"—Wolka. Why are you trying to become strong?"
"—"
Under a sky so clear it was almost hateful, a young boy lay sprawled on the ground, his breathing ragged.
The old man sheathed his sword, using the scabbard as a cane as he looked down at the boy from beside him. Blood trickled from the boy’s forehead and the corner of his mouth; his left eye was swollen shut, and the old clothes he had recently received from a villager were torn in several places, stained with seeping red.
Yet despite this, a light that would never fade flickered in the boy's eyes. It had been three years since he began training under the old man, but the boy was still only eight years old. It was an age where, normally, the very idea of sword training should have been out of the question, a time when he should have been innocently running around and playing with friends.
To the old man, the boy was his son’s child—his grandson.
"Wolka. What do you hope to find at the end of your path?"
When his grandson had first begged to be taught the sword, what had been in the old man's heart was a desire for atonement toward his son.
His son had not been a man suited for the life of a warrior, to put it mildly. Thus, the old man had dismissed his son’s potential early on, and his son had never attempted to walk the same path as his father. His son's interests lay in magic rather than the blade; he had knocked on the gates of the Magisterica in the Royal Capital and worked as a scholar. He had achieved a certain level of success, and though he had married late, he had been blessed with a talented wife. To the old man, it had seemed his son was enjoying a happy life.
Then, during a certain academic survey, the couple had entered a dungeon—and never returned.
The old man did not know exactly why the grandson he took in as a memento of his son had suddenly begged for sword lessons. However, he felt that if the boy desired the path of the sword, it was his duty to raise him well.
If the old man hadn't discarded his son’s swordsmanship so early, if he had taught him even a slightly more practical way to fight, perhaps his son might not have died.
Therefore, he would raise this boy, this living memory, so that he could survive even after he was left alone. He believed that was the least bit of atonement he could offer before he eventually followed his son to the grave.
He had been naive.
At that time, the old man had not anticipated the sheer volume of heat—something that could only be called a blazing spirit—that his grandson would pour into the sword.
"Wolka. What are you trying to accomplish?"
Matching his grandson, whose hands were not yet even fully formed for holding a sword, he had initially begun with gentle training. It was more accurate to call it playing with sticks than actual instruction. However, after about half a year, the grandson suddenly snapped at him.
With such lukewarm training, he would never become strong, no matter how much time passed.
"Teach me seriously," the boy had demanded.
At the time, the old man had simply laughed it off, thinking it was just a small child putting on airs. But in truth, the spirit the grandson emitted was becoming a flame that seemed to sear the old man's skin. "If you won't do this seriously, I'll crush you right here"—the grandson defiantly appealed to the old man through his blade.
And so, influenced despite himself, the training that was supposed to be mere play gradually took on a grim weight.
The remaining half of the year became "training" in the literal sense.
The next year, the intensity reached a level that no child should ever have been subjected to.
The year after that, it reached a point where even an adult wouldn't have been blamed for surrendering.
Occasionally, the old man’s reason would call for a halt. "What am I doing, getting so serious? My opponent is a child not even ten years old."
But the old man's instincts would answer. "Age doesn't matter; this brat's eyes are serious. Then isn't it the duty of an old man who has lived this path to respond in kind?"
In fact, the grandson never once cried out in surrender. On the contrary, with eyes like a blazing fire, he would bare his teeth and try to tear out the old man's throat.
This boy was clearly abnormal. At first, the old man thought he was being driven by his parents' deaths, but could that alone really allow him to cling on for three years?
Therefore, the old man asked his grandson once more.
"Wolka. Why do you swing your sword?"
"Gh—"
The grandson barely managed to steady his breathing and answered in a raspy voice that was only half-formed.
"It’s... obvious. There’s a... sword... I want to master...!"
"...That again?"
The old man sighed. It was a technique the grandson continued to work on through trial and error during his few breaks. Drawing and slashing in a single motion from a sheathed state—if put into words, it was a mysterious technique that one might even doubt should be called "swordsmanship" at all.
"I have told you many times, that is not a proper sword technique. What is the point of mastering a sword that can only move from a sheathed state? It might be useful for an initial surprise attack, but little more. It is rare for monsters to attack alone. Every time an enemy leaps at you, are you going to put the sword back in the scabbard? What if your hand slips? Are you going to beg the monster to wait?"
