lucia, you really do come up with some interesting ideas."
"Ghh?! Come on!"
Come to think of it, I vaguely remembered a scene from an old story about riding a kite through the sky. Maybe that had inspired her to develop the technique?
*Sigh* ...She really is my little sister.
After waiting for Lucia to straddle it, I climbed onto the back of her staff — rather, her broom. But how anyone could stay balanced on such a thin rod was beyond me...
I'd ridden the broom only a handful of times, and every single time my backside ached. Flying through the sky didn't somehow make your body lighter.
"...Wouldn't a kite be better?"
"Hey!! Come on, just grab on already!"
Well, true — riding a kite would probably be even more conspicuous. Scolded into submission, I wrapped my arms around Lucia as tightly as I could, and the broom slowly rose into the air.
My feet quickly left the ground. With such minimal contact area, even gripping tight my center of gravity refused to stabilize. I couldn't fathom what kind of person first thought "let's ride a broom," but having been the one who made Lucia painstakingly recreate the experience, I was in no position to talk.
I could feel through the arms I'd wrapped around her that Lucia drew a deep breath. Then the broom accelerated all at once. In an instant it shot out through the open window of the Clan Master's office.
All I could do was cling to Lucia's body like I was hugging her for dear life. It had been rough when Clyus let me ride his Iron Horse during the emperor's escort, but the speed of Lucia's broom was incomparable.
Mages who could fly freely were so formidable that some nations created entire military branches for them. The broom swerved just before slamming into the building ahead, then shot straight up. The savage G-forces hammering my body ripped from me a sound like a frog being flattened.
Come to think of it, this was my first time being flown through the city...
"The control on this—"
But Lucia, piloting the broom behind me, shouted over my dazed clinging: "Stop making weird noooises! I'm doing fine! Because of you, my control precision is—"
"You're going too fast."
My vision whirled violently. My senses couldn't remotely keep up with the motion. I should have worn something comfortable for a nice vacation instead.
The Barrier Ring wasn't blocking the G-forces — probably because the activation threshold hadn't been reached. Just barely, I'd wager. Though even if it had activated, it probably wouldn't have helped much.
My spinning vision happened to glance downward, where countless minuscule people were pointing up at the witch Lucia — who had burst into the sky on a broom out of nowhere — and buzzing with excitement.
The road in front of the Clan House was a major avenue. During the day carriages frequently passed through, but now nearly all of them had stopped, every eye fixed on us.
Even in the imperial capital, with its abundance of talent, people who could fly were far from common...
The broom accelerated further, leaving all that attention behind in an instant. Over the roaring wind, Lucia shouted: "If I slow down! It gets! Unstable! This! Unstable! Posture! Not flipping! Upside down — Do you have! Any idea! How hard! That is!"
The wind was ferocious. The speed seemed higher than before — or maybe I'd just gotten slower. When I'd used the Dark Wings of the Night, there'd been recoil too, but apparently that Treasure Weapon had mitigated some of those drawbacks. A new discovery. But to be pushing right up to the Barrier Ring's activation threshold...
The wind pressure made even breathing difficult. In the midst of total chaos, I called out: "Lucia, not ba— Huh!?"
In that instant, Lucia vanished from my grasp. No — it was me who had disappeared.
My arms had gone slack. By the time I realized what had happened, I was already falling.
My body tilted. Instead of the wind that had been battering me moments ago, the ground now tugged at my body. I was — powerless.
But I felt strangely calm. Falling was nothing new, and I had the Barrier Ring.
"!? Why!? Brotherrrrr!"
--- Lucia — always the calm one — screamed with a face drained of color, barely able to breathe.
"I don't understand what's happening!"
"...Nice catch!"
"Stop joking around! Brother!?"
I had nothing to say. I hadn't meant to joke... I was already in the humiliating position of clinging to my little sister, and yet I still managed to fall — I was thoroughly exasperated by my own helplessness.
But of course. I'd fallen off the Iron Horse too... At this speed, it was only natural my hands would slip.
Still, Lucia proved reliable as always. Clyus had been dependable too, but my little sister surpassed him. I felt a flicker of brotherly pride.
"To think you'd loop around and catch me mid-freefall... Not bad."
...Was that some kind of acrobatic stunt? The image of Lucia — closing the distance on me in freefall, letting out an almighty scream, releasing her right hand from the broom, and catching me in midair — might just go down in legend.
I was gradually getting used to the broom's speed. The imperial capital spread out below was so breathtakingly beautiful it nearly made me let go.
"Yet again, I've acquired another completely useless skill—"
"That's... growth is all about accumulation, you know."
"!? Reflect on yourself!"
Well, she had a point — maybe I'd gotten too used to dancing along the edge of death. No, not "dancing along." I hadn't actually made it.
