Unnamed ice mountains, northeast Azesion.
“Take a left there.”
Lay made a left turn according to the Leaks I sent. After continuing for a while, a large mass of ice came into view, which Lay approached and looked within to see the Sword of Three Races, buried inside.
He pulled the Sword of Intent out of a storage circle. “Hiyah!”
The block of ice was sliced into pieces and fell apart, revealing a large cavern. Lay scanned his surroundings with caution. There were no traps or any other sign of life. But that didn’t explain why he couldn’t use Gatom in the area.
Lay walked up to where Evansmana was stuck in the ground, still on high alert. The sword was still releasing its usual divine radiance and showed no signs of damage. Lay then reached out and grabbed the hilt.
Just then, a white electric current raged along the holy sword. Lay immediately released Evansmana. A piece of the hilt chipped off, and fell to the ground.
“What’s happened to you, Evansmana? Can you tell me?” he mumbled.
At that moment, a magic circle appeared on the ground around where the blade was stuck. Another piece of the hilt chipped off.
Something was definitely going on with the holy sword—something that prevented it from responding to Lay’s summons. Lay focused on the sword’s will and reached for its hilt once again.
“Don’t touch it,” said a harsh voice, scolding.
Lay turned to see a man appear from a path at the back of the cavern. He wore a jacket and waistcoat with gold embroidery, and had a jabot around his neck. The addition of a large bow strapped to his back suggested he was both a hunter and of nobility simultaneously. But his clothes were mostly likely a uniform; on his shoulder was a symbol of a sword, and on his chest was an insignia of foam and ripples. The symbol on his shoulder resembled the Sword of Three Races.
“Filthy thief. Can’t you see it’s trying to return to its true form?” the man said haughtily. He spoke as if he were familiar with Evansmana.
“Who are you?” Lay asked.
“Such insolence. A petty thief like you dares to question one of the Five Holy Nobles? I have no name to give to you. Just do as you’re told,” the man snapped. “Now move it. That holy sword has already been retrieved.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Could you explain?”
“Move. Or I’ll run you through on my sword until you’re nothing but rust.” The man of the so-called Five Holy Nobles grabbed the sword at his waist and glared at Lay with menace in his eyes. “I won’t ask a third time.”
But Lay only gave him a bright smile. “I’m not moving.”
A sword flashed between them, followed by the sound of clashing metal. The man of the Five Holy Nobles had drawn his sword, and Lay had blocked it with Siegsesta.
“How brazen for a thief.”
“But I don’t believe I am one. If the Sword of Three Races had just chosen someone else I would have been fine with it.”
The two stared at each other over their locked swords. Being able to survive a blow against Lay meant this man was no average swordsman. But his face was completely unfamiliar to me. I’d never heard of the Five Holy Nobles either.
“Then state the name of the swordsmith who forged Evansmana,” he demanded.
“I only know it was forged by a human. Their name had already been lost to time two thousand years ago,” Lay replied.
The man scoffed. “Then name the god who blessed the sword. Name the spirit that dwells within the sword.”
“Do you know?”
The man’s body filled with magic, and he knocked Lay back with a push of his sword.
“Of course I do! However...” The tip of his sword pointed at Lay. “You’re not worth talking to!”
He thrust out his sword, moving faster than the speed of light. Lay deflected the incoming blade to his face with the Sword of Intent. The next thrust was then aimed at Lay’s throat. The man accelerated, seemingly having no limit to his speed, with the force of his movements boring holes in the ice behind Lay.
The two swordsmen clashed blades, the entire mountain range shaking from the ferocity of their battle. Hundreds and hundreds of blows were exchanged in just mere seconds.
“Foooh!” the man screeched oddly, thrusting forwards with all his might. Blades crossed, and Lay’s Sword of Intent was sent flying upwards, stabbing into the ceiling. But it was a feint. He had positioned himself so that the Sword of Three Races was right beside him. Lay wanted the man to believe he was unarmed and lure him into attacking.
The swordsman of the Five Holy Nobles was about to leap forwards—when he withdrew his sword and stood still.
“Not coming?” Lay asked.
“Don’t look down on me. I, the great Count Baltzarond, refuse to cut down an unarmed man, even if he’s a criminal. Retrieve your weapon.”
“Hm.” Lay leaped up and yanked Siegsesta out of the cavern ceiling. “Are you sure?”
