'Will is willpower.'
Put simply, that was it. Ragna understood that principle too.
Then were the heated blades spewed forth through Sunrise truly his will?
'Or were they the sword's will?'
It was an heirloom, a relic with generations of thought etched into it. Were the feats it displayed truly his own, or the sword's?
These were the words wandering through Ragna's head ever since the battle with Balrog. Alongside them came the emotion of regret.
'I shouldn't have unleashed heat at the end.'
At the climax of that fight, Ragna felt dissatisfaction with his final strike. The battle should have ended with his sword. A blade that ought to have carved through three crystals had been stopped.
'Why?'
Ragna always knew where his blade was headed—so much so it was like seeing the future. He had seen the path of his sword shattering Balrog's three crystals.
That was a fixed fact. Yet he failed. Was it lack of ability? No. If the path had been visible, it meant it had been possible in that moment.
Though one might lose their way countless times while searching, Ragna never lost his once he had a sword in hand.
And during that same time, he had watched Enkrid break free of his shell and move forward—watched Killing the Embers unfold right before him.
The captain was advancing.
'Then what about me?'
Had he regressed?
The thought struck him, and strangely, it made his heart pound, his spirit quiver, emotions swirl and converge into one. Strangely enough, it wasn't negative.
'This is fun.'
At last, the joy and exhilaration his captain had spoken of countless times came to him.
That which had once been tedious because the path was predetermined now felt wholly different.
So he didn't suffer in this moment. He simply savored it. But savoring it didn't mean he intended to remain here. The end of all these emotions was the drive to move forward.
Ragna was a genius. He hadn't missed that truth: only by moving forward could this joy continue.
Monsters, Balrog, battle, the captain, Killing the Embers, Balrog again, Sunrise.
His thoughts chased one another, step after step, seeking the faint light ahead. Not once in that process did he feel boredom.
So he swung his sword alone, walked in his world regardless of what was happening around him.
At first, he thought he was walking alone. But in his mental landscape, the captain and the other madmen drew close one by one, until the light that had seemed so far away loomed suddenly near.
"Only now you realize?"
In his inner world, Sunrise spoke. It was a relic, not an ego-sword, so it was surely just an illusion. Yet the sword did emit a faint vibration.
"Now you'll actually wield me properly."
More precisely, it was not the sword itself, but the will imprinted within it that spoke.
'If I'm swallowed by Sunrise, I'll remain only mediocre.'
Of course, "mediocre" was only from Ragna's perspective. It meant he could not be satisfied with his present state.
Naturally, there had always been a reason the Zaun family avoided wielding a sword of this level.
Used incorrectly, the sword consumed its wielder. Only the gifted could even grasp it—and even then, they had to continually prove their worth.
Not a sacred sword, but a cursed one.
Yes, if anything, it was closer to a demon blade.
"Blade."
That was why it had to be wielded not with heat, but with his true will. He had to wield the sword, not be wielded by it. With willpower. That was the conclusion reached through endless thought.
Not heat, but blade.
A sword forged of Will—Ragna's talent found the light, seized it, swallowed it whole.
"…What the hell is this lunatic babbling about?"
The man in the black hat spoke. He had only just managed to shake off the pressure. The greatsword bearer looked ready to fight at once.
"What is he? An enemy? Should I cut him?"
On the surface, Ragna looked unchanged. But inside, a thin exhilaration spread. The sense of omnipotence he had first felt upon becoming a knight filled his body again. Still, he wasn't so drunk on it that he would swing his sword carelessly.
Simply—
'If I fought again.'
If he were to face Balrog once more, he was certain he would not fight as disgracefully as before.
Which meant only one thing: Ragna, in this moment, brimmed with the desire to fight.
It was like a Frog right before achieving their goal, a giant intoxicated by blood, a fairy guarding the forest, a dwarf discovering a precious gem, a beastman encountering a seductive mate.
But those extraordinary among their kind always knew how to break free of the limits their species set.
Even a singular Frog, on the cusp of fulfillment, could restrain themself despite being drunk on desire.
So too with others: the cold giant, the ascetic beastman, the emotional, aggressive fairy, the dwarf beyond material greed.
By refraining from cutting them down at once, Ragna had shown that same restraint. Esther recognized it. She had walked such a path herself with magic.
She thought as she looked at Ragna:
'And all of this is because of that man, Enkrid.'
It was what she had learned watching his back. Just as it had been for her, so it was for Ragna.
"No. Guests. For now, they're guests."
Esther chose her words carefully.
The man in the black hat felt his cold reason boil like scalding water. He wanted nothing more than to pour out everything he had here and now, bring these people to their knees.
But he couldn't. To call oneself another's servant meant command came before will.
"Kill him."
The greatsword bearer, however, revealed his will. Regardless of the purity of it, the force was immense. Stance, attitude, presence—all together marked him as someone who knew how to fight.
By Ragna's standard, someone who knew how to fight was knight-level.
But he wasn't truly satisfying. At most, it would take one or two cuts.
Far better to spar with the captain. More important still was turning over and over in his mind what he had just realized.
So if they weren't enemies, they could be ignored.
Ragna listened to Esther, turned with heavy steps, and left. The man with the greatsword did not pursue. Even with his intent to fight revealed, he too was still only a servant.
"…What in the world is that thing?"
The man in the black hat muttered. He had lived long enough, met many strange beings.
A moment ago, that man had been outstanding among them. Madness had flickered in him.
Esther thought of Ragna and answered:
"A lost swordsman."
"What?"
She added nothing further. In any case, these people were here to meet Enkrid.
The round-faced merchant pulled a handkerchief, wiped his brow, then produced a round pill from his breast and swallowed it, murmuring to himself:
"It soothes and calms the mind."
