Toroa the Awful - 2

He couldn't train by sparring against an opponent.

Just as their sword shape suggested, a large majority of enchanted sword uses were lethal. As a result, there was a contradiction in completing these drills several hundreds of times, a solitary battle wielding the real sword's weight, size, and unusual abilities, as close to real combat as possible.

Thus, while the results of his training would be beyond the sight of the average person, Yakon the Sanctuary understood very well that his own skills weren't enough.

He swung his sword until the sun set, but he was far off from his ideal, the way his father swung his sword. He was completely out of breath, countless beads of sweat dripping from his chin.

His father was sitting nearby on a tree stump. He had been quietly watching Yakon's training since the sun was still high in the sky.

Seeing the fruits of his training with his own eyes, he forced a smile. "No talent with enchanted swords, really."

Yakon knew it, too. He would never become like his dad.

Yakon was a dwarf, and his father was a leprechaun. A parent and child where even their races were totally different. Among the minian races, dwarves had exceptionally large builds and excellent physiques, and were the total opposite of leprechauns—dexterous, with snappy reflexes like a panicked field mouse's.

Even among such dwarves, Yakon was extraordinarily strong. Though he had never compared himself with those beyond the mountains, he passed his days shouldering firewood stockpiles taller than he was up and down the steep mountain paths without difficulty. On open ground, he could maintain a full-strength run from sunup to sundown. When he wasn't carrying anything, he had even overtaken galloping horses before.

He had never once been ill, and any cut he got in the morning would heal before evening would arrive. From an early age, his dad had told him he possessed exceptionally strong vitality.

The only times Yakon exhausted his stamina enough to gasp for air was during these moments, training with enchanted swords.

With his youth and superior physique, he should have far outshined his dad, yet the difference in enchanted swords' proficiency felt vaster than the distance from the ground to the stars.

"You're too gentle. That's why you're allowing the ideas dwelling inside them into yourself, and it's getting in the way of your technique. That's the reason why you use so much unnecessary stamina. Your body and your mind are at odds with one another."

"…Then, next…time, I just…need to throw those ideas away, then? I… can still do it. Dad. Next time. By the next time…you watch me, I promise. Guaranteed."

He replied in between gasps for air. Yakon wondered how many times they had had this exchange by now.

The results of his training were always subpar, and his dad would tell him to give up being an enchanted swordsman. Yakon never gave up. He had never even considered another path. Nor did his dad ever compel the struggling Yakon toward something else.

Yakon used a cane to help him stand back up. He started preparing these canes for when he used up all his strength during training about two years prior. He couldn't use his dad's precious enchanted swords to prop himself up.

"...Koff, koff! The boar meat should be nice and soaked by now. I can make your favorite soup, Dad… Let's go home."

"If you're tired, then I don't need dinner. Cold today, huh?" The all-too-small father couldn't lend his shoulder to Yakon.

Nothing about him and Yakon was similar. Not their features. Not their

strength. Not their skill. That may have been why Yakon wanted at least one thing to prove that he was truly his father's son.

The enchanted swordsman Toroa. The strongest enchanted sword–wielder in the land.

Being his son was the pride of Yakon the Sanctuary.

However, that day, he felt unsure if he would be able to remain his son.

He asked the question that had begun to dwell inside him during their calm, daily lives.

"Dad… Is it okay if I don't inherit your enchanted swordsman title?"

His father had never said himself why he continued his wicked plundering.

Sitting across the dining table, his father gave a tired smile. "It's fine. This'll end with me."

His leprechaun-sized bowl was soon empty. Yakon quickly refilled it with more soup.

"…But enchanted swords upset our world. If people are going to fight over the enchanted swords, then there wouldn't be any conflict over them if they never existed in the first place… Is that why you've been collecting them, Dad?"

"Who did you hear that from?"

"…No one. I…just thought that myself."

Toroa the Awful killed the wielders of enchanted swords.

With a stature less than a third that of a minia, he effortlessly handled numerous enchanted swords far longer and larger than his physical height, mercilessly murdering whoever would attempt to wield them. Without any pleasure, or sadness, as though it was simply how things should be.

Yakon had always thought about the duty Toroa himself never spoke about.

"You might be right. I probably thought that at first. That by stealing enchanted swords, I might be able save some number of lives. Without weapons there wouldn't be any conflict. A young and foolish way of thinking."

Toroa didn't bring his fresh bowl of soup to his lips, instead staring hard at his eyes reflected in its surface.

He wasn't an unreasonable monstrosity that all feared to speak of. He was simply his father, so quiet and serene it made the legends of his carnage sound fantastical.

"…The world's not like that. Even without enchanted swords, people still fight. They just want enchanted swords as a means to fight. People can turn even pebbles and pieces of wood into lethal weapons. Without enchanted swords…the future after that could be even more awful."