"Gh,"
The grandson's breathing gradually steadied.
"—I know that already," he spat out.
"Even I don't know if this is something that can be used in actual combat. ...It’s not about logic. I want to master it, so I will. There’s no reason beyond that."
"...Is that truly all? For that alone, you have clung to my training for three years? You must have noticed by now that my methods are no longer normal. Does that sword have that much value?"
"It does."
The answer was immediate.
"I—I've fallen in love with that sword."
"..."
On the grandson's blood-stained mouth, there was a defiant smile.
"I know it's not something that can be mastered with half-hearted resolve. With any ordinary method, I'd be an old man like you by the time I reached it. ...That's why I'm telling you, teach me for real."
As if biting into the old man's windpipe, he continued.
"I've decided I'm going to give you a run for your money with that sword. I won't let you just kick the bucket and get away with a winning streak."
"...Hmph."
The old man scoffed, but in truth, his heart was roaring with laughter at the sheer delight of it.
Well now, wasn't that an answer exactly as expected?
"You fool—"
It was much better than hearing him list off tearful, pretty phrases about avenging his parents or protecting the weak.
The old man was certain—this boy was a man who could go mad for the sake of the sword.
For the sake of a sword that was like a delusion—one where it wasn't even clear where he had learned of it, or if it could even be used in combat—this boy was already preparing to dedicate his entire life.
He was fundamentally insane.
But that was how it had to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be worth the effort of raising him with what little life the old man had left.
At first, it was meant to be atonement. He had thought that raising his grandson into a full-fledged man was the least responsibility he could fulfill for having once given up on his son's talent.
"Fine. ...Then from here on, I will train you with the intent to kill."
"...Huh?"
"If I continue with this lukewarm training, I'll drop dead long before you're finished."
Enough of the sentiment.
The memento of his son. His only grandson. He would stop treating him through those eyes from this moment on.
He would stake all of his remaining life to forge this man into a single, lethal blade.
"Four more years. Within four years—show me that sword you fell in love with before I kick the bucket."
"...You... you shitty old man...!!"
If the boy lost his life along the way, then so be it. If that happened, the old man would eternally atone for the sin of destroying his grandson's life in the depths of hell.
No—no matter the result, he didn't care if his destination was hell.
Therefore—
"—Now stand up! We’re continuing!!"
"Yeah...!!"
While he still had life, he wanted to see it.
The unprecedented flash of the sword that this great fool would carve out of the void.
/
When I realized that this was a classic fantasy world of swords and magic, like something out of a manga—at the time, I truly believed that—my goal in life was set immediately.
Yes, I would do Iai.
Foolishly enough, no matter how old they get, men love swords. I was no exception; in my previous life, I was a healthy young boy with a serious case of chuunibyou. I’d come home from a school trip having bought a wooden sword as a souvenir, much to my parents' dismay, and I’d swing it in the yard while my younger sister looked on with cold eyes.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d fallen in love with the sword techniques used by protagonists in manga and games, fantasizing about being the one to use them.
The land of the samurai, Japan. I think longing for the sword is an instinct carved into the DNA of Japanese men.
So, when I realized this was a fantasy world and learned that superhuman martial arts were actually achievable, the first thing I thought was this:
In this world, I might be able to realize "Iai," which only exists in fiction.
Could I realize a "Quick-draw Technique," a pinnacle of mystery and romance?
Taking a relaxed, half-turned stance with the sword still sheathed, then drawing it in an instant so fast only light follows, and the moment it’s resheathed, the opponent is cut in two without a chance to react—it's just incredibly cool. I long for it. It gives me chills. Japanese Iai, Banzai.
That's why I decided to do it. If I had come to a fantasy world anyway, I would aim for the sword I had dreamed of back then. If I could truly realize that sword which only existed in anime and games—just imagining it made my blood boil.
In the end, that was the starting point for me as a swordsman.
"――――――............"
Ah—even with a body that has lost an eye and a leg, when I hold a sword in one hand and slowly unlock the blade from its scabbard—my heart clears.
A day has passed since I received the prosthetic leg. Now that I can walk reasonably well, I asked Master to let me swing a sword. I told her I just wanted to slash a stationary target once.
