When was it? On an ordinary day of survival, as snow fell as usual.
The coniferous forest entangled with battle lines was still stained with blood. As always. Before the hot blood of warriors could cool under the winter storm, fresh blood was painted over it.
The dim forest consisted of only three colors.
The sky was pitch black without a trace of light,
The ground was snow-white,
And everywhere, as far as the eye could see, corpses and blood were bright red.
Among all this, if there was something that emitted its own unique color, it was that woman.
Her upturned eyes, always clear and bright, contained hope and joy in their golden color.
The blade wrapped around her hand was deep blue, weaving ideals through its trajectory as it cut through the darkness.
Once, I had stared at that sight in a daze.
"Was it... like this? Like this?"
I tried to swing my sword, tracing those movements with my still immature hands.
The swordsmanship Ivan had learned back then never went beyond military standard forms, and most of what he knew was rough and formless, learned while fighting for survival.
So when he first encountered the "art" of swordsmanship, it was like his eyes were opening.
Ivan was alone in the military camp, trying to imitate the swordsmanship he had seen that night.
But it wasn't enough. Once wasn't enough. Beyond the difference in skill level, he couldn't even match the basic form.
His physique wasn't sufficiently developed, and his swordsmanship was so rudimentary that it couldn't see beyond simply swinging.
So Ivan couldn't help but feel dissatisfied every time he picked up his sword and swung it.
Because he couldn't replicate even a fraction of that brilliant trajectory he had seen.
Logically, swordsmanship is ultimately just picking up a stick and swinging it, so how is it that he couldn't imitate even that one thing?
Ivan grumbled and muttered. Damn this pre-modern fantasy world.
If it had to be like this, they should have dropped him into a martial arts novel instead.
"Hmm."
"Eek?!"
Suddenly, a low nasal sound came from behind him, startling Ivan.
Not far away, Adel was looking at him with a subtle smile.
"Not bad."
"Did, did you see me?"
Is there some tradition in this world, like in martial arts novels, where stealing someone's training techniques leads to death?
Ivan thought with cold sweat. After all, he had indeed been spying on Adel's practice.
But that crazy sword-addicted senile elf approached him with a smile instead.
"Can you imagine?"
"What?"
"Could bones move if that's all there was?"
"Um... no?"
"Think of swordsmanship as an object. If there were only bones, without muscles, ligaments, tendons, or blood vessels, could it move?"
Adel gently took the sword from Ivan's hand. In an instant, the sword was in her hand before he realized it.
If that woman had harbored different intentions just now, he would already be dead. That thought chilled Ivan's heart.
"The trajectory of the sword is the skeleton of the concept of swordsmanship. It needs to stand straight, but merely standing isn't enough to accomplish anything."
-Whoosh.
The blade cuts through the air.
"The imagery contained within, the true meaning of this swordsmanship, is its muscle. It cuts down the opponent. But how? For instance, the true meaning of this stance is like this."
-Swish!
From top to bottom, but diagonally at an angle. In the middle, she snapped her wrist, stepping back a beat while drawing a clean arc.
"It slips past an opponent who has taken an upper guard stance, breaking through the defense itself to strike the Adam's apple. That is the meaning contained in this stance just now. Did you see?"
"What?"
"Focus. This is an expensive lesson. Now, there's an opponent in front of me. A knight. Height 1.8m. He's big, weighing easily 100kg including his armor. He's holding a longsword. Similar to mine."
As Ivan listened to Adel's words, he looked at the center of the nighttime camp.
He could see the opponent.
A knight in crude armor, exhaling breath tensely.
Adel walked lightly, gave a brief salute with her sword in front of the knight, and composed herself.
"If the sword's trajectory is the skeleton, and the true meaning of the trajectory is the muscle, then what are the tendons?"
Adel didn't wait for an answer and thrust her sword. The same stance as before, a strike that pierces through the upper guard defense.
But at the final move, she bent her wrist backward and took a step back.
"Now, the opponent barely blocked the offensive flowing from the upper guard. My sword was deflected, so now it's the opponent's turn. Here comes the attack. Carrying all his weight, a straightforward thrust. Very powerful."
