Humans have been praying for a very long time.
To the sky. To a higher being. To humans who are superior to oneself. Even sometimes, humans would tell their wishes to someone outstanding. I hope you will listen to it.
Wishes became prayers.
Longing transformed into faith, and earnestness created miracles. That’s how religion was born.
Therefore, in the beginning of time, people called humans who were more earnest in their wishes than anyone else. Priests. It is said to convey prayers.
Now that tens of thousands of years have passed, the meaning of priest has changed.
The cults are corrupt and humanity has forgotten its past. The definition of language has changed and has also moved away from its essence. Today’s mankind considers the act of praying sacred, but the essence of prayer is not faith.
Prayer is hoping.
Being desperate for one’s wishes.
Hoping that that voice reaches someone.
That alone gives power to prayer.
Even if the target is not God, if that voice reaches someone…
“…hopefully.”
The saint, Natida, stretched out her hand.
A sword stuck in a grave of swords. Natida grabbed the hilt of the sword wielded by the most feared scourge.
Sigh!
The moment I grabbed the hilt of the sword, my fingers were cut off. The silver energy from her sword scratched Tida’s hand. Blood splattered from the cut of her finger, onto her palm.
“Please, I hope.”
Natida stretched out her free hand and covered the back of her bleeding hand. As if raising her prayers. Tattered fingers. Blood flowing down the hilt of her sword. Natida closed her eyes in pain as her skin was torn.
···It is said that for an excellent swordsman, the sword is like half of his body. The moment Natida grasped the sword of death, she felt extreme fear.
When you close your eyes, what you see is the gaze looking at you in the dark. Death is staring at you. Natida trembled in fear before the most fearful disaster. But he never lets go of his sword.
Hopefully, a miracle.
What you see before death is determination.
An unyielding will despite trembling in fear.
Natida shared her wish. She whispered to the sword of death with a wish. I will be your cause. There is someone here who wants a rematch with you. As a prosecutor, shouldn’t you accept that offer?
And death answers.
It is unknown whether it was in response to Natida’s wish or Natida’s whisper. But what is certain is that death gave us the answer.
Death moved in the deep darkness.
* * *
The King of Demon Beasts held the sword with his left hand.
The moment I adjusted my grip on the sword, the flow changed.
The air trembles. The flow bows before the king. Of course, this is not the same upheaval as when the sword of death changed its grip. Barta also practiced swordsmanship with his right hand. He held the sword with his left hand and the only thing that changed was the atmosphere.
Perfect posture and unwavering sword tip.
Kalt looked at Barta who had adjusted her posture.
The statue of Barta no longer shook. A wind blew in the silence. A rotten smell came from the wind that blew. It’s the smell of death. Such as Ganichalt.
···come.
Here comes a blow that rivals the sword of death.
The countless futures that Kalt sees have been torn apart.
Now that all the future has crumbled, all we see is the present.
The shaking air. A pile of stones rising into the sky. What Barta is about to show will be the best blow he can deliver.
“Thank you.”
As if to pay respect to the swordsman who taught him, Barta wants to show off his best blows.
‘···We must withstand that blow.’
And Kalt strengthens his resolve.
Lark said. Hold on for 10 seconds. Kalt understood why Rak said that. Over Varta’s shoulder, Natida was holding the sword of death and praying.
…I don’t know what will happen, though.
‘If you endure, the way will open.’
A path opens up where there was only death.
But, how?
My finger was broken. His muscles were torn. The body had long ago reached its limit. It was only once that I could swing a sword with a body like this. I had to block that blow with that one swing.
Can you do it?
Kalt answered the question he asked himself.
No, I had to do it.
“···Phew.”
Kalt let out a long breath.
Exhale and take a step forward. Kalt took a stance, standing one step ahead of Lark. Kalt said as he looked back at Rak who was looking at him.
“lakh.”
Kalt laughed.
“I will open the way.”
2.
A pile of stones rising into the sky.
Shaking air and trembling ground. While everything is shaking, the sword that Barta holds is still.
Cooung.
The moment Barta took a step forward, the ground exploded. sunken ground. A pile of rocks bouncing. Varta swung his sword, putting strength on his feet. The tip of his sword no longer draws the flow. He didn’t even draw air.
Just cut everything off.
The rock that bounced was split in half.
The air was cut off with a crashing sound.
The broken current swirled in all directions. Barta’s sword energy races forward, cutting off everything it touches. The direction of the sword energy that races through the ground is the human holding the sword.
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Sword energy rushes towards a mere human.
Kalt looked in front of him with narrowed eyes. The coming sword strike splits every future he sees. Even in a world where time feels infinitely slower and everything seems to stand still, that black energy is moving.
Coming, death.
A sword that cannot be struck down by a human body.
Kalt saw the fragments of the future splitting apart.
Every future points to one’s own death. You can’t hit that sword with anything you have. Even though he knows this, Kalt’s sword is moving.
Think about it. experience.
Find it. The path to victory.
Blood flows from the eyes. Blood is flowing from the nose, mouth, and ears. Kalt remembers as he coughs up blood. Kalt had once wielded the sword that the King of Demonic Beasts was wielding.
That was before he became a superman.