"…That's not true! The Gashin East-West War. The Dragon Axe Campaign. There are so many examples of wars that ended because they didn't use enchanted swords…!"

"I kill people who simply witness what I do. Innocent people." Toroa murmured, remaining completely calm.

"That's how I tried to make people fear enchanted swords as cursed objects. If I was going to start all over...I don't think I would do that… Listen to me, Yakon. No matter how much I regret or say it was all a mistake, the lives I took are the only things I can never give back. And I can't ever change myself. I'm the one who disregarded those lives in the first place."

"..."

He couldn't ask him why, then, if that was the case, he still continued.

His father would definitely never try to stop. He would continue until every enchanted sword owner was gone from the world.

His father may have kept fighting simply to convince himself. He may have been unable to stop himself from continuing what he started.

Yakon wanted to answer him, "That's exactly why your son can take over for you! You can rest now!"

His own powerlessness frustrated him. He watched his distinguished father's techniques; he trained so hard, and yet no matter how many years he spent, he could never catch up.

"…I'm your son, Dad. I'll never say all the stuff you've done was a mistake."

"Is that right? Well, thank you."

Yakon left the warm interior behind. Just a little bit more…to train just one more time.

It was a night with the small moon shining bright.

His father slowly drank his soup, as if pondering the meaning of life.

Three small months passed from that night. The day of destiny.

Up above. No. Diving diagonally down in front.

The mountains were covered in a downpour. Toroa had his sights fixed on his enemy in the air.

All four directions, as well as up and down. Their mobility options were much greater compared to those stuck crawling on the ground.

Not only that, but they were not the same movements of other wyverns, influenced by instincts and the wind direction. Possessing the judgment only present in those who have danced the tightrope between life and death, they saw through Toroa's next move before acting themselves.

Those who asserted their meaning through strength were altogether unable to escape such a destiny. Someone stronger would appear, and they would one day lose everything.

For Toroa the Awful, that person was none other than Alus the Star Runner.

…He's going to fire.

Alus put his finger on the gun's trigger. He picked up on the subtle movement. Toroa sent his rapier flying out of its sheath.

It was the Divine Blade Ketelk. It was an enchanted sword that extended its invisible slash past the outermost part of the blade itself, upsetting the spacing in close-quarters combat.

However, when Toroa the Awful was the one using it… "—Peck."

He lunged at Alus with it, focusing on a singular spot as if he were stabbing at him with a needle. His opponent was twenty meters above him. He pierced a hole in the wing membrane and broke Alus's midair stance.

Not good. Even worse than if it didn't hit him at all.

His opponent's movements were too fast. Despite preventing the shot aimed his way, if the wound from his sword wasn't fatal, then Toroa had done nothing but show his hand to his opponent. Nor was his Peck stab

something he could send out rapid-fire. His impatience that he would be shot first if he didn't shoot Alus out of the sky had gotten the better of him.

As he descended down, a flash of gunfire came from Alus's hands. The bullet ricocheted off one of the mountains' enormous boulders and closed straight in on the artery below Toroa's armpit following his stab attack.

The short sword dangling from his waist automatically leaped into the air.

The blade became a shield, warding off the poisonous magic bullet.

Lance of Faima. This short sword connected by a chain matched the projectile's speed as it responded, but it wasn't a defense he could always rely on. He had been lucky.

Alus the Star Runner. Not going to use your thunder's roar magic bullet?

Toroa had an enchanted sword that could control magnetic forces. Alus was wary of it.

There were several enchanted swords stabbed into the ground. Toroa thrust the Divine Blade Ketelk into the earth, letting go and taking up another enchanted sword in its stead. Hillensingen the Luminous Blade.

Visitors. Tarantula. Dragons. When it became necessary to fight such aberrations, with a physique unable to wield multiple swords at once, this was how Toroa used his blades. The area around looked like an enchanted sword graveyard.

"...You're strong..."

The wyvern muttered drearily. He appeared annoyed at the unexpectedly powerful opponent.

Toroa ran to the spot where Alus was going to land. Still far away. If he extended the Luminous Blade out as far as he could, he might be able to slash him.

"Hey...that sword...!" "...!"

At that moment, something flew down from above Toroa's head. It wasn't rain.

It was a storm of deadly blades.

"Shnnng!"

By drawing his sword at a sharp angle, the Luminous Blade's trajectory served as a shield to defend against the attack from above. Light flashed for a brief instant right after the sword left its sheath, then vanished.

It was a practical application, possible only to those who knew the true

value of the all-powerful enchanted sword, called "Roost."

Alus had already taken to the air and left Toroa's line of sight, where he could closely observe the wyvern's movements.

"—Rotten Soil Sun."

Following behind the mud blades, a spherical clod of soil, big enough to be held with two hands, fell. It must have been what caused the rain of blades.