-Whoosh.
Adel lightly stepped back and shifted her shoulder. With a swish, the blade swept back, circling the ground once before rising.
She turned to the side of the knight who was thrusting at her body, and smoothly passed by twice, grazing below the shoulder and the waist.
"There's a flow in offense and defense. Reading that flow, making accurate judgments for precise attacks and defenses—that could be called the tendons of the sword."
-Swish!
Adel continued speaking as she raised her sword. She cuts. She slashes. She swings, strikes, retreats, then thrusts upward before cutting down.
The gently falling snow became a storm, raging only around her.
Just by standing and swinging her sword, the world around her was transforming into something completely different.
She establishes her intent at the extreme of perception.
Demonstrating it directly, Adel concluded with her usual breath.
"When mastering swordsmanship, if you can respond to all situations, if you've continuously pushed yourself to the limit to reach that level, then the uninterrupted flow of sword exchanges itself could be called the blood vessels of the sword."
Adel stopped and handed over the sword. The hilt she had been holding was warmed by her body heat.
"If swordsmanship is an object, then it's composed like this. Don't just look at the skeleton; look at the body and movement itself while training. Understand?"
"If swordsmanship is an object rather than a means, Lord Coenulf, what should we use it for?"
"...What?"
If it's not just a means that develops to block an opponent's attack and kill more efficiently...
If one should view swordsmanship itself as an object, then what is the purpose of that 'object'?
Ivan found himself asking such a question without realizing it.
Adel laughed, "Ahaha," looked up at the sky, and smoothly drew the sword at her waist, raising it high.
"To reach the sky."
"Pardon?"
"What lies at the tip of the sword—no one can answer that, but... that's what I think. The reason the sword has this shape is..."
The sword held in both hands extends straight, becoming more slender toward its tip. Like a person reaching out toward the high sky.
A snowflake landed on the sharp tip of the sword, split in half, and fluttered down.
"Looking at the sky, honing one's skill, accumulating years to approach it. That's probably what lies at the end of the sword. Not a mighty strike that splits the world, or miraculous curses shown by those called gods. Not a divine weapon that defeats hordes of demons filling the mountains and rivers in a single stroke."
Freedom.
Movement unbound by anything.
Sword energy that flows as intended, like clouds following the wind.
A blade that cuts through the sky, slices the wind, and dances lightly.
So the intent that should be contained in that totality is the sky itself.
"You have eyes that will become great. What is your name?"
"Ivan Petrovich."
Ivan laughed at the absurdity that despite telling her his name several times, she still didn't know it.
Adel quietly looked at Ivan's face, then reached out to brush off the snow that had settled on his hair.
"John. A good name."
"It's an honor, Lord Coenulf."
"No. I've called you my friend, so you should do the same. Adel. Call me that. Everyone whose name I remember has that right."
That was the last meeting with Adel.
Afterward, Adel deployed to the northwestern front, lost one eye, and was defeated.
Despite her injuries, she continuously returned to the front lines, earning the name "One-eyed Adel."
Nevertheless, Ivan still vividly remembered the image of that spirited elf glaring at the sky with both eyes.
-Waaaaaah!!!!
The cool falling snowflakes became a shower of flowers,
The sound of wind cutting past his ears became the cheers of the crowd,
The woman who once burned brightly with both eyes now had only one lonely eye.
A blurry reminiscence flashed by. Ivan closed his hazy eyes tightly and took a breath.
"Adel."
He opens his eyes. The bright blue eyes are quite different from those days.
The yearning for hope, the belief in improvement, the struggle for survival—all those things were left behind on the battlefield.
Two survivors who live like they're still on the battlefield even in a post-war era stood facing each other with swords in hand, their gazes changed.
"Your eyes have become good. Now they're the eyes of a proper swordsman."
"Is that so."
"Yes. Did you aim for the sky?"
"No."
He never harbored such noble ideals. Ivan shook his head. For him, swordsmanship never held meaning beyond being a means of survival.
Therefore, what he desired, the intent he held in his heart, the purpose and true meaning of swordsmanship was ultimately just one thing.