“Hmph,” Baltzarond snorted. “Having a sword in your hand makes no difference. It is clear you don’t have the ability to win against—”
“Didn’t you have no name to give me?”
Baltzarond gaped at Lay in dumbfounded disbelief. But he soon snapped out of it and yelled, “You weasel, prying my name out of me with such sly tricks!”
More magic power surged out of him, covering his arm and sword, the blade creaking in protest at the added strain of so much condensed power laid on it.
“However, when it comes to the sword, I will not lose!” he declared loudly, as though his slipup just now hadn’t happened. Baltzarond pointed his sword at Lay. “My sword—the Baltzarond Hunter Blade—is the fastest blade known to man, capable of cutting through time itself!”
He moved and silence fell, as if time really had stopped. In this world without sound only Baltzarond moved. His sword was simply too fast.
In response, Lay chose to let his strikes connect and slice his flesh and bone. No matter how fast this man moved, he couldn’t wipe out all of Lay’s sources in a single strike, so Lay used that opening to aim at Baltzarond instead. One beat after Baltzarond’s swing, the Sword of Intent swung towards his neck.
“Foooh!”
Just before Baltzarond’s sword pierced Lay’s chest, his sword shattered into pieces, unable to withstand the fast swing of its user. Lay swung the Sword of Intent with enough momentum to behead him, but froze at the last moment. A single drop of blood dripped down his neck.
“Time! Hold on a minute,” Baltzarond said boldly, in spite of the sword at his neck. “Let’s do this again. I wasn’t using the right sword. In addition, I am unused to fighting here.”
“What are you going on about?” Lay asked with a smile. He kept the Sword of Intent at Baltzarond’s neck, ready to behead him at a moment’s notice.
“Guh... Such cowardice!”
“I don’t get what you’re saying, but can you still not tell me what you want with the Sword of Three Races?”
The man ground his teeth. Just then, Lay heard the sound of something shattering. He glanced over to see the hilt of the Sword of Three Races had detached itself from the blade—almost like the holy sword had its own will, and had rejected its hilt. Nothing like that had ever happened to the holy sword before. Lay frowned.
“That is not the original hilt of the Sword of Three Races,” Baltzarond said, drawing a magic circle with a finger. “The real one is here.”
A sparkling gold hilt emerged from the middle of the magic circle, with a guard embedded with blue gemstones and no blade. The Sword of Three Races then unsheathed itself and flew over to the golden hilt. Since it was coming straight at Lay from behind, he leaped to the side to avoid it.
Lay reached out and grabbed Evansmana as it flew past him. Baltzarond was still holding the hilt with no blade.
“Evansmana has completed its service, and the time has come for it to resume its true form. Return it to me,” he said.
Divine light radiated from the golden hilt. Its magic power was indeed identical to Evansmana.
“You don’t seem to be lying about the Sword of Three Races’s hilt,” Lay said, staring at Baltzarond with Siegsesta and the hiltless Evansmana in his hands. He took a step forwards—then froze. My Leaks had reached him.
“Give him the Sword of Three Races.”
“Do you have a plan?” he sent back silently.
“A few people with the same insignia have appeared, all at the same time. They may have come from outside.”
“The outer world?”
“The one you’re facing seems to be one of the more absent-minded members. Perfect for setting free with a tracker attached.”
After hearing that, Lay threw the Sword of Three Races at Baltzarond. The sword stabbed into the ground before his feet.
“Oh? I see you’ve realized that your struggles were futile,” he said smugly.
“Your ability to draw the Sword of Three Races proves you are its owner,” Lay said. “And besides, this world no longer needs it.”
“Then behold!” Baltzarond grabbed the Sword of Three Races, now hiltless, and unsheathed it. He raised the holy sword high above his head. “I, Baltzarond, dauntless and daring hunter, am the true owner of the Sword of Three Races. I am its chosen.”
The holy sword that chose its own owner released a divine light in his hand, proving its power. Perhaps he really was its original wielder.
“You said it yourself. Surely you have no complaints, yes?” Baltzarond asked.
Lay nodded in response.
“Hmph. An admirable mind. I’ll spare your life this time.” As soon as he said that, he thrust the golden hilt towards the sky. Light burst from the sword, melting a hole in the ice overhead. “Farewell. For a thief, you had a decent sword arm. I’ll give you that.”
Baltzarond leaped out of the large hole opened by the light and flew away.