To ensure I wouldn't fall again, I squeezed tighter with my arms. I had to be careful not to pull her hair...
"Man, thanks for saving me. Ahahaha..."
"...Next time, I will abandon you."
What you really wanted was a reliable mage of a sister, not a deadweight brother. She was also charging my Treasure Weapon, and without her I'd have been finished long ago. Well, I would've been finished without Luke and the gang too — no, actually, by now I might have retired and be living peacefully somewhere...
...I should stop thinking about this.
What mattered was the future, not the past. Steeling myself, I looked ahead while enduring the oncoming wind — and that's when something impossible came into view.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Straight ahead, toward my destination — where the Sword Saint's dojo should have been.
"...That's weird. Wasn't there a bigger building there?"
"............"
The Sword Saint, Thorn Lowell, was the strongest swordsman in the imperial capital. Not a Hunter by trade, but a lifetime of dedicated cultivation had pushed his swordsmanship far beyond even high-level Hunters — making him one of the finest swordsmen across all ages and all lands.
In Zebuldia, where martial prowess was revered, his prestige naturally rivaled that of the upper nobility, and including branch schools, dozens of dojos existed in the capital alone.
If my memory was correct, there should have stood the largest training ground in all the surrounding nations — funded by noble disciples as a tribute to the Sword Saint. I remembered visiting with Luke when I first came to the capital, my blood burning with excitement, shouting in admiration.
Now there was nothing left. Well — something remained, at least in shape.
"...Did they demolish it? It was pretty new..."
"........"
Where the massive training ground should have stood was now a mountain of rubble. Onlookers and peacekeeping knights swarmed around it, murmuring.
It wasn't completely destroyed — pillars and walls survived here and there — but repairs would take considerable time. But what truly drew the eye was the central spire, the dojo's signature landmark. That towering structure had vanished.
No, not vanished. It was still there — but by my estimate, roughly a third shorter. I wasn't imagining it. The roof was gone. All I could do was laugh.
"Ahaha, ahahahaha — did they renovate? Lucia, doesn't it look shorter? Ahahahahaha"
"............"
The hollow laugh dissolved into the wind.
You're kidding!? What — how does a tower get shorter? Huh? Why isn't this all over the newspapers?
This was clearly destruction on a disaster scale. The puzzling thing was that other buildings around it were completely unscathed.
You probably wouldn't notice from ground level, but the shortened cross-section looked exactly like— I tightened the hand resting on Lucia's stomach. She'd gone deathly quiet.
"............"
"Look at that, Lucia. It's like it was sliced clean by a sword. That's ridiculous! What size sword would that take? Hey, Lucia, say something. Lucia?"
"Brother... You idiot."
Lucia finally answered in a small voice. This was bad... If I was responsible for this, I might not get off easy.
Were there casualties? Who did this? Luke? Could money and groveling fix this? I never imagined something like this would happen — could it still be salvaged?
And since when did a sword劈 a training ground into pieces? That's insane!
...I want to run... but I can't. If I were alone, maybe, but not in front of my sister.
She'd already witnessed plenty of my pathetic moments, but I still had a shred of pride.
"People are gathered at the dojo. I can see Luke too — let's land there."
Holding Lucia tight, I craned my head and pointed toward the center of the half-destroyed dojo. Sure enough, amid the rubble, several figures were visible.
"...Lucia, you've got guts."
The training ground had been granted by the upper nobility — it should have been a source of pride for the Sword Saint's school. Even间接地, I'd reduced it to this. There was no telling what they'd say.
On top of that, Luke was always causing them trouble. He was earnest about strength and swordsmanship, but knew nothing of courtesy and couldn't care less about money or power.
Among the Sword Saint's many disciples — many of them nobles — there were surely those who despised him. This incident was pouring oil on the fire.
And the Sword Saint's disciples numbered absurdly many. I recognized a few by sight, but none I was close with. Even if the Sword Saint himself forgave me, whether the others would— "!? Whose fault is this? Whose!?"
"...N-no? Surely you don't... Right! You don't think the man they call the strongest swordsman in Zebuldia — complete in skill, technique, and body — lost to a cursed sword, do you?"
"........"
Well, for starters, I hadn't even known it was a cursed sword... It certainly looked ominous enough, but Luke and I had been fine, and Elisa — for someone who's always spacing out, she sure had a knack for bringing back the most troublesome things.
I was already scrambling for a new excuse when Lucia, without a word, changed course and accelerated.
--- Nadri would never forgive himself. As one of the Sword Saint's handful of direct disciples, his disgrace was so absolute that he wanted nothing more than to slit his stomach here and now.
His severed right arm. The searing, flesh-grinding pain running through his entire body. The agony of broken bones. Compared to the impulse for seppuku, none of it even registered.
