Ivan watched a miracle unfold. A miracle he had created.
He observed the direction of the blade's edge, the weight concentrated in a single strike, the moving center of gravity and trajectory—an unwavering, straight path.
Many had assessed that his eyes were exceptional. But this was more curse than blessing. What did it mean to be able to replicate something after seeing it just once?
It meant he could break down and understand every element of an opponent's actions simply by watching. The process of learning through repetition and mastery became unnecessary. As long as he was familiar with using his body, he could mimic any physical technique.
Therefore, he could not truly grow. He merely traced the footsteps of those who had grown on their own. It was like walking in the footprints left by others on the long path of martial arts.
This wasn't growth. It was merely retracing the paths of those who had walked before him. And if there came a point where no one stood ahead of him, his steps would halt there as well.
That was stagnation. And like all processes, stagnation was equivalent to regression. As Edel had assessed, his martial arts were like those of a child just learning to walk.
This was because he was only now beginning to understand himself and take his own steps. What all martial artists had been doing from the very beginning, he was only starting now.
But now, he was witnessing a miracle.
The moment Isabelle stepped forward, he immediately understood what she was attempting. She was trying to execute the Sky Cleaver.
Her weight distribution was perfect. She was following his posture completely. What she lacked in muscle strength, she compensated with talent. And the stances he had to attempt by severing his nerves, she filled with instinct.
The direction that instinct pointed was not Maximillian's, but Ivan's.
"Kaaaang—!!"
The blade's edge sang. The hand gripping the sword was straight, the blade's direction upright and pointing skyward.
Yes, Maximillian wouldn't have needed that stance. His talent was at a level where he could execute that strike without preparatory movement.
But Ivan needed it. Before delivering the strike, he needed a process to explode his entire body's muscles. To follow the trajectory pictured in his mind, he needed a kind of mental training.
Isabelle wouldn't have needed such a process. Yet, she still took that stance.
"Kwajik—!!"
The blade twisted. The empty air was torn apart. Powerful strength and magical energy surged, ripping through the atmosphere.
Then came the flash.
A sharp ringing sound—kiing—from the blade. That alone completed the movement. Instead of tearing the sky, she tore through illusion. The darkness clouding Isabelle's eyes was lifted away.
Lameriks' true form was revealed. Isabelle lowered her blade, exhaled deeply, and caught her breath.
"The Hero...!?"
Lameriks' astonishment echoed loudly. She must be surprised. The only one she had been wary of was Ivan, and Ivan had retreated halfway to a corpse.
She had lost her veil to a young woman she had considered mere cannon fodder. The curse and power of the Seven Dragon Generals had been scattered to pieces.
What remained was a giant spider covered in carapace, and the injured body of a snow-white woman.
With magical power gone, the Seven Dragon General was nothing more than a giant monster. Though it contained divinity, it would need time to weave spells again.
With that single move, Isabelle had dragged a god down to mortal eye level.
"Huu...."
In the slowed time, Ivan felt regret.
It wasn't enough. Though it was a perfect strike even to his eyes, it had only gone as far as dismantling the Seven Dragon General's spell. Yes, the opponent was a Seven Dragon General.
These were gods that the entire Hero Party had gathered to defeat. For her to handle it alone—her best was no less than the best the Hero had shown in those days, but even that wasn't enough.
If I had been there instead.
Ivan imagined it but quickly shook his head. The best strike he could deliver would have been the same. And Isabelle was now proving that it wasn't enough to kill the creature.
And after that, he would have allowed the creature's attack, having spent all his strength to deliver that strike.
Just like Lameriks' carapace now approaching Isabelle.
"Sweeek!!"
The creature's legs rained down toward Isabelle. Sharp claws surrounded by black carapace plunged toward her fragile body.
She'll die. The moment he had that thought, Ivan threw himself forward.
Because the Hero shouldn't die here? No. Because Isabelle was meant to be the protagonist of this world? Not at all.
Because this was the miracle he had created. Because a third-rate fighter who had only ever mimicked others, a mediocre person who had stupidly walked only in the footsteps of others, had created something for the first time.
Because although all he had taught Isabelle were trivial survival skills, combat methods, and magical power usage, he could still proudly call himself a teacher.
Because someone who considered him a teacher had completely followed his path of swordsmanship and moved forward.
Ivan willingly threw himself forward. Satisfied to take Lameriks' attack in her place, even if it meant dying instead of her.
But.
"Kiiiing...!!"
Even in that moment, Isabelle's eyes were still fixed on Lameriks. Her wrist moved.
Ivan stopped his charge. He watched her. He "saw" the numerous sword paths that would derive from her wrist movement and center of gravity shift.
Beyond the limit of martial arts shown by the Hero, beyond the strike that mimicked it. That is, beyond the furthest step Ivan could have taken.
Isabelle's right foot took one step, deeply into the inside of Lameriks' lunging body.
The wrist holding the sword, the blade tip that had been pointing down, twisted half a circle and raised upward.
Watching the carapace pouring in from all directions, at the brink of death, observing all those attacks from afar.
Isabelle took another step forward. Standing at the end of the martial arts path that Ivan had considered the limit, where the footprints of countless predecessors had ended. One more big step forward.
Ivan witnessed a miracle.
A miracle he had created.
If the entire process of holding a sword, taking a stance, balancing weight, and swinging can be called swordsmanship.
Then the target and object of that swordsmanship—for instance, aiming for the neck, slashing the chest, cutting down the arm, and the principle of finding openings when swords clash—could be called the "principles of the sword."
To quote Edel, the true meaning of swordsmanship. The skeleton that forms the sword.
But nothing can move with just a skeleton. Swordsmanship has a heart.
Intent. The thought unfolded when wielding swordsmanship.
