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Chapter 0: The Swordsmanship Prodigy Saintess
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 16:30:43 +0000 UTCThe Sword Saint
1.
The world turned black.
This wasn’t a metaphor for his emotions.
It was the cruel reality that had befallen Adrian, who had lost both of his eyes.
“I… I don’t know how to say this…”
The priest lowered his head and trailed off in a murmur.
“Why? Is it that bad?”
“……”
“Speak.”
Adrian’s voice was gentle, coaxing the hesitant priest to answer.
After a moment of silence, the priest let out a shaky breath.
“It’s… yes…”
A short reply.
But that alone said everything.
The priest slowly lifted his gaze.
Before him sat an old man with white hair.
His eyes had been burned pitch-black, his eyelids grotesquely melted.
The once-mighty right arm that had gripped a sword on the battlefield was gone, severed at the shoulder.
The kind left hand that used to lift fallen comrades was now pale like a corpse.
His body was covered in wounds so severe that no one could tell where treatment should even begin. It was cracked and dried like an old tree trunk.
To be blunt.
He looked more horrific than an undead risen from a grave.
“Treatment?”
Adrian asked calmly.
“……”
The priest remained silent again.
His role was to offer hope to the sick, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie in front of such a devastating sight.
In this case, false hope would only deepen despair.
There was no saving him.
It wasn’t just the external injuries.
If it were only physical wounds, they could be healed easily.
Even a severed arm could be reattached with holy power.
The real problem was the curse that had spread throughout Adrian’s body.
A sinister energy, like tangled veins of black magic, was wrapped all around him.
“I’ll… I’ll go see the Saintess for a moment.”
Adrian tried to rise from the bed.
Thud!
But the moment he placed his foot on the ground, his leg gave out, and he collapsed forward.
“Sword Saint!”
The priest cried out in shock and quickly helped him back into bed.
“Haha… I must look pathetic.”
Adrian gave a weak, embarrassed smile.
The priest bit his lower lip.
Meanwhile, the knights standing silently in the room choked back their sorrow at the pitiful state of their revered master.
The Sword Saint.
Adrian von Lycard.
He was the mentor of the Hero,
The hero of the Empire himself.
Just a few days ago, he had sacrificed himself to save the Hero in crisis during the Battle of Black Sands.
He took a direct hit from the Demon King’s magic, and absorbed it all to prevent its large-scale spread.
This… was the result.
He had miraculously survived, but was now in a state worse than death.
“Hoo…”
Adrian let out a long sigh, releasing the faint smile that lingered on his lips.
“Come now… why are you all hiding your tears?”
He had known it from the beginning.
“Anyone walking in would think this was a funeral.”
Even though he couldn't see, he could still feel it — the presence of mana.
The familiar mana of comrades who had shared joys and sorrows with him for many years.
The loyal mana of the knights who had always stood by his side.
And—
The unmistakable mana of the Hero who followed him like a father.
“Louis!”
Adrian turned toward the source of that mana, his voice stern with anger.
“Don’t cry. Seeing you like that makes me feel even more pitiful.”
“I… I’m s-sorry… sob…”
“Tch. I told you not to cry, didn’t I?”
The young Hero, not even of age yet, couldn’t stop his tears.
Adrian had ended up like this while protecting him.
Blaming himself, Louis was overwhelmed by a sense of helpless guilt.
If only he’d trained harder…!
But the truth is — it wouldn’t have changed anything.
The Demon King’s power was far beyond what anyone could have imagined.
In that moment, only the Sword Saint could have stopped that magic.
Adrian had blocked it with his own body, and in doing so, he saved the Hero, and the lives of hundreds of knights.
“I’m not dead, you know. I’m still kicking.”
He tried to raise his right arm to show he was fine, only to realize he no longer had a right arm.
“Ah, would you look at that? I forgot I lost it.”
Adrian laughed heartily.
It was his way of lightening the mood — a playful joke, in spite of everything.
But instead of easing the tension, it only made the room heavier.
Quiet sobs filled the ward.
Adrian forced a bitter smile.
…It hurts.
Though he acted like everything was fine, it felt as though his heart had been crushed by a club, and his insides were being torn apart by saw blades.
He was enduring it all through sheer willpower.
He couldn’t close his eyes just yet.
He still had so much left to teach the Hero.
So many enemies left to defeat.
“Sword Saint…”
The door opened, and the Saintess entered the room.
“It’s been a while, Saintess.”
Adrian welcomed her with a cheerful smile.
“Would you mind checking my condition? I can’t see, so I’ve no idea what I look like right now, hahaha!”
He cracked another self-deprecating joke.
But the mood remained cold.
Then, a gentle hand, warm like spring sunshine, rested on his chest.
The Saintess’s holy power flowed into his body.
A hot warmth mixed with his blood and spread throughout his body…
…but only for a moment.
In less than a few seconds, the heat faded, turning cold, and vanished entirely.
“……I’m sorry.”
The Saintess pulled her hand away, her voice trembling as if she might cry.
That alone was enough explanation.
Of course he already knew the state of his own body.
No one understood it better than Adrian himself.
This treatment was impossible, too.
He had hoped, just a little, for a miracle.
But now, through the Saintess’s silence, that hope was extinguished.
“Ahem… I see.”
“Sword Saint…”
“Please, call me by my name. I am no longer the Sword Saint. A man who cannot wield a sword has no right to bear that title.”
Oops.
Adrian realized he had misspoken.
He had only added sorrow on top of sorrow.
But it was already water under the bridge.
So Adrian decided it was time to bring everything to a close.
“I should step down now… Everyone, listen.”
