Arctic Tundra. Swordgate. The largest gathering of the Lunarfolk, a silver-lit hive beneath the endless snow.

Inside its greatest fortress stood a door that reached for heaven, engraved with runes cold as frost and crooked as winter branches.

Someone sat cross-legged on the earth, hands resting calm on his thighs, eyes closed, facing the sky-reaching door like a still lake meeting the moon.

He looked like no man, no woman, no child, no elder—only the symbol of “human,” a shape emptied of features like a blank sky.

Gold hair fell like sunlight on snow. A gray-white robe hung like morning fog. That was all, quiet as dawn.

Beside him lay two swords, one iron, one wood. A lone censer breathed the scent of a nameless wildflower from the Eastern Phoenix-cry Mountains, soft as rain.

Sometimes the heaven-reaching door would open. If it was a human, he said nothing, letting them pass like wind through reeds.

If it was a demon, he spoke, his words light as falling ash.

“Turn back.”

Most answered with a roar, harsh as broken bone. Sometimes they wore starved human skin, jaws yawning one hundred and twenty degrees, teeth layered like a shark’s reef.

Sometimes they burned with blazing flesh and marrow, embers flaring like a funeral pyre.

Sometimes they dissolved into Shadow, everywhere at once like night seeping under doors.

Sometimes they hobbled on shriveled legs, with grotesque arms swollen and plated in chitin, ready to rip like talons on slate.

At their first step into the human world, without exception, their right leg fell, clean as grass cut by frost.

“The second step is your head.”

His voice was clear as spring water, free of killing intent, yet death’s chill sank into their hearts like winter into stone.

He never touched his swords. He kept his eyes closed. He spoke as lightly as breeze moving reeds.

Then, behind him, a thousand eyes kindled like drawn blades, their gaze sharp enough to shave moonlight.

Human round pupils. Elven green eyes. Dwarven brown-gray irises, earthy as clay. Draconic golden slits, bright as sun on scales.

Most of all, the Lunarfolk—blood-red eyes, glowing like coals beneath snow.

In two hundred years of sitting at this gate, he had seen demon armies surge a hundred times, and elite squads countless more. None crossed behind him alive.

Two centuries ago, the Restless Demon King forced open a door into the human world, a storm-tunnel the gods and demons together shattered, but could not seal.

After that war, he became the gatekeeper, the quiet shield of peace, a pillar that stood while heroes raged like thunder and fell like rain.

People carved seals and wards on the door, trying to bind its breath like chains on a tempest. They raised Swordgate, iron on iron, to be the world’s hardest rock.

Everyone thought the fortress and its armies were the bulwark against invasion. In truth, one person here was enough, silent as a mountain.

He kept his eyes closed and said nothing, like a monk listening to snow.

He sat, never moving a step, with two swords and a censer at his side. Any demon who set foot in the world lost a leg in one breath, then life in the next.

In two hundred years, not one exception, like a tide that never failed the shore.

He had sat so long the ground beneath him stayed unpaved, bare earth like a patch of spring in steel. Grass grew there. Flowers opened there.

Two hundred years ago, he was the unmatched Sword Saint, bright as a comet. Two hundred years later, he had not crossed blades, yet fame stayed like a star that doesn’t dim.

Because he was here, Swordgate drew wandering Lunarfolk like birds returning to roost, and admirers of swordcraft came in waves, turning iron walls into a marketplace of voices.

He was the Sword Saint, the Nameless Sword Saint, the only Sword Saint beneath the sky, a lone peak above clouds.

He was Lunarfolk, sustained not by bread but by moonlight’s essence and the breath of the land, like dew on leaves at night.

So he sat with eyes closed and hands on his thighs, speaking only to demons who pushed the door, and to those who fed the censer, a soft “Thank you,” light as incense smoke.

Many admirers wished to be his disciples, but they received only a bitter smile and a sigh, quiet as rain on stone. “I cannot teach people…”

Among those seekers were legends who split sky and earth, heroes like storms. At most they learned to sit behind him, watching the door open, watching an unadorned, inescapable sword fall.

That sword looked like the sky—vast, inevitable, the blue vault above fate.

Two hundred winters passed, each like a white page.

This day, he counted the time, opened his eyes a moment, looked at the heaven-reaching door, and smiled like sunlight on ice.

The door thundered, a rolling rumble like mountains waking, pushed by a black-gauntleted hand from the far side.

Today, the teacher felt different, like a river that suddenly shows its source.

Julian, who stepped forward to add herbs, felt uneasy, a sparrow under storm cloud.

Usually, the Sword Saint sat like fossilized jade, eyes sealed, unmoving as a statue. Today, he faced the door, eyes open, steady as a bowstring.

