The sound of a blade cutting through air was all that echoed in the stone chamber. It was still before dawn. In the depths of the royal palace Brengard, in the "Hall of Silent Blades"—a training ground reserved exclusively for the sword instructors of the Brenheim Kingdom—only a single lamp burned. Halden Owen continued to swing his sword in silence. Seventy years old. His short white hair was slightly disheveled, and in his black swordsman's garb with a white overcoat draped across his shoulders, he might have looked like an ordinary old man to a casual observer. An old sword scar marked his left cheek. A silver belt engraved with vine patterns was always fastened at his waist. His body had certainly aged—his shoulder muscles were thinner than they once were, and his joints ached a little in the mornings. But his sword technique remained completely unchanged. One stroke. Then another. Not a single wasted movement. He stopped as precisely as if he were checking his form in a mirror. His body, which had lived with this blade for over fifty years, moved before his mind could even think. *(Still moving.)* Owen glanced briefly at his own arm. The Zeldgan Campaign was fifty years ago. The Demon Lord Zeldgan, who appeared from the northern continent, had ravaged the Tilvaarn continent. The armies of various nations couldn't push him back together, but the hero's party finally defeated him after two years. Owen had been twenty years old then, always on the front lines as a swordsman in the vanguard. He hadn't died then. And he hadn't died since. For decades now, he had held the position of Royal Sword Instructor of the kingdom—a post held by only eleven people in the past two hundred years. His annual salary was eight hundred gold coins. He had been given a private training ground and quarters in the palace, where he spent his days swinging his sword and demonstrating forms to his disciples. King Vales III had once been his student, and four of the twelve ministers of the council had been directly taught by him. And now, he was alone in the vast training ground. The lamp flame flickered. His shadow stretched across the stone wall. It had been almost a year since his wife, Elis, had passed away. Owen stopped his practice swings and lowered his sword. The room was too quiet. When Elis was alive, he rarely found himself alone in a place like this before dawn. She would appear after a while, bringing warm tea whenever Owen came to the training ground early in the morning. She would say nothing, simply place it down in silence. That was all he needed. Now there was no one to bring him tea. *(That's how it is.)* Owen exhaled softly and took up his sword again. --- Past midday, the training ground door opened. "Forgive the intrusion, Master." It was Vales III who entered. Fifty-five years old. A head shorter than Owen, with a slightly portly build. He wore no crown, dressed in something close to everyday clothes. But his eyes were always sharp. He was a man with a keen mind, and it showed clearly in his gaze. Vales was Owen's direct disciple. He had learned swordplay from him since his teenage years. Even now that he was king, he became slightly tense in Owen's presence. "[gentle]Master, have you been eating properly lately?" "[gentle]No need for concern." Owen answered while sheathing his sword. Vales still looked unconvinced, his eyes scanning the training ground. The scattered dust marks on the floor. It was clear he had been here since morning. "[serious]...I'm looking forward to this year's Victory Sword Festival." The Victory Sword Festival. A martial arts tournament held on the third full moon of autumn, commemorating the defeat of Zeldgan. Owen had been responsible for the demonstration matches every year. It was a national event for the kingdom, and a festival Vales had looked forward to since childhood. "[gentle]Indeed." Owen smiled. He wasn't lying. He simply hadn't said anything. Vales stared at Owen for a moment, then bowed and left. Owen watched his back until the training ground door closed. *(Forgive me.)* That was all he thought. Nothing more. --- The palace corridors fell silent as night deepened. Owen returned to his quarters. A sparse room. For someone of his station as Sword Instructor, it was disappointingly plain. A single sword hung on the wall. A writing desk. Beyond that, a bed and a small shelf with drawers. He opened one of the drawers. Inside lay a small silver brooch. It was Elis's keepsake. Owen took it out and placed it in his palm. The silver gleamed faintly in the lamplight. It was an old brooch shaped like a flower, the kind Elis had worn every day. It wasn't cheap, but it held no jewels. He traced it slowly with his finger. *(I don't want to die in bed.)* It was something he had been thinking for a long time. Born as a swordsman, he had lived as one for over fifty years. Status meant nothing. Decorative positions and annual salaries meant nothing. His true nature was that of a man who stood with a sword in hand. Yet to grow old here in the palace, unable to rise one morning, watched over by his disciples as he quietly faded away—that was unacceptable. When Elis was alive, he had thought it might be acceptable. But Elis was gone now. Owen pulled another sheet of paper from the back of the drawer. Notes on what he had researched about Grandveld. A lawless wasteland in the northern reaches of the continent, beyond the reach of any nation's rule. A mercenary company called the Iron Fang controlled it with about three hundred members, located roughly four hundred fifty kilometers north of Sedrica via the northern road. And recently, a mysterious swordsman named Volkan had appeared there. A man wielding two blades—one black, one white—with the upper half of his face covered in black cloth. He had already cut down over a dozen members of the Iron Fang, including their officers. His motives and origins were completely unknown. *(Interesting.)