Episode 112
“I’m just a humble monster hunter.”
Drake, the monster hunter, replied.
“The true value of this sword is something only you, Lord Saxon, can determine.”
He spoke with a feigned indifference.
“Where did you acquire this sword?”
“I was simply fortunate to come across it.”
Dale stifled a laugh.
‘Fortunate? Hardly.’
He remembered when the S-rank adventurer known as ‘Faithless’ brought this cursed sword. A dark artifact that even a fifth-circle dark mage couldn’t handle, yet Drake held it as if it were nothing.
He masked his true abilities with humility, never revealing his full strength. The continent’s greatest monster hunter, who never relied on mana, was anything but ordinary.
“I’ll send someone from the Adventurers’ Guild to ensure payment is made to you, Sir Drake,” Dale continued, pulling the hilt of ‘Hunger’ from the ground. “If the amount doesn’t meet your expectations, please let us know.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Drake bowed respectfully.
“It’s an honor that Lord Saxon finds it satisfactory.”
With a few more words exchanged, Dale turned away, leaving behind the imposing presence befitting the ruler of the Demon Realm, the Viscount of Saxon, and the ‘Black Prince.’
In his hand was the cursed sword of hunger, ‘Hunger.’
That night, as Dale was reviewing the affairs of the Demon Realm late into the evening in his study, there was a knock at the door.
“Dale.”
A woman with a cold, crystalline beauty entered. Her sapphire hair framed her pointed ears—an elf mage of the sixth circle.
“Master.”
“Working late, I see.”
Dale smiled in the dim light of the lamp at Sepia’s concerned voice.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all.”
Dale shook his head.
A brief silence fell, and then Sepia spoke.
“You’ve grown so much.”
The boyish features she first saw in Dale had matured over the years.
“Thank you, Master.”
Sepia’s smile was warm, and Dale returned it silently.
“Do you think I’ve become a man worthy of you now?”
He asked playfully after a moment of laughter.
“That’s still a childish thing to say.”
Sepia’s cheeks flushed a peachy hue in the darkness.
“But… I’m glad.”
Pushing aside her embarrassment, Sepia continued.
“When I first saw you at nine years old and realized your talent…”
Dale’s talent was unparalleled, even among the empire’s greatest prodigies. Sepia could never forget the first ‘Ice Bolt’ he cast, a spell with a destructive power surpassing even the most seasoned warriors.
A talent for killing.
“In you, I saw the shadow of a ‘monster’ I once knew.”
”…”
“Do you know of the hero from another world?”
Dale swallowed hard at her words.
“I know he was brought to a world he didn’t know, raised as the empire’s hunting dog, and discarded like one when the hunt was over.”
“Yes.”
Sepia nodded, not denying it.
“He was a pitiable monster.”
”…!”
Sepia’s unexpected sympathy surprised Dale.
“And yet, he was undoubtedly the ‘God of Massacre.’”
The God of Massacre.
“I still can’t forget the hellscape he created.”
Dale didn’t respond immediately.
“Why did you see his shadow in me?”
He asked, feigning detachment.
“I’m not sure.”
Sepia hesitated, unable to articulate it clearly.
A talent for killing. It seemed grandiose, but many in this world possessed such a talent. Knights honed their swords to kill more effectively, and Charlotte’s talent with a sword was no different.
“He had a ‘special quality’ that set him apart from ordinary strongmen.”
Sepia explained.
A special quality.
“I can’t quite put it into words.”
”…”
“But I sensed that ‘special quality’ in your talent.”
Dale was taken aback.
“I’m certain now.”
Sepia smiled reassuringly.
“At least you won’t misuse that ‘special quality’ as he did.”
Dale felt an urge to reveal his true self, but he held back. He couldn’t.
“Because you were by my side, Sepia.”
Dale replied.
“I promised to stay by your side, didn’t I?”
Sepia smiled shyly, and Dale returned the smile.
“Thank you.”
He resisted the urge to embrace her, recalling the bright and dark winter night in the lamp’s dim glow.
After acquiring his new artifact and beloved sword, ‘Hunger,’ an unexpected visitor arrived at the northern Demon Realm.
The ruler of the Demon Realm, the Viscount of Saxon’s castle.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
In the grand hall, a strikingly handsome man with unforgettable golden hair bowed politely.
“Michael of Lancaster, here to meet the ‘Black Prince’… or rather, Lord Saxon.”
The golden surcoat, emblazoned with the white rose of the Lancaster family, fluttered.