On the way back to the Holy City, there's no guarantee we won't end up fighting monsters or Ruffians. I thought I needed to confirm how much I could do with this leg.
...That was just a pretext; the truth was that I simply wanted to swing a sword.
At the far edge of the Chryscles Holy Church's garden, in front of me stood a dirt doll Master had made with magic. That was all I saw. Master and the others, who were watching with bated breath from a safe distance—were no longer even in my consciousness.
Because that old man had whipped me to the brink of death, I had become a swordsman to my very core. Even though I should have been satisfied just realizing the form of a quick-draw, at some point, I had begun to climb toward the endless heights of the sword.
That's why I can't settle down if I don't move my body even while on bed rest.
Why I can work up a refreshing sweat just by doing practice swings.
And why I feel truly alive when I take my stance.
...I guess I just have to admit it.
I am, hopelessly—in love with the sword.
The slender Talwar, which looked so much like a Japanese sword, was given to me by Gramps as his final gift. Even though I had used it to its limit during the fight with the Life Reaper, it still fits in my hand today without a single nick in the blade.
"Gh..."
Ah—crap.
Somehow, everything is starting to overflow.
I lost an eye and a leg, and my future as a swordsman was supposedly closed off. I had told myself it was a small price to pay since I was able to overturn that bad ending. I wasn't just acting tough; at the time, I truly believed that.
Even though I thought that—
I don't want to give up.
I really don't want to give up.
I’ve been swinging a sword for about ten years, and it's only been a few years since I finally mastered a quick-draw technique I was satisfied with. Only a few years. It was supposed to be just the beginning. I thought I would continue to climb to even greater heights from here on, pursuing the ideal.
It’s no good.
Of course it’s no good.
Ending like this, halfway through the journey... there was no way I wouldn't have regrets.
"Wolka...? A-Are you okay...?"
At Master's call, my consciousness surfaced. I saw Master's face, her hands clenched as if enduring pain, looking as if she were about to burst into tears.
It was the same for Yulitia and Anze. Even Atri looked as if she had lost her voice, her lips pressed thin.
They might have seen right through me. Damn it. I’m a fool. I really just wanted to try one strike; I didn't mean for it to become this emotional.
I let out a sharp breath and switched my focus. For now, I'll fulfill my original pretext. I need to see how much I can swing a sword with this prosthetic leg. If I truly can't give up on the sword, then it's essential to know what I'm working with.
"――……"
I haven't spent ten years recklessly swinging a sword for nothing. Once I've decided, my heart returns to a serene clarity. Master and the others vanish from my consciousness, and all my concentration is poured into the dirt doll and the single sword in my hand.
Right foot forward, left foot back—in this stance, which relies on the right side of my body, nearly half of my frontal vision is gone because of the blindness in my right eye. Unless I consciously turn my head, I can't even see the dirt doll properly. But it doesn't matter. I firmly plant my weight, as if driving the prosthetic leg into the ground. I drop my center of gravity, take a quiet, deep breath, and—
"――――――............"
Ah... somehow, I feel like I can remember.
I can go in deeper than before.
The sensation of becoming one with the blade. The conviction that I can cut what I intend to cut, exactly as I imagine it.
This is surely the memory of when I fought the Life Reaper. Even if my mind has forgotten it, my body remembers it vividly. It’s carved into my muscles.
It feels as if I'm stepping into a realm beyond anything I've known.
That's right. At that time, too, I surely—
"Gh—!!"
I let it fly.
I heard the sound of something snapping.
My field of vision flipped upside down, and for a moment, I understood nothing.
"Ow... dammit..."
There was a moment where my consciousness cut out, and the next thing I saw was the blue sky filling my vision.
Apparently, I had flipped backward and fallen. On top of it being a sudden occurrence, I was in the middle of a draw, so I couldn't break my fall at all.
"Wolka!! Wolka!!"
"Senior!!"
"Wolka...!!"
"Lord Wolka...!!"
While I was groaning from a slight headache, everyone came rushing over in a panic. All of them were pale, and Master was completely teary-eyed.
"I-Injuries! Are you hurt!? Wolka!!"
"...I'm fine, I'm fine."