What barely stopped him from taking his own life was— "Man, that was one hell of a night. They say swordsmen controlled by cursed swords are tough, but I never expected them to get that strong—"
"Guh..."
The man before him — coated in dust from head to toe, yet laughing uproariously.
Luke Saikol. The one who had brought about this entire catastrophe, yet showed not a shred of guilt and was, in fact, in high spirits. Nadri couldn't very well disembowel himself in front of such a man.
The storied dojo, home to countless disciples, lay half in ruins.
The gate, walls, and buildings — austere structures that sent a shiver through anyone who laid eyes on them — had collapsed. No one looking at this scene would believe it had been caused by a single sword.
The venue still reeked of blood that even repeated wiping couldn't fully erase.
Normally, a single blade could never produce this level of destruction. But the sword Thousand Transformations had sent was no ordinary weapon.
Cursed swords came in many varieties. Some granted power in exchange for a price. Some shifted their performance dramatically depending on the wielder's talent. Some even chose their wielder and cultivated them into first-rate swordsmen. The arcane weaponry forged by advanced magical civilizations defied modern understanding entirely.
It was only after everything was over that Nadri realized the delivered sword was among the worst of its kind.
The moment he gripped that blade — which captivated the eye on sight alone — what surged through Nadri was an overwhelming, terrifying omnipotence, as though he had claimed everything in the world for himself, and an irresistible desire to wield it.
The impulse — as though the wondrous exhilaration every swordsman felt upon first gripping a blade had been amplified ten thousandfold — swept away everything else from Nadri's mind.
Generally, a swordsman was required to cultivate not only skill of the blade but also spiritual discipline. To wield that great power correctly — this was one reason Luke, who poured an almost obsessive passion into swordsmanship, was still not called the strongest.
Nadri should have noticed sooner. The moment he saw that edge, the swelling impulse should have struck him as wrong, and he should have gone on high alert.
He should have suppressed the urge and exercised self-control over his desire to wield it. He should have set an example for his junior disciples.
Thirst for strength. Jealousy. Hatred. Pride. A cursed sword that drove its wielder to madness. The demonic blade attached itself to the weakest parts of the human heart.
Cursed swords were often terrifyingly sharp, and this one was no exception — its keenness matched its fearsome beauty.
With a casual swing, the world was cut. With feather-light ease it parted the air, parted everything, meeting zero resistance.
In terms of sharpness alone, it was arguably among the finest of all cursed swords.
It fit his palm like an extension of his own body, with no sense of wrongness. No — in that moment, Nadri was undeniably part of the sword, and carving through living things was its very reason for existence.
If Luke Saikol — who, even when a fellow disciple suddenly attacked him, wouldn't so much as flinch and would counterattack to take their life — had not been present, every other disciple in the dojo would have been annihilated.
Of course, if Luke hadn't brought the cursed sword in the first place, none of this would have happened.
Luke Saikol was a problem child. He had cut down a considerable number of people — fellow disciples included — an out-and-out killer. But destroying buildings was new.
Halving the dojo and letting the chaos spill outside was unprecedented. The knights had already come asking questions. There was no concealing this, nor would it be tolerated.
And the disgrace of the Sword Saint's direct disciple would tarnish the Sword Saint's own reputation. This incident was Nadri's responsibility. Master would likely forgive him, but that was beside the point.
"Man, so strong, so strong! As expected of the Clan — you get it! This is exactly what I wanted! Only bummer was the Master wasn't here so I couldn't really go at it with anyone—"
"You... you fool! Master would never be taken in by a cursed sword!!"
By dawn, the other disciples who had fallen in droves had already been carried off for treatment. Those gathered now were all latecomers who had arrived after everything was over.
The puddles of blood had been wiped away, and the severed body parts had been removed.
The disciples who had been in the dojo that night were among the most dedicated practitioners — the elite.
But the large number of victims hadn't been caused by Nadri's rampage.
The cursed sword that had wrought this carnage was gone — wrapped in cloth by Luke and removed. But once experts examined it, its danger would become clear.
And the motive behind Thousand Transformations sending that sword would likewise come to light.
Luke folded his arms and looked down at Nadri, who sat gasping roughly on the ground. Though Luke must have sustained injuries too, his expression betrayed not the slightest discomfort.
"Don't look so grim — Anthem will fix your arm right up, no problem! She's great at that kind of thing! With this many people around, it'll be good practice for her too!"
"That is NOT the issue!"
Light. Impossibly light — for someone who'd cut down dozens. It didn't feel like he'd nearly killed several people.
And Luke hadn't flinched once at Nadri's reprimand.
The assembled fellow disciples watched Luke and Nadri with grim expressions.
