7.5.6

The Sword Devil vanished from the royal army; in his place, the name of the Sword Saint spread within it.

A knight worth a thousand men—with hard fighting by Theresia, the embodiment of those words, the civil war tilted in their favor. Though a single person, her martial feats were beyond the realm of any individual, and the alias of Sword Saint resounded—even the demi-humans versed in the old legends despaired.

It took two years after the Sword Saint emerged on the battlefield for the civil war to end.

The Demi-human Alliance lost those who carried it upon their shoulders, and when peace talks were carried out somewhere between the current leaders on both sides, it announced that at minimum, the fight between those bearing swords had come to an end.

Blessed by the end of the long-running civil war, the royal capital gently opened up and began to flower.

A ceremony had been planned where a powerful, beautiful Sword Saint would be granted several medals. People throughout the kingdom traveled to the capital to glimpse the sight of Theresia, the red-haired Sword Saint—the hero whose passion had single-handedly brought the long suffering from wild war to an end.

—It was then that the Sword Devil unexpectedly descended, as if to slice that passion asunder.

The soldiers on guard became agitated from the incredible antagonism rising from a man with a naked blade in his hand. But it was none other than the Sword Saint, the flower of the ceremony, who checked them and advanced to the fore.

Each turned their sword toward the other, almost as if walking onto a prearranged stage.

When her long, red hair fluttered in the wind, none failed to hold their breath at the sight of her facing the intruder. It was difficult to find words for an appearance with such refined beauty, yet so at one with the blade.

The malevolent antagonism of the individual facing the Sword Saint was the polar opposite. Both the brown mantle over him and the skin underneath were filthy all over from rainwater and caked mud. Even the sword in his hand was meager compared to the ceremonial holy blade the Sword Saint held in hers. The blade of the well-made sword was crooked, with reddish-brown rust all over it.

Though the king was seated on the same stage they were on, he halted the knights attempting to go to the Sword Saint's aid. When the Sword Saint stepped forward and her swordplay glimmered, all pulled their chins back, and none raised a voice, watching in silence.

At the beginning, no doubt many found the two figures having vanished from their sight.

Blade recoiled from blade again and again; high-pitched sounds shot past the spectators.

There was a chain of glimmers and sounds of steel as the two figures danced upon the stage at a dizzying speed.

Soon, those witnessing the spectacle had lost their voices, their hearts going to and fro, overwhelmed with a vast sense of admiration.

They battled with incredible force, switching where they stood, from the ground to the walls to the very air as the swordplay of the two sword fighters blurred. Some even realized that the sight had brought them to tears.

But as they listened to the orchestra of echoing steel, they instinctively shuddered, intoxicated by the sublime sight.

They thought, is this really a realm that people can reach?

Can the beauty of the sword truly instill such deep feelings in others?

Their swordplay intermingled, with locked swords, flashing tips, and repeated recoils.

And finally…

"━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━"

…the discolored blade snapped in half, its tip sent flying, spinning round and round in the air.

Then, the hand in which rested the Sword Saint's ceremonial sword—

"Victory…"

"..."

"Victory…is mine."

The holy sword audibly dropped to the ground, and the broken sword's warped tip came to rest just short of the Sword Saint's throat.

The spectacle made time stop, and all knew.

The Sword Saint had lost.

"You're weaker than me, so you have no reason to wield a sword."

"If not me…then who?"

"I'll carry on your reason for swinging a sword. You just need to become…my reason to swing one."

He lifted up the hood of his outer garment. The sullen face of Wilhelm glared at Theresia from under the dark, filthy cloth.

Theresia shook her head a little at Wilhelm's behavior.

"You are a terrible person. You've made a person's determination, resolve, everything all go to waste."

"I'll carry on everything that's gone to waste. You can forget about gripping a sword and just take it… Yes, that's it. You can raise flowers and live in peace and quiet behind me."

"Protected by your sword?"

"That's right."

"You'll protect me?"

"That's right."

Theresia placed her hand against the flat of the sword thrust toward her, taking a step forward.

The two faced each other, close enough to feel each other's breath.

Tears welled in Theresia's damp eyes, but they only conveyed her little smile as they fell.

"Do you like flowers?"

"I stopped hating them."

"Why do you swing the sword?"

"To protect you."

The distance closed as their faces drew close; finally, it vanished.

When she drew back from the touch of their lips, Theresia's cheeks were red. She gently stared at Wilhelm as she asked, "Do you love me?"

He averted his face and bluntly stated, "—You know I do."

Just then, the people enthralled by the dancing of swords regained their senses, and a great throng of guards pressed close. Wilhelm's shoulders sank when he saw familiar faces among the soldiers rushing over.

Theresia's cheeks puffed up at his dismissive demeanor.

Their smiles were like those they had exchanged during the days they spent gazing at the flowers.

"Sometimes a woman wants to hear the words."

"Er."

Scratching his head with a guilty expression on his face, Wilhelm reluctantly looked back at Theresia, drawing his face close to her ear as he whispered, "Someday, when I feel like it."

And thus, he glossed over the embarrassing words.