— The Dragon Sword Reid is a blade shrouded in mystery.
It is an undeniable fact that it is a treasure sword passed down through the Astrea family, a lineage that has produced one Sword Saint after another. Yet no record exists of where the Dragon Sword was bestowed from.
A treasure sword of unknown provenance, and to make matters worse, one that supposedly cannot be drawn by anyone other than the Sword Saint. To add a further stipulation, even that Sword Saint cannot draw it except when the need arises.
The legendary sword of the first Sword Saint,
The fabled blade that cut down every last dragon when they once descended in a great horde.
Or perhaps merely a dull blade that grew in power by continuously drinking the blood of its enemies.
If one is satisfied with unverified, fairy-tale-level stories, there are plenty of such anecdotes.
In any case, nothing definitive can be said, and there is no way to verify any of it.
If there is one thing that can be stated with absolute certainty, however, — The Dragon Sword Reid surpasses any treasure sword, any legendary blade, any demonic saber.
— It is the ultimate embodiment of steel refined to its absolute limit as a sword. There exists no steel that exceeds it.
For even Wilhelm, who had earned the title of "Van"—the pride and honor of a swordsman—to behold that cloudless white blade with his own eyes was only the third time in his entire life.
"— Reinhard."
Dragon claws carved into its jet-black scabbard hanging at his left hip, and the Dragon Sword gripped firmly in his right hand—he stood there.
Red hair billowing in the wind, blue eyes scanning the situation with an unwavering gaze—it was none other than the current Sword Saint,
Even Wilhelm was overwhelmed by that gallant, heroic bearing.
The Sword Saint who had inherited the title and claimed the role of the Kingdom's sword as a Royal Knight—his own grandson. This was, in fact, the first time Wilhelm had ever seen him on the battlefield.
Wilhelm had lost Theresia during the great subjugation campaign and fled the Astrea household. The rift between himself and his son and grandson from that event remained unhealed, even fifteen years later.
And so for those fifteen years, Wilhelm had chased after his wife's shadow and looked away from his family all the while. He had witnessed none of his son's downfall, none of his grandson's growth and accomplishments.
— That was precisely why, now, he was overwhelmed by the sight before him.
Standing there was the Sword Saint.
Blessed with the favor of the Sword God, granted the honor of drawing the supreme and ultimate sword, standing at the pinnacle that every swordsman in the world yearns to reach—he was nothing other than the Sword Saint.
That sight reminded Wilhelm of something.
The pain had long been forgotten. What resurfaced was a different feeling entirely—one from long, long ago, the very first time Wilhelm had watched the Sword Saint, Theresia, perform her sword dance.
Even then, Wilhelm had felt the distance separating them, a gap he could never hope to cross.
He had lamented the insignificance of his own talent, believing he could never reach that realm.
And yet he had not rotted away. He had swung his sword, kept swinging, and eventually reached the very edge of that realm. He had proven that the distance was not unbridgeable.
— What a narrow, small vision that had been.
The quality was different. The height was different. The weight was different. The substance was different. Everything about it was different.
That realm existed not on a scale where one could speak of reaching it or falling short.
It was, quite literally, a being of an entirely different dimension.
"— — —"
Theresia slowly lowered the longsword she had been raising overhead. The blade that had been moments away from cutting Heinkel down now turned its point toward the newly arrived enemy.
All that remained within her were the orders from the practitioner who animated the corpse using forbidden arts.
To execute those orders with optimal judgment, and to defeat anything that stood as an obstacle—that was all.
And if those orders prioritized the more dangerous target first, it was only natural.
The old swordsman who had already been stripped of his ability to fight and was merely awaiting death by blood loss.
The vice-captain of the knights who had lost all will to fight and lacked even the courage to flee—a commander in name only.
Neither of them posed any threat to Theresia anymore.
Therefore, when she angled her longsword—the full measure of a former Sword Saint's skill—toward the current Sword Saint, it was not a miscalculation in the slightest.
"Stop! Theresia! Over here—look at me, Theresiaaaa!"
Dragging his leg, trailing threads of blood, Wilhelm screamed.
As though she could not hear him at all, Theresia did not so much as glance his way. Just as if the sword exchanges moments ago had been a lie, she treated him as though he simply did not exist.
It was a humiliation. And beyond that, a grief that surpassed it.
But there was no time to be consumed by sorrow. There was no room for such stagnation in the man he was now.
He had to shout. He had to stop this—now.
"— — —"
Ignoring Wilhelm's desperate urgency, Theresia closed the distance in a single leap.
Her red hair streaming behind her, she danced toward Reinhard with her longsword.
The blade traced a half-circle, carving an almost artistic arc as it aimed to bisect Reinhard diagonally—but in that flicker of a gap too brief for even a blink, Reinhard slipped past the strike.
As he sidestepped and moved to get behind her, the tip of the longsword pursued him as though it possessed a will of its own. Even as it slaughtered the atmosphere in its path and continued its relentless assault, Reinhard did not so much as change his expression. He merely retreated half a step—enough to let the blade graze past him without a scratch.
"— — —"
As if realizing the disadvantage of her current position, Theresia lunged forward without a word. To face Reinhard while leaving half her body exposed was nothing short of suicide.
Turning to face her, longsword held at the ready in a standard guard, Reinhard looked straight at her.
Directly behind Reinhard stood Heinkel. As if shielding his father, Reinhard confronted his own grandmother. Wilhelm realized, with a jolt, that that very instant of swordplay had been fought to secure precisely this position.