He let out a long sigh and continued.
“For the position of Sword Saint, I recommend the Knight Commander of the 10th Order. That friend’s swordsmanship is quite impressive. I apologize to you all… But isn’t it better to entrust a new era to the younger generation than to us old relics?”
He turned his head toward the comrades he had spent decades fighting beside.
None of them objected.
“Louis.”
“Y-Yes… sir…!”
The boy's voice trembled.
He still couldn’t calm his sorrow.
Adrian felt pity for his young disciple, but there were things that had to be said.
“My sword is yours now. It’s just an ordinary blade compared to that holy sword you carry, but I’d be glad if you accepted it.”
“Master… I…!”
“I’m counting on you.”
“Sniff… Y-Yes…!”
What else was left?
The Emperor would appoint the next Imperial Army Chief of Staff.
All the wealth stored in his vault would be donated to orphanages across the Empire.
Aside from that, there was nothing left to settle.
“Now stop wasting time in here. Go on, back to your duties. You’re all busy people, aren’t you? Can’t have you lounging around in this gloomy sickroom.”
Adrian feigned a yawn with exaggerated flair.
“I’m going to take a nap. Come visit me later.”
He tried to wave his hand… and chuckled when he remembered he couldn’t move it.
“…Thank you, all of you.”
He whispered it to the backs of those leaving the room with heavy footsteps.
There was meaning layered into that farewell.
Thanks for visiting.
Thanks for staying until today.
It was—
A parting filled with gratitude.
“Adrian…”
The Saintess gently pulled the blanket over him.
“Please rest in peace now.”
She knew.
That the flame of life had already begun to fade.
That it was a miracle Adrian had lasted this long.
And—
That this… was the final moment of a hero.
Adrian smiled kindly.
In the silent sickroom, he let out a soft chuckle and slowly let go of all strength in his body.
“…Still not listening, huh?”
He could still sense the mana beyond the door.
No one had walked away.
They were all standing in the corridor, quietly weeping, unable to move.
“I’ll have to go quickly… so they can let me go too.”
His life had been one without shame.
Born the son of a serf, he rose to become a knight and devoted everything to peace.
He won hundreds of battles.
He always fought on the front lines, facing the Demon King’s armies head-on.
He built his legacy, earned fame and fortune.
And yet… it still felt like a bitter end.
He had wanted to slay the Demon King with his own hands.
Though he wasn't a hero chosen by God, he wanted to drive his sword through the heart of the monster that had destroyed his homeland.
To say it was his life’s purpose would not be an exaggeration.
But after decades of struggle, it all ended in such emptiness.
He had managed to sever one of the Demon King's horns.
But the Demon King was still alive.
And so, his dream… remained unfulfilled.
“Hsss…”
He drew in a breath.
His body felt light.
The taut thread of his consciousness slackened and unraveled.
Seventy years of life flashed before his eyes like a passing lantern.
A life admirable yet full of regrets.
If he had just one more chance, he could defeat the Demon King…
Unable to let go of that final desire, the Sword Saint watched as the last ember of life burned out.
Within the charred firewood that was his body, only a tiny spark remained.
It rose with a wisp of smoke… and vanished into the sky.
That was the end of Adrian von Lycard, the Sword Saint.
*
2.
His eyes opened.
His mind was foggy and dazed, as if he’d just woken from a brief nap.
His vision, blurred like water, gradually cleared as a cool breeze blew in from the east.
A hill blanketed in white daisies.
A blue sky, where clouds shaped like fish floated lazily.
Under the shade of a large tree, he slowly lifted himself to his feet, staggering.
“Where is this…?”
Heaven?
It was peaceful. Tranquil.
He stepped out from under the tree’s shade and looked around.
The wind welcomed him.
Golden hair danced lightly in the breeze.
“…Huh?”
Something felt off.
He tilted his head — and long, silken strands of hair spilled over his cheek.
It shimmered like sunlight, beautiful and golden.
He rubbed it between his fingers.
A soft touch.
Unlike the coarse, weathered hair he’d grown used to over the years.
“What the… huh?”
Then came the voice — and with it, a jarring sense of wrongness.
An adorable, high-pitched tone, like that of a young girl had come from his own mouth.
While he was still blinking in confusion, trying to grasp the situation—
“Elia!”
A girl in a nun’s habit came running up from the foot of the hill, waving her hand.
“Elia?”
He glanced around.
There was no one else nearby.
The girl stopped in front of him, hands on her hips.
“Really now! Napping here again?”
He stared at her, blinking in disbelief.
What is she talking about? Why is she saying that to me?
“Still half-asleep, huh?”
“Uh… wh-who are you talking to, exactly?”
“You, of course. And what’s with that weird way of speaking? You sound like an old man.”
I am an old man, though.
A seventy-something white-haired geezer.
“Come on, snap out of it! We have to get down quickly. It’s almost time for mass.”
“Mass…?”
“Hurry, hurry!”
“W-Wait—?”
The girl grabbed his hand and tugged him down the hill.
At the bottom stood a shabby old chapel.
Before he could gather his thoughts, he was dragged inside.
The chapel was modest but clean.
Inside the nave, nuns were preparing for worship.
“Elia!”
A stern-faced, middle-aged nun stormed over.
“Skipping out on cleaning again, are we?”
“Huh? Me?”
“Of course I mean you! Who else?”
He looked around in a panic.
Several young nuns giggled from behind their hymn books.
The girl beside him groaned and facepalmed.
Then, his gaze landed on a mirror hanging on the far wall.
In the reflection was a dumbfounded, golden-haired girl blinking in confusion, looking directly back at him.