Julian didn’t know why the teacher felt off, yet she did as always. She fed the censer, added a coal, closed the lid, and heard the familiar “Thank you,” soft as smoke.

That herb was a common mountain grass in the East, simple as meadow green. Carrying it to the Arctic Tundra was a journey long as a caravan’s breath.

Merchants knew to bring a bundle to Swordgate, payment in devotion rather than coin. If Julian asked, hands opened like baskets in harvest.

Only because her teacher, the Sword Saint, liked it, the scent like moonlight on moss.

He didn’t know how high a place he held among warriors, his name a banner that fluttered over battlefields.

The seat behind him was earned by pilgrims who fought until blood dried, and only those still standing were allowed to sit in the same hall as the Sword Saint.

Feeding the censer became a rite, a single bridge to one who neither ate nor drank, a privilege nailed to victory.

People challenged Julian for that honor, steel meeting steel, pride meeting pride, and she rarely lost, her blade a clean stroke of dawn.

He knew none of it. He was the Sword Saint. His eyes stayed on the door he guarded and on the sky where swordcraft soared like cranes.

Even if he knew, he would likely feel nothing, like a wind that passes without dust.

Today, he broke the pattern and spoke more, like a bell sounding twice.

“Julian, it’s been long since I taught you sword.”

His words were stripped to bone, precise and bare, as two hundred years ago when he taught by touch and silence.

Julian’s eyes stung, red as embers. Memory rose like mist.

“You told me to find it myself.”

“I simply cannot teach, my clumsiness.” He shook his head and sighed, thin as a reed’s whistle. “On this journey, will you come with me? I’ll teach what I know.”

Straight and clean, his thought was a blade without ornament, clear as winter air.

Julian knew to answer. He only asked once. He only heard once. Hesitation was useless, like trying to dam a river with hands.

“I want to learn from you, teacher.” She bowed, swift as a falling leaf.

“That is the best ending…” He smiled and turned to the heaven-reaching door, as if waiting for a star to rise.

“Go hand things over. The chieftain of the Lunarfolk must pass many duties, like fire from torch to torch.”

So the Sword Saint knew she had become chieftain. Her heart leapt like a kite catching wind.

He didn’t look, yet he cared, his silence a shawl draped over the world.

Julian’s gold hair brightened with her thrill, strands flashing like sunlight on water.

“I’ll resign, teacher. No burden for you.”

“No need. This journey lasts one month. To be exact, one month and six days.”

“Why, teacher?” She asked without thinking, like a swallow calling midflight.

His answer chilled half her heart, cold as an ice cave.

“Because that will be the day I die.”

The Lunarfolk can know their death-date. By human means, it cannot be avoided or altered, fate written like frost on glass.

Julian had believed her teacher was the unmatched Sword Saint, his sword a circle the world could not step beyond.

She thought every enemy would fall like wheat beneath a scythe, simple and sure.

She had never imagined her teacher would die. Whether old age or battle, death felt like a stranger at his gate.

In her bones, she believed he had conquered death, truly transcendent, a star above storms.

She walked out dazed, a sleepwalker in snow. The Sword Saint didn’t mind. He sat as usual, inhaled the herb’s quiet perfume, and spent his shrinking life like sand through glass.

Their quiet talk drew no stir, like ripples swallowed by a lake. Then the door opened, pushed by a black-gauntleted hand from the night beyond.

A warrior in black heavy armor stepped out from the inner side, his plates gouged like bark clawed by bears.

Bandages wrapped him everywhere, soaked until blood dripped, red as berries in snow. His wounds looked grave, deep as cuts in rock.

His right hand wore no gauntlet, only linen tight as vines, gripping a crimson greatsword like boiling magma. He carried it on his shoulder, a pillar of fire.

The blade was taller than he was, a red tower leaning on a man.

Behind the visor, strands of black hair fell to his shoulders, dark as ravens’ wings.

He looked tired, breath rough as wind. After a few breaths he steadied, steps firm as a smith’s hammer. He had fights left in him, like coals still hot.

He spoke. The visor made his voice sound like a cavern, muffled and low.

“I’m with the Demon World Surveillance Squad. The Demon King of the Demon Realm moved strangely. My comrades all died. Only I remain.”

His tone carried no joy or sorrow, flat as the tundra.

“That’s it. I bring back only this.”

The Sword Saint rose and bowed, first time in two hundred years he stood, his movements clean as a crane unfolding.

“Thank you, our hero. Humanity’s hero. You’ve suffered.”

Everyone froze, shocked to see the exalted Sword Saint bow, their minds blank as white paper.

“What is your name?”

“Eil.”

“Where will you go?”

“To every royal court. I need people, coin, and to rebuild the Demon World Surveillance Squad