Isabelle understood this intent of swordsmanship the moment her first attack tore through the veil.
'Cleaving despair to find hope.'
Perhaps when her father first executed this strike, his thoughts were the same. The scene seemed to unfold vividly before her eyes.
The dark demon realm, endless enemies, deep in hostile territory where each day's survival was critical.
And the journey toward an overwhelmingly powerful enemy with no guarantee of victory, and the numerous... downfalls that would occur in case of defeat.
The heart of someone who had to always move forward with a smile, even while bearing the weight of human civilization's potential extinction.
The night sky stretched out. Looking up, there were only dark clouds, with no way to find starlight. The night guaranteed only darkness.
So, it was the domain of death. Yet, one had to smile. Because he symbolized the hope of this world. The moment he gave up or despaired, human civilization would follow suit.
But if he was the hope of humans, what was his hope?
Where should he find hope? To whom does a god pray in despair?
It is himself. As is customary for knights of Tilles, people must use themselves as their own light. So, Maximillian cleaved the sky in those days.
To tear through the dark clouds and find the morning star. Even if just for a moment, to confirm that there were still stars above the night sky, shining for him.
That is this strike. Sky Cleaver. The intent contained within it.
And now, what comes next?
"Kiiiing—!!!"
She recalled the steps after finding hope. Not Maximillian's steps, but her own.
Not hope for my own comfort, but this should rightfully be hope for everyone in the world.
Twisting the sword she had spun around, taking a stance, the image she recalled was straight upward.
To bring down the morning star shining in that sky, to the ground.
To the earth where there are no gods, where gods who hate humanity lurk. Hope to be shared equally with all who will live from now on.
"Isabelle's—."
Embracing the intent, stepping forward with her right foot. Toward hope.
Planting her left foot, applying force, putting her weight into it. For everyone left behind.
Maximillian's, my father's.
Ivan's, my idol's.
And Isabelle's, my... my goal's.
"Morning Star—,"
Hope.
"Descent."
My family, my idol, myself.
My friends, my country, my world.
Bringing down the hope I hold, to everyone.
The blade crushed into Lameriks' chest. It drove forward to shatter the creature's body and sink teeth into its heart.
Eujik, kwajik, the carapace broke and thin flesh scattered. Between them,
A pulsating heart appeared. The god's heart, blackened and spewing magical power.
Toward it.
The blade advanced, then stopped.
"...It wasn't enough."
Isabelle bit her lip in frustration. The intent, the technique, the strength. Is this as far as it goes? Yes, still, she had done her best. Even if it was just an excuse, she had done everything she could.
So, Isabelle raised her head. The giant spider's eyes were looking down at her. She could see its mockery.
Isabelle smiled back. Because a Hero must smile in any situation.
"It's over, Hero of this generation. You've fallen before ripening, so now there is no hope left for any of you."
The creature's voice echoed in her head.
"But 'Hero' never meant the strongest person alone."
A rough hand was placed on top of Isabelle's stopped hand.
"It means the most courageous one. The one who moves forward without losing their smile even in despair."
"...Uncle...?"
"So move forward. Isabelle, shouldn't your party support you after that?"
"Eujik!"
Embracing Isabelle from behind, Ivan's hand guided hers.
Right next to her ear, Ivan continued in a low, resonant voice.
"If it were me, I would relax my hand a little more. Take a slightly bolder stride, keep the waist straight..."
Ivan has good eyes. The moment he sees an action, he can analyze the underlying posture and distribution of force. So he could understand Isabelle's sword strike the moment he saw it.
The first strike, turning the body before the recoil of the Sky Cleaver fades, pulling down the upward strike with a twist.
That one step that would have been insufficient for him. The intent in that distant realm unreachable with mediocre talent. A fragment of a realm unimaginable to ordinary people—a miracle. Seeing that miracle, embracing it, firmly applying strength.
Complementing it to make it an even more perfect step. Together, holding the same sword, taking the same step.
Toward the unexplored territory no one had ever reached in a lifetime, the end of martial arts. Toward that distant path. Carefully, but with fearlessness and boldness.
One more step.
Isabelle dazedly followed his words and moved her sword. The stopped blade tip found strength again and dug in. The recovering carapace and flesh were crushed.
"God-slayer—!! No! Stop!! I am—!!"
"A god."
Ivan looked at the astonished spider's face and said.
"And this land no longer needs gods."
This would be the common point of all those called gods. That they too can die.
If we were to name this land, to define this world, it would be thus: a place where all things can die equally. The mortal land where mortals live. On this earth, nothing can be eternal or absolute.
Yet, it is the land of life. Not covered with corpses of the dead, but a land where born and budding lives bloom fully. Not the domain of death, but the foundation where life blossoms.
Between the birth and death of all things, immortality is merely an alien paradox.
Therefore, this land no longer needs gods.
Isabelle and Ivan's hands tore and twisted into the god's heart.
"If all that gods gave us was despair, then the gods' last words will become hope."
The gods' last words will become hope for humans, for mortals, for all things.
Hope for a world where life blossoms.
On the sacred land of Ovidis, consecrated for gods, a god who attempted to rule over humans met its final destruction.
"If there is evidence that hope exists in this world..."
Elizabeta looked down at the scene from a high place and concluded.
"This place would be that location."
The hope that humans can triumph against gods.
Even if every being in this world hates humans, even if fate itself pushes humans away. Still, proof that there is hope.
Proof that humans will not fall today, just as they did not yesterday.
So this land, though it has lost its god, will still remain sacred.
A sacred place consecrated for humans, proving that humans can advance toward gods by human hands.
Elizabeta looked down at the Seven Dragon General's body breaking apart and scattering, and shed tears.
EP38. The Location of Hope.