The experience of surviving the blow of the sword of death.
Based on that experience, Kalt finds his way. What I see through my blood-filled, red eyes is a multitude of futures. In that future, Kalt died several times. He failed again and again. Amid repeated deaths, Kalt walks forward.
···A superman is like iron that does not cool down.
The crossroads between life and death. Death crisis. A superman is constantly being trained through pain and trials. Even sharper. More solidly. Even more beautifully. Like quenching hot iron or forging a famous sword. A person who has removed impurities in this way begins to shine.
The tip of Kalt’s sword glowed.
Sword energy is ultimately the energy of the body and the color of the soul. The life lived by humans. It is determined by the body that has been trained. Kalt’s sword energy, shining with impurities removed, is like moonlight.
Sreung.
A black energy resembling moonlight glimmered like moonlight shining on the sea. The sword advanced with a faint sword energy. The path drawn by Kalt’s sword at this moment did not exist in any future. The only answer found in a failed future.
Moonlight draws a sword road.
Gently, obliquely, as if seeping in.
Kalt’s sword got caught in the path drawn by Barta. The moment the moonlight touched the black energy that was dividing everything, a change occurred.
Barta’s sword energy wavered.
The sword that had drawn a single line was bent. It breaks. Barta’s sword path changed to follow Kalt’s sword swing.
Huh.
Kalt’s sword, swung in a half-moon pattern, dug into the ground. Sgeung, Kalt’s sword soared above the ground again, gently cutting through the ground. Lastly, the place where the tip of the sword points is towards the front. From half moon to full moon. Kalt raised his sword in a perfect circle.
The sword energy fired by Barta moved along the sword path drawn by Kalt. The sword energy curved in a circle returns to Barta.
Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Barta’s eyes, looking at the returning sword energy, wavered for just a moment. At this moment, Barta feels surprised. Although embarrassed by the technique shown by the human, Barta swung his sword at the returning sword energy.
However, what comes back is the best blow that Barta himself has delivered. Varta, unable to fully parry his own sword blow, fell back behind him. His posture collapsed. Barta was bleeding, revealing his weakness.
Kalt laughs as he sees that.
The gap revealed. But it is not your responsibility to dig into that gap. Kalt, who no longer had the strength to stand, slowly fell sideways.
“Go, Lark.”
Kalt comes off the stage.
Taking his place is Lark, who was standing behind Kalt. Brilliant starlight rose from the holy sword.
Cooung.
Lark put his foot down and swung his sword.
heated body. The snowstorm rising from Lark’s body wrapped around the holy sword. Lark carved a spell into the engulfing snowstorm. If Raniel collects ash and turns it into a spell that blows up the entire area…
Lark decided to use the fluttering remnants of mana ‘like this.’ The spell engraved on the blizzard is simple.
Shock.
The driving snowstorm turned into a shock wave. Shock waves hit the back of the holy sword one after another. Lark’s sword accelerated again and again, scattering afterimages. What explodes from the tip of an accelerated sword is the ultimate Grace style.
A rough sword strike was engraved diagonally on Barta’s body.
The front line extends from Barta’s left shoulder, where his posture was broken, to his right side. Blood formed along the drawn line. Immediately after, blood poured out like a fountain. Barta twitched briefly and took a few steps back.
Barta saw blood flowing from my body.
Barta burst into laughter as he looked at the wounds carved into his body by the human sword and felt the tingling pain from the wounds that would not heal. As if it was more fun than ever.
More teaching.
Even more so, technology that I have never seen before.
This is the moment when Barta, who has stumbled, is delighted and tries to swing his sword again. Kalt, who fell to the floor, burst into laughter inadvertently. It is not the laughter of a desperate human being.
“10 seconds.”
The time given is over.
“come.”
Kalt’s eyes turned to Varta’s back.
“The most fearful disaster.”
Subtle.
For an instant, all of Barta’s hair stood on end. Barta’s head jerked and turned behind her. Barta looked behind her and saw. A human lying next to a great sword stuck in the ground.
and.
A hand reaching out from a split space.
“Ganikalt, the sword of death, is coming.”
What extends out is the hand of a demonic beast.
Barta’s lost right arm. The moment he saw the half of his body that he lost more than a hundred years ago, Barta’s body convulsed. Barta’s eyes wavered. With joy, not fear.
“Ahhh.”
Barta groaned.
“Ahh, ahhhhh!”
The magic beast’s hand grasped the great sword.
At that moment, the space that had been torn just enough for a hand to pass through split apart with a crackling sound. He appears beyond the split space.
The most fearful disaster.
A swordsman who symbolizes death.
Cooung.
For a moment, the air in the canyon becomes heavy. A strong wind blows. A wind that carries the scent of death. A huge presence pressed down on the canyon.
“······.”
Ganicalt, the sword of death, revealed himself and pulled out his sword from the ground. The sound of a sword ringing softly. The sword of death rings.
At that moment, the dozens of swords embedded in the sword tomb began to tremble as if resonating. It seems as if one is trembling in fear at the impending death, or as if he is bowing his head. It announces one fact.
Galatric, the Tomb of the Sword.
That the owner of the desecrated land has returned.
fantasy,