He instantly refocused his attention. It was Alus's intention to draw his focus to the magic tool. The Lance of Faima flew. Its reaction speed ultimately wasn't fast enough. Nevertheless, from the direction of its automatic interception, he realized Alus was rushing at him from behind.

He didn't have the time to trigger the Luminous Blade again. With his other hand, he swung his sickle-bladed halberd. He sensed a leftward diagonal slash coming from behind him before he could fully turn his sights in that direction.

The attacks crossed each other. The tactile sensation of tearing flesh. They passed each other by.

Toroa barely managed to block the lethal magic bullet. The blade of his enchanted sword, on the follow-through, had shielded against the bullet Alus fired from point-blank range. The wyvern was passing him by, still at charging speed, unable to leverage the greatest possible opportunity to kill Toroa once and for all.

…I saw through you, too, eh.

In the instant they clashed, Toroa's attack had only grazed Alus's body. Inrate, the Sickle of Repose. An enchanted sword naturally specialized for surprise attacks, its slashes causing a phenomenon that made it completely silent—

Beads of terror, a sensation he had long ago forgotten, ran down his forehead.

His long years of experience were telling him—Toroa the Awful was going to die here.

The time had come for the man who lived as a death god, judging others for their crimes, to be judged himself.

"Dad!"

He heard a voice from afar. Yakon's voice.

Now he would bear witness to Toroa's final moments.

Grinding his teeth at the irony of fate, he sheathed the Luminous Blade and planted it into the ground in front of him. He couldn't let Yakon get involved in a fight against this wyvern. He had been the one to start this cause and effect.

…One more time. I just need to put my life on the line one more time.

He readied Inrate, the Sickle of Repose. Cutting the Lance of Faima's chain, he placed it inside his clothes.

It was a worthless life anyway.

Alus swung around. Forward, to the right. No, an assault straight from above. Toroa could perceive the high-speed movements, including all his enemy's feints, impossible for an ordinary person to see.

"Me too! I'll fight, too!"

Toroa smiled—This is out of your league.

Light fell from the sky and looking at it directly hurt his eyes. This was another way to use fire-aspected magic tools.

A bullet came flying toward him immediately after. The poisonous magic bullet, fired during Alus's full-strength acceleration forward, moved several times faster, piercing him through the left chest. The Lance of Faima inside his clothes automatically defended him. His gamble had paid off.

The enemy was getting closer. Even with his dazed vision, he could tell that much.

Alus's only path to victory was a lethal bullet fired up close and inside of his swords' defenses. Whether it was mud, whips, or fire—none of them could win against the legendary Toroa the Awful.

The two combatants each knew this fact of their battle very well.

His enemy had full knowledge of Inrate, the Sickle of Repose's maximum range, and its overall power.

He's thinking that he'll be able to defend himself from this sickle.

He wiped out the sickle.

Perfect.

Following along with its accelerated movements, he let his fingers go and flung his own sickle. He made Alus misjudge its range. He had planned to do this from the start and shifted the weapon in his hands to do so. There, at the end of his hand's follow-through, was an enchanted sword sticking out from the ground.

"I'm…"

The accelerating Alus didn't stop. His charge was still coming. Toroa's eyes were dazed and disoriented.

"Toroa the Awful."

Despite everything, Toroa the Awful had the sword that could truly deliver instant death. He knew its power, and its longest range, even with his eyes closed. The very moment they passed by each other, with the Luminous Blade stuck in the dirt in front of him—

"It's—"

The sizzling sound seared itself into his ears. "—mine."

Just a little farther, immediately before his fingers could reach it…

He was cut down by the stolen Hillensingen, the Luminous Blade. Alus shouldn't have been able to reach it from where he was.

"Kio's Hand."

The enchanted whip, extending out like a tentacle, twined around the Luminous Blade and cleaved Toroa's body in two.

He had been unable to imagine any of it. To think Alus would make use of the enchanted sword's full potential or that he possessed the exceptional skill to wield an enchanted sword through a whip.

No one was gifted at everything. Such a person could not exist.

For Toroa, all he had was his masterful skill with his enchanted swords. "Dad…! Dad, noooo!"

Alus had vanished without a trace. He cut him down and left him there before flying off with the Luminous Blade.

Toroa's small body was cut in half at the waist. "Dad! Please, Dad, don't die!"

His much larger son was sobbing.

Crying for a shura who, for the entirety of his long life, had only ever chosen the path of bloodshed.

Yakon gripped Toroa's hand and yelled as if the words were being squeezed out of him.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Dad… I… I couldn't come out sooner… Alus the Star Runner, he was so scary and I… I didn't think someone like me stood a chance, so… I couldn't do anything…!

It's okay.

A wretched end like this suits me.

You're not a shura. That was what Toroa wished he could tell him.

Yakon was a gentle child.