"What are you doing… What is this—what did I even do…?!"
Heinkel sat with his face drained of color, both hands clutching his head.
Whether his own son was standing before him as a shield meant nothing to him. The truth of what lay before that had long since exceeded the limits of what Heinkel's heart could bear.
There was no expectation that he might turn the situation around. There never had been.
That was exactly why Wilhelm himself had to be the one to raise his voice.
"Stop, Reinhard! Look at me! My fight with Theresia is still ongoing! A duel between swordsmen—one that no third party has the right to interrupt!"
"— — —"
Reinhard glanced sideways at Wilhelm, who was screaming that the battle was still unfinished. His blue eyes looked down at Wilhelm's right leg, which was still bleeding freely.
"…With that leg, you cannot continue fighting."
"If my legs won't move, then what of it! The hands that grip the sword are still alive! If the hands die, then the mouth! If the mouth cannot speak, then the soul! As long as I still have my life, I have not lost!"
"If you have not lost your life… then what would you say about her, standing before us?"
"—!"
Reinhard's question caught in Wilhelm's throat.
Theresia stared at the enemy with blank eyes, devoid of all expression, devoid of all emotion, without a single word. Reinhard held that image in the corner of his vision as he pressed Wilhelm for an answer.
"She is merely a corpse that moves without self-awareness, obeying only the practitioner's will—I see no value in bringing the ways of a swordsman to a fight against someone desecrating the dead."
"The ways of a swordsman—don't give me that—!"
The folly of demanding a proper duel against an animated corpse.
Wilhelm had no rebuttal to Reinhard's words. It was a fact that Theresia had already distanced herself from Wilhelm and was treating the fight as over.
No matter how much Wilhelm screamed, the resolution he sought as a swordsman could never be achieved.
Moreover, Wilhelm himself could not loudly proclaim that he was still a swordsman—not in his current state.
Propped up by his sword, relying not on steel but on words, not on martial skill but on sheer wish—where in that
There was none. He was empty.
"—The dead do not move. There is nothing beyond death for the dead. I will not permit that injustice."
Having lost his voice, Wilhelm heard Reinhard speak those words.
His gaze no longer rested on his grandfather. It was fixed, with all his focus, on the corpse of his grandmother standing before him.
With a smooth motion, the Dragon Sword Reid was brought up to the center guard.
By strange coincidence, the stance was a perfect mirror image of the longsword-bearing Theresia's.
"— — —"
The cloudless blade of the Dragon Sword gleamed with an almost unsettling luster.
It was the sword's ovation. Trembling with excitement at having been given the chance to be swung once more, rejoicing at the prospect of facing its former wielder—the supreme steel radiated a silent elation.
"— — —"
"— — —"
Without a word, two pairs of blue eyes—both belonging to swordsmen—locked together.
Though the Sword Saint stood ready with his sword, he did not perform the customary declaration of identity.
That was only natural. It meant he saw in his opponent someone worthy of a swordsman's pride and a warrior's code.
That kind of formality was not extended to someone who was not that—someone who had no claim to being treated as an equal.
The air froze solid, and a tension born of color and weight pressed down upon the world.
Enveloped in a leaden, suffocating sensation, Wilhelm opened his mouth.
He did not yet know what words to say, but the urgency that he had to say something drove him on.
— And ironically, that became the signal for the two swordsmen.
"Stop—!"
The voice did not reach.
Leaving even their voices behind, the two swordsmen clashed.
"— — —"
Stepping in, swinging through, Theresia's longsword roared as it split the atmosphere—her highest-level slash descended upon Reinhard from a flawless angle.
It may well have been the most refined and beautiful flash among all the sword strikes Wilhelm had ever witnessed from Theresia.
In normal circumstances, Wilhelm would have been consumed with jealousy at the knowledge that he was not the one who had drawn out the full depth of Theresia's dormant power.
But in this moment, the emotion that swelled within Wilhelm's heart was something else entirely.
And what burst forth from his chest with explosive force took the form of undeniable words.
"Don't kill her…!"
The feelings he had sealed away, the passion he had crushed, the love he had told himself must never be embraced—they came flooding out of Wilhelm like a dam breaking.
The Theresia of his youth.
The woman who had set his heart ablaze and made him aware of a world beyond swords. The only woman in his entire life whom he had deemed worth sacrificing everything for—she was right there.
The woman he loved most in all the world, the one he had never once told he loved her—she was there.
"She's my Theresia—!!"
Those were words that should never have been spoken.
In a state where the slightest distraction could cost him his life, prioritizing his own feelings was something he could not allow.
It violated both a swordsman's pride and a warrior's code—it was an act that desecrated the nobility that a battle should hold.
And yet, it was simply a man's voice. The desperate cry of a man trying, with everything he had, not to lose the woman he loved.
And that death-defying call was— "—Grandmother was killed by me, fifteen years ago."
It was a quiet voice. Almost a whisper.
A sound so faint one might wonder whether it would even carry.
But it was, without question, a response to Wilhelm's scream.
"— — —"
Theresia's sword strike landed a direct hit on Reinhard.
The Dragon Sword had not yet entered the arc of its swing.
It would hit. He would be cut down. Anyone watching would expect nothing less.
"Standing here is nothing but a fake."
— The Dragon Sword Reid traced its path.
In a single motion, soundlessly, the Dragon Sword swung. The white blade was returned to its scabbard in one fluid movement.
The only sound was the faint metallic clink of the guard meeting the scabbard.
That alone was enough.
The battle was over.
It was finished.
Next time — "Name."