Just as Adel swung her sword yearning for freedom while envisioning the sky...
Ivan swung his sword yearning for home.
"Home."
"Good. Now that you've established your own unique intent, you're no longer beneath me. So..."
Adel twirled her sword and took a stance. Her posture changes.
With a whoosh, bright blue magical power swirled and pulsed within her body.
"Come. Leave your intent with me, John. Try to impose your will upon me. Compete for victory by forcing the superiority of our intents upon each other."
Ivan slowly inhaled and took the same stance. Mimicking Adel's ready position, like a decalcomania.
But even if two painters depict the same landscape, would their paintings be identical?
No, they wouldn't.
A single still life draws different imagery from each perspective. Even if they share all the bones, blood vessels, and tendons of the object that is swordsmanship.
The direction and goal of the object are not in the same place for both.
Thus, the clash of swordsmanship carrying true intent is merely a process of imposing one's will upon the other.
-Crack.
He gradually cuts off his senses. With each heartbeat, the magical power pumping out precisely blocks the nerve pathways, honing only his combat senses to razor sharpness.
Overloaded nerves break down seconds into smaller units of time.
The cheers subside. More precisely, time is stretching out.
In the segmented time under the Domain of the Transcendent, with time slowing down, flower petals falling slowly, and even the heat from the excited crowd gradually cooling...
The nobles in the stands opening their mouths, the commoners throwing flowers in excitement, the flower shower fluttering in the breeze on this clear summer day—all become blurred and distorted.
Between them, only the gazes of the two people shine clearly.
-Swish!!
Only the trajectory of the sword flows majestically in that complete moment of time.
They began to dance, avoiding each other's sword strikes, grasping and holding.
"Beautiful, Vanka."
Elizabeta was watching the arena with clenched fists.
The anxiety about winning or losing, the desire to cheer for him—none of that matters now.
Victory or defeat. At this moment, they hold no meaning for those two knights. Their struggle itself is the result, the purpose, and the reward.
Everything that a warrior with a sword can show, everything that those who wield swords dream of—it's all there. She could proudly say that.
Even if it's a technique created for war and survival, when mastered to its extreme, it becomes an art.
Those who understand swordsmanship and those who don't—everyone was cheering, shedding tears, and shouting in excitement at this moment.
Between them, the two knights extend their swords only toward each other.
It's beautiful. A fight that no refined words could express. It's a dance, like the well-orchestrated performance of an orchestra.
Years of mastery built on the stake of one's life. The collision itself creates musical emotion beyond sound through mere friction.
"I'm proud of you."
Elizabeta nodded quietly with a smile.
"I cannot let him live."
Duke Sheretif clenched his fist, feeling even fear.
A warrior should be a tool. A tool that is useful according to its purpose, nothing more.
A hammer, chisel, or awl should not have will. Tools should not be respected by people.
Peace does not need heroes.
The era when a single hero could reign over the absolute majority with one sword must pass. That age of blind fanaticism must end. That is the primitiveness of wartime.
People should not follow anyone.
That was the Crown Prince's teaching. Although he has now departed suddenly, his ideology was firmly established among the great nobles of Pritzenkaya.
Therefore, the man brought by the princess is dangerous. He has the makings of a hero. In wartime, he might have stood shoulder to shoulder with the Hero.
How could such a man have remained unknown? That was quite puzzling, but that's not what's important now.
Whatever the outcome of this duel, that man has already made too great an impression on the people of Pritzenkaya.
He must be killed. A tool that cannot be controlled is no longer a tool.
"Make preparations."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The great nobles of Pritzenkaya, these ancient families that have grown alongside the nation, harbor many legacies.
One person's bravery can never overcome the power of many. Even the Demon King fell before the Hero Party.
Then he himself would become the nobles' hero, stopping a new Demon King.
Duke Sheretif shook his head with a bitter smile.
War is different from dueling. It's different from such formalities where people honorably clash their martial skills against each other.
How many times had he seen knights skilled in dueling perish pathetically on the battlefield?
That man would be the same. He must be.
Duke Sheretif quietly rose from his seat.