Cruel nobility.
“Prince Michael.”
Dale rose from his throne, bowing respectfully.
“Thank you for making the difficult journey.”
“Not at all.”
Michael of Lancaster smiled, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
But before he could draw it, two female knights rushed to Dale’s side.
Lady Black, the Sword Maiden Charlotte.
The protégé of the great swordmaster Helmut Blackbear, a knight flourishing with her talent.
Lady Shadow, the Holy Maiden Aurelia.
Trained by the master assassin Baro, she abandoned chivalry to become a master of the killing sword.
The two knights, clad in black armor, pointed their blades at Michael’s throat and chest before he could draw his sword.
Charlotte’s hand held a jet-black aura blade, while Aurelia’s hand wielded a blood-red aura blade.
“Both of you, lower your swords.”
Dale extended his arm, stopping the knights.
“You have trustworthy knights.”
Michael remained unfazed, smiling.
“I still can’t forget my defeat at the fight club.”
Michael continued with a smile.
“After that defeat, I honed my sword endlessly, waiting for the day I could face your sword and magic again.”
Srrng.
“May I request a few lessons from you, Lord Saxon?”
Michael drew his sword.
A nondescript knight’s sword, yet it gleamed with a pale light.
”…!”
Dale’s breath caught at the sight of the sword.
How could he forget?
This was no mere replica conjured from memory.
The original was unmistakably there.
The Peacemaker.
The hero’s beloved sword, Peacemaker, gleamed in Michael Lancaster’s hand.
“You seem to recognize this sword.”
Noticing Dale’s reaction, Michael replied with surprise.
“Finding someone unaware of its fame would be more challenging.”
Dale feigned ignorance.
How could this sword be in his hands? The answer wasn’t hard to find.
The Lancaster family had pledged loyalty to the empire long before its ambitions were revealed. As one of the empire’s war heroes, it wasn’t surprising that the ‘Hunting Dog’s Sword’ was bestowed upon the Grand Duke of Lancaster and passed to his son.
“Perfect timing.”
Dale rose from the throne, smiling as he accepted Michael’s challenge.
“I’ve just acquired a new sword myself.”
“Oh?”
The day he subdued the artifact’s rampage and claimed the jet-black cursed sword.
Dale drew the hilt of ‘Hunger’ from his sword belt.
The black blade, reminiscent of the Saxon family’s black sword, exuded a dark and ominous aura.
The ‘Shadow Cloak,’ disguised as a black surcoat, fluttered wildly.
Though Dale had won at the fight club, it wasn’t a victory earned purely by skill.
And from that day on, how much time had passed?
Growth isn’t something that happens overnight. Yet, even though each day is given equally, it doesn’t mean the pace of growth is the same for everyone.
That’s why.
Ignoring the two knights who seemed worried and tried to dissuade him, Dale lifted his head.
“You’d better be prepared.”
Dale adjusted his grip on the hilt of “Kia.”
Unlike before, there would be no avatars or philosophical worlds unfolding—this was a duel, purely for entertainment.
However, a duel between two formidable warriors was far from a simple mock battle.
A single moment of carelessness could lead to death in this deadly contest.
“It seems you’ve regained the arm you lost that day.”
Mikhail remarked casually, glancing at the arm with which Dale held his sword.
“Oh, hardly.”
Dale shook his head with a smile.
The arm he sacrificed to secure victory in the finals of the fight club.
Contrary to what most people might think, losing a limb or two isn’t considered a big deal, at least by the standards of the Black Tower.
Restoring a few pieces of the body with the Black Tower’s techniques is no trouble at all.
Nevertheless.
“I, too, haven’t forgotten the wounds of that day.”
”…!”
The arm holding “Kia” began to shimmer with a dark light, as if merging with the sword’s shadow.
A shadow arm.
If he wished, Dale could easily restore his arm using the Black Tower’s techniques.
But he chose not to.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t.
Rather, during his stay in Guild City, he had come to understand the true value of the “shadow prosthetic” that had become part of his body.
Dale’s shadow prosthetic began to merge with the cursed sword “Kia,” scattering darkness around.
In Mikhail Lancaster’s hand, Dale’s old beloved sword, Peacemaker, radiated a light of tranquility.
Not a mere imitation mimicking the power of memory and thought, but the true force imbued in the original.
Atop the grand hall of Saxon Castle, Mikhail Lancaster launched himself forward.
Simultaneously, Dale’s “shadow cloak” billowed, submerging the area into a lake of darkness.