* Owen placed the paper on his writing desk. He didn't want to die. He wasn't rushing toward death. He simply wanted to live as a swordsman until the very end. Not fading away vaguely in bed, but facing someone with sword in hand, pouring everything he had into it—if he could die that way, that would be enough. There was nowhere left on this continent where one could engage in a true battle with one's life on the line, except Grandveld. Owen placed the brooch in his chest pocket. Then he quietly began preparing for his journey. --- After the night had deepened, Owen left the palace with his hood pulled low. He headed for the commercial district of the capital Sedrica called "Lantern Alley." About a hundred twenty shops lined the street, and some kept their lights on even at night. His destination was easy to find. "Talbo's Smithy"—a weapons shop. As he pushed open the door, a clanging sound came from within. "...It's late." The man who looked up from behind the counter was about forty-five years old. Broad-shouldered, sweat glistening on his forehead. He had the build of a true craftsman, and his expression seemed difficult. Talbo was a blacksmith by trade, known for good work but few words. Owen, still hooded, laid out what he needed on the counter. A whetstone, leather cord, preserved food. Minimal travel supplies. Talbo silently gathered the items. He named the price. Owen paid in cash. That was all. Talbo glanced briefly at Owen's face at the end, but said nothing. A craftsman doesn't question customers who come late at night, ask no questions, and pay in cash. Owen left the shop. --- Next, he headed to an inn called "Raven's Rest" near the outer gate. As he opened the door, the smell of alcohol and warm air greeted him. Despite the late hour, a few regulars sat in the corner of the counter. "Oh! You came!" A loud voice called out from behind the counter. Moura. Sixty-two years old. A large-framed woman who laughed often. She had apparently been an adventurer once, but now ran the inn. Her black hair, streaked with white, was tied back, and her apron and rolled-up sleeves were her trademark. It had become a long-standing habit for her to exclaim "You're here again!" whenever Owen visited. But today, her expression changed after her initial joy. She had seen Owen's appearance. A hooded overcoat, travel preparations. Not his usual attire. "[surprised]...Are you going somewhere?" "[gentle]A bit north." After saying just that, Moura fell silent for a while. North—a woman who had lived for decades might understand what that meant, at least vaguely. She didn't ask further. She pulled out a mug of ale from beneath the counter and placed it in front of Owen. Owen drank in silence. The ale was slightly bitter and warm. Just then, a man from the corner stumbled over. His face was flushed. He was quite drunk. He approached Owen's side with the look of someone who had found a friend, leaning in close. "[laughing]Old man, where are you going? It's late, isn't it~" His voice was cheerful. Owen simply turned his gaze toward the man. That was all. He did nothing special. His eyebrows didn't move. He simply looked. "I-I'm sorry!!" The man tumbled from his chair. The sound of his rear hitting the floor, and everyone in the inn turned to look. The man's face went pale as he stammered, "Um, sorry, excuse me, it's nothing," and hurried back to his seat. Moura burst out laughing. "[laughing]Hehe... You're still the same, Master." "[gentle]I didn't intend anything." Owen answered with a slightly troubled expression. He truly hadn't intended anything. He had simply looked, yet somehow this happened. Sword pressure—the weight accumulated through fifty years of training, soaked into his very being—seemed to show in his eyes. He didn't fully understand it himself. He drained the rest of the ale. He placed copper coins on the counter. "[gentle]Thank you for everything." He stood and adjusted his overcoat. He walked toward the door. "[whispers]...Be careful." He heard a small voice at the entrance. A quiet voice. Not stopping him. Just saying that. Owen paused slightly as he opened the door. He didn't turn around. But he nodded. --- Sedrica at deep night was quiet. The stone-paved streets were empty of people. A dog barked in the distance, then fell silent. The moon was out, casting white light across the road. Owen walked toward the outer gate. Two soldiers stood at the gate. Owen walked straight toward them, hood pulled low. Calmly. Without stopping. "Wait—hold on, who are you?" One of them tried to call out. But the other grabbed his arm and stopped him. "[whispers]...No, wait. That's... isn't that the Sword Instructor?" "[surprised]Huh?" The two guards exchanged glances. The Royal Sword Instructor—a position held by only eleven people in the past two hundred years, directly under the king. Someone who taught swordplay directly to the royal family. Normally, leaving the royal capital Sedrica required the king's permission. To leave without it would make one a target for search by the knight order. Such were the rules. But the two gate guards said nothing and let him pass. They couldn't stop him. No soldier who had spent over twenty years at this gate could stop that back, that gait. Owen never looked back once. The stone-paved road gradually became a gravel path. The lights of Sedrica faded behind him. Moonlight illuminated the northern road ahead, thin and white. The wind blew, and the edge of his overcoat swayed. It was quiet. Only the sound of his own footsteps. Eventually his disciples would notice. When Vales, when the twelve ministers realized their master was no longer in the palace, what would they do? Out of concern, they would search with all their might. His disciples were now pillars of the kingdom. If they wished, they could even mobilize the knight order. For Owen, that was the most troubl