They held their tongues partly out of deference to the Master's judgment, but also because Luke held a unique position among the disciples.
After all, he was impossible to reason with. And yet, despite being impossible to reason with, he brimmed with talent, loved the sword more than anyone, and never hesitated to cut or be cut.
His stance — unyielding before power, greedily pursuing strength — earned him friends and enemies in equal measure, and this was the crux of the problem: even without the cursed sword, Luke had always been just unhinged enough to plow through every disciple and demolish the dojo without batting an eye.
Even Nadri, had he been in the position of hearing about it after the fact rather than witnessing it firsthand, would likely have just shrugged and said "he's done it again."
He'd known Luke for years now and understood his personality. This was a man from the Sword Star, born on the Sword Planet. How could you sustain genuine anger toward someone with whom communication was fundamentally impossible?
Recently, even the Master had stopped addressing Luke directly and instead spoke to his Party's leader, Thousand Transformations— That Nadri had been consumed by the sword was his own inadequacy. He couldn't face his family, his friends, or his Master.
But he couldn't leave it at that. He couldn't let it go without a single word — no matter how pathetic it might seem.
"It's Thousand Transformations. Let me say this — I'm done talking to you! It's Thousand Transformations! I'll speak to your leader! What exactly was the meaning of sending that sword — I'll tell them exactly what I think! Listen, Luke! You might not know this, but in this country, sending a dangerous cursed sword without warning is against the law!! Don't you dare say you didn't know — I won't let you say you didn't know!! No matter what the Master says, I'll have my say!!"
"Come on, calm down, Nadri. Kurai didn't do anything wrong. I asked for it — said I needed someone to cut. So she gave it to me."
Since when did anyone in any world respond to a request for sparring partners by handing over a soul-corroding cursed sword? And besides, you ask everyone for everything!
The excitement had apparently split his wounds open — a dull pain lanced through his abdomen, and he clamped a hand over it involuntarily. His consciousness was fading, but not yet. He had to see this through to the end before he could see a doctor.
He just had to hold on until the Master, summoned by this incident, returned— Then, at that moment, Luke — who had been gazing idly into the sky — suddenly called out in a loud voice, waving his hand.
"Oh, it's Kurai! Over here, over here!"
"!? Wh-what!?"
Even for a Level 8 Hunter, there were lines you didn't cross. What did Luke and the Mourning Specter think laws and common sense were?!
Nadri whipped his broken body into motion, summoning every last ounce of strength to stand — when a sudden gust of wind struck. The pressure buckled the knees he'd barely been forcing to move, and he landed hard on his backside.
The other disciples scrambled to make space.
As Nadri screamed silently through the searing pain radiating from his tailbone, what descended before him with a rush of air was— A girl astride a broom, with black hair so beautiful it seemed not of this world.
Straight black hair falling to her waist, flawless white skin. Her features were refined but carried a hint of coldness, assuring anyone who saw her that this girl possessed a keen and formidable intellect.
Her all-black mage's robes held no flourish, yet the mysterious aura they lent her complemented her appearance to perfection.
No one rode brooms to fly. Not outside of fairy tales.
Nadri forgot to breathe, forgot the pain, forgot his anger. The gathered disciples seemed equally stunned, struck speechless by the girl who had appeared from the sky without warning.
In the sudden hush, the only one unchanged was Luke, who called out with an oddly delighted tone: "What's up, Kurai! You made it! It was amazing just now — I cut one guy and the next one picked up the sword and charged me, and the blade's cutting power was insane too—"
"!? L-Luke!? What are you saying — Thousand Transformations is a ma—"
Impossible. Nadri had met Thousand Transformations in person. He'd come along when Luke first joined the school, and they'd crossed paths several times since.
He was a man — a black-haired, black-eyed fellow with a gentle face, to put it kindly, or a bland one, to put it bluntly. For starters, the gender was wrong. Thousand Transformations was a man! Not some beautiful girl. The only things they shared were eye and hair color, and even calling that a resemblance was an insult.
The disciples, tempered through rigorous training under the Sword Saint in mind, technique, and body, shrank in on themselves. Some stared openly at the girl.
Ability had its aptitudes. The Sword Saint's school did have female students, but they were exceedingly rare, and almost without exception they were powerfully built — Nadri's equal or better in physical prowess.
And sadly, for many swordsmen, protecting a delicate, adorable girl-mage was an unspoken dream they would die before admitting aloud.
In front of the thoroughly captivated disciples, Luke blinked, then frowned.
"Hm? Oh, Lucia's Kurai's little sister. Riding a broom is unusual, but... What's up, Lucia? Training?"
"...Yes."
...His sister!? Impossible.
Before the disbelieving Nadri, the girl answered in a voice like a ringing bell.
And from behind the broom, the root of all evil descended.