The effect was not false—his trembling legs soon steadied.
"Whew. There won't be another scare like that, surely?"
The merchant spoke with a laugh and kept moving. It wasn't many steps later before they encountered another figure.
And it wasn't just an encounter. Different from before, yet similar.
"Who?"
The merchant felt something cold and menacing touch his throat. He couldn't tell what had happened, but instinct screamed a warning: stop walking, and keep silent.
So he did.
The black-hatted man rolled only his eyes to the side. His gaze twisted unnaturally beyond the range of a human, confirming the figure beside him.
A man with reddish-brown hair, an uncommon appearance. He had slipped in between them without a sound, holding two short blades less than a span long, angled at their throats, hilts hidden in his hands.
One wrong move, and they'd be cut clean through. The man in the black hat understood by instinct.
The greatsword bearer was a step late, drawing back with his hand on the hilt.
Jaxon's eyes didn't waver. He had asked who are you?, yet his gaze remained fixed on Esther. He wasn't picking a fight for nothing.
From the moment he saw the three, his senses had reacted. Regardless of skill, they radiated a foul presence. They hadn't come with good intentions. If necessary, striking them down here was the right course.
Were it not for Esther, he would already have attacked.
Assassins targeting Enkrid, infiltrators—Jaxon had always been the one to cut them down. For him, this was routine. For those who faced him, it was not.
"They're still guests."
Esther answered evenly.
She didn't see them as a threat. Which was why she was leading them to Enkrid.
"Hm."
Jaxon withdrew. He saw no need to exchange more words and went on his way. Today was the day he was to meet his lover.
He had only stepped in as one might stoop to pick up trash along the road—not because he had the intent to do more.
After Jaxon retreated, the merchant muttered:
"Worse than the Demon Realm."
Esther glanced at him. The merchant looked like the sort of man who wouldn't last long enough to count to ten inside the Demon Realm.
But if he had truly been there before, there must have been a reason. The way he spoke betrayed experience.
"If you're startled already, that's going to be a problem."
Esther spoke plainly. The Mad Order of Knights still had people far more frightening than the two they had just met.
The road to the training yard was proving harsher than expected.
A simple errand—to deliver a message, to intimidate—and instead they were the ones being threatened.
"Damn bastards."
The man in the black hat grew sour.
They pressed on, and this time came upon two men at each other's throats. Knights, by their aura.
Their blades weren't crossed, only their words, but the veins bulged on their foreheads as if it might turn violent any moment.
"Well then, a new face. Let's ask her. That'd be fair."
The speaker was a man named Pel. Once a shepherd in the wilderness, now part of the Mad Order of Knights. A man who gambled on moments, argued over talent, and trained with mad dedication.
Opposite him, Lawford only shrugged his shoulders.
"As much as you like."
Pel looked at Esther, then at the three behind her.
"You there! Between the two of us, who's better looking?"
What the hell kind of question was that?
The man in the black hat didn't even look flustered. Just a haze, as if he hadn't slept in days.
This place had no normal people.
"Do I look that easy to you?"
The black-hatted man muttered.
He had once commanded a legion of beastmen. Back then, soldiers had pissed themselves just seeing him from afar. He'd been called the Guide of the Black Tide.
And now? They didn't even recognize him.
Suppressing the tangle of emotions, he wore a blank face. He was a servant now. What he could do here was limited.
"This one."
So he answered meekly.
Pfft.
The sound of laughter seemed to echo. His eyes swiveled grotesquely again, scanning Esther. One eyeball slid off to the corner. A chilling trick.
Her face was impassive. But the laugh just now—he was certain it had been hers.
"See? With eyes like that, no wonder you can't tell properly."
Pel refused to accept it. He pointed at the twisted eye and turned away.
"Of course you can't admit it."
Lawford was nonchalant. He had acted like the victor from the start.
"It was never a fair contest. You mix with the soldiers every day, I don't. So if we judge appearances, of course they'll answer as if they fear your fist."
He had asked the same question to the soldiers earlier, getting similar answers.
Sometimes the longer one talks, the weaker their case. That was Pel now.
"Let's go."
Esther ignored it and kept walking.
The man with the greatsword wondered whether to draw his blade. Was this enough? Should he? Or not? It was unclear.
They moved on, and next met a pair who looked like siblings, large in frame, man and woman both.
"You are brimming with unholy aura."
"If your heart stirs to receive the God of War, speak at any time."
That was all they said, and stopped. Esther once more called them guests. The pair moved on.
"Today's sermon at the temple."
So said a bear beastman passing by.
The man in the black hat turned the words over.
'To receive the God of War?'
That was what apostles of the War God often said. That forgiveness was the god's alone, and their duty was to send souls to him. Madness.
In other words: say the word if you want to die.
"Those bastards?"
He was past indignation.
Esther, the witch he had called Child of the Stars, had led them here. There was a black-haired, blue-eyed man.
"Smells foul."
And a beastman with golden eyes and a filthy tongue.
"Oh? What's with the specter you've dragged along? Training dummies for the kids?"
And a barbarian who spouted even greater filth.
The beastman pinched his nose. The barbarian chuckled and hefted his axe.
"Mind if I split one open first?"
Maybe it would be fine. But that judgment wasn't Esther's to make.
"Guests."
She spoke, and turned her gaze to Enkrid.
Two pairs of blue eyes met. Esther had brought them here for a reason.
"You crazy bastards!"
The man in the black hat let out something between a shout and a cheer. He was simply too delighted by the treatment he had received all the way here.
Enkrid regarded him calmly.
The contrast was stark. One side boiling over with excitement. The other calm to the point of stillness.