Why was a leprechaun, living in darkness, raising a dwarven child? What sort of fate had his real parents met and at whose hands? The boy had known for a long time. Toroa knew that he knew, too.

He had still called Toroa his "dad." Their world was unjust.

Toroa the Awful was never able to fully atone for his countless crimes nor was he ever able to be properly punished.

The man who chiseled away his soul with his blood-soaked ideals had lived an almost laughably luxurious life.

"Dad.…! Dad! I'll do it! I'll get back the Luminous Blade! I'll follow in your footsteps! It'll, it'll all be okay… Dad!"

…Yakon.

Yakon the Sanctuary.

His only son had been the merciless god of death from Wyte's last remaining sanctuary.

I wanted to say thank you.

The skills and strength you've built up over these restless years have long since surpassed my old bones. I wanted to make sure to tell you, that's why you shouldn't aim to be an enchanted swordsman, why you shouldn't end up like me.

But. That's right. If that was true, then why?

Why hadn't Toroa tried to stop Yakon's training at all?

He probably couldn't have truly been able to stop him, given his adoration for the enchanted swordsman.

"I'll never say all the stuff you did was a mistake."

…Even if the path I took was a mistake…

He was happy to have Yakon's admiration. His life had been affirmed by his beloved son.

That, alone, was enough. "Dad…!"

Toroa the Awful was dead. No legends were immortal.

...Alus the Star Runner.

Wearing a number of enchanted swords, the man conquered the mountains.

He carried easily over ten of the blades, whose weight should have been far too much for Toroa the Awful to bear.

The body he had continuously trained without rest was far brawnier and bigger than the legendary enchanted swordsman's.

I'm going to take it back from you. No more plunder. I'm not going to steal.

Deep in the Wyte Mountains, he was going to make the enchanted swords rest for all eternity. Just as his father had wished. And, just like his father had hoped, he would live on without taking the lives of anyone else as a god of death.

He had wanted to swear to his father while he was still alive that he would become that sort of enchanted swordsman someday.

Plunderers after the enchanted swords were swarming toward his father's grave marker. Enchanted swords birthed conflict.

He drew an enchanted sword.

He threw his own life away.

There still existed work in the world that Toroa the Awful needed to shoulder.

"Nel Tseu the Burning Blade."

He quietly murmured, cutting down a band of bandits. The concussive thunder drowned out their dying screams.

Gathering Clouds. The heat expelled from the sword's cutting flash builds up inside the enemy he cuts and is released. His father's technique. The technique of this enchanted sword's wielder. He had watched it many times before.

He wouldn't let anyone steal them. Things that shouldn't be, where they

should be.

Until he regained the enchanted sword of light, his life was not his own to lead.

He wielded enchanted swords. Because he was an enchanted swordsman. He killed people. Because he was a god of death.

"Divine Blade Ketelk."

He made sure of the enchanted sword's name. With it, he stabbed someone far away.

By narrowing the invisible long-range slash to a singular point, he could pierce foes from extremely long distances, a technique called Peck.

"Gidymel the Minute Hand."

Yet another was cut through. The technique to slow the final effects of this enchanted sword's slashes, something only possible with Toroa the Awful's superb skills. His singular attack was simply confirming whether he could pull off the same move or not—Molting.

"Lance of Faima. Wailsever. Mushain the Howling Blade. Wicked Sword Selfesk.

Crunch. Crunch.

He swung his numerous enchanted swords together as he took each step forward.

He had no talent for using the blades.

His overly kind temperament took in the enchanted swords' latent ideas and got in the way of his own technique. That had been correct. Everything was exactly as his enchanted swordsman father had judged it to be.

In that case, the next step was…

"Vajgir, the Frostvenom Blade. Downpour's Needle. Karmic Castigation.

Inrate, the Sickle of Repose."

From all of the enchanted swords, he had read and taken in the ideas that dwelled within them.

Just means I can toss those ideas away.

He put the ideas from his mind. Not the enchanted swords' ideas, but his very own. Thus right now, he was propelled by the enchanted swords' will, and with it, he was able to exercise the techniques of their most skilled wielder—the techniques of his father.

The techniques that had been seared into the back of his brain over and over again from a young age.

He possessed no talent for using enchanted swords.

He had talent for being used by enchanted swords.

"T-Toroa… Toroa, the Awful…!"

The final remaining ringleader groaned his name. He was right. That was who he was now.

"Now. Which enchanted sword do you want?"

While possessing the abilities of the former, a horror story incarnate, he commanded far more physical strength.

He held a myriad of enchanted swords, gathered over the entirety of a long age.

He went beyond his natural ego and was capable of controlling the inner essence of every enchanted sword.

A god of death, revived from the deep pits of the underworld, collecting the cursed fates of others.

Grim Reaper. Dwarf.

Toroa the Awful.