Fortunately, I didn't let go of my sword, so aside from hitting my head and back, there was nothing wrong. When I responded by raising my left hand while still lying on my back, Master flopped down, took my hand, and started sobbing. Don't be so dramatic...
However, Yulitia, Atri, and Anze all had terrible expressions, as if a glimpse of hope had been snatched away. I told them they were being dramatic. Did everyone get infected by Anze's monstrously large heart?
Wait, in the first place, why did I flip backward? I had firmly planted the prosthetic leg, so I shouldn't have slipped.
"............What?"
I looked at my left leg and immediately knew why.
I knew, but my mind refused to accept it for a moment.
The prosthetic leg was broken.
The socket had cracked and shattered, and the rod that served as the leg had snapped clean in half.
I see. Of course, if the prosthetic leg that was supposed to support the draw snapped, I would lose my balance. But why would it suddenly break? It was brand-new. I just got it yesterday. No, that couldn't be—
The one who voiced the answer was Yulitia. With her voice trembling, she said:
"S-Senior... the prosthetic leg... it couldn't withstand Senior's draw..."
"...,"
What makes my quick-draw technique possible is the accumulated refinement of handling the sword accurately, and the dense Strength I circulate instantaneously.
Until now, I hadn't been conscious of it.
But because I exploded my Strength with an intensity that was essentially excessive, it put an extraordinary load on my lower body—especially the axis leg that supports the stance.
Before, it was fine because I would reinforce my own body to withstand the load.
But Strength doesn't work on a prosthetic leg.
Mana doesn't pass through it, so its physical strength was nowhere near enough to handle the strain.
"...Haha."
Well, it’s just a prosthetic leg for daily life, after all.
I didn't think it would go well from the start. After all, it looks like nothing more than a stick attached to me. It’s only natural that a prosthetic leg that looked like it would snap did, in fact, snap. Since I hadn't been expecting anything, this isn't a result that should get me down.
Besides, just because it didn't work with this leg doesn't mean the possibility is gone. There should be models with greater strength, and—ah, but if I can't reinforce it with magic, it’ll be the same either way. Unless it's a prosthetic leg made of material that allows mana to pass through... but wouldn't that require a rare material like Mithril? If so, I’d have to get it, but that means asking Master and the others. What would I even say to them? To involve them that much for my own selfishness... In the first place, can you even make a prosthetic leg out of Mithril? Is there even any point in being so obsessed with the sword that I’d go that far?
Yes, this was as expected.
From the start, I wasn't expecting anything.
There's no need to be serious. An option I tried just in case simply failed. There should still be other possibilities.
"Ah... god... dammit."
Then why?
Why am I feeling so crushed?
/
Of course, Wolka's thought that there was no need to be so serious was not entirely wrong.
His prosthetic leg was undeniably meant for daily use; it was not intended for intense movements like running or jumping. Using Strength through it was out of the question. If the creator of the leg had been there, they would have surely scolded him for not specifying his intent from the beginning.
It was an entirely natural result, and it would be premature to despair that he could no longer use his technique just from this one failure.
However, it was enough to make Wolka understand what the loss of an eye and a leg—which he had thought was a small price to pay for his comrades—truly meant.
Wolka was a young adventurer of only seventeen, but it had already been ten years since he first held a sword. He had dedicated more than half of his life to the blade, accumulating training that had drawn blood since his childhood.
Even if his sword skills had reached a new realm through the struggle with the Life Reaper.
Even if he was clearly stronger than before he was injured.
If he couldn't swing a sword in the first place, it meant nothing.
Therefore, even if he were to be driven by the sensation of his life's work crumbling beneath him and show a moment of weakness, it was only human.
Of course, Wolka only showed that weakness for an instant. In the end, this was largely due to the equipment, and it didn't mean his career was over. Before long, he would switch his focus and, while being soundly scolded by the Old Sister for breaking the prosthetic in just two days, he would prioritize returning to the Holy City above all else.
For Wolka, it was even a good opportunity to reaffirm his devotion to the sword.
That was all that day was.
Except for the fact that the small weakness Wolka had let out for just a single moment—
And the sight of him unable to swing his sword even once, his chest tightening with a regret he couldn't hide—
Had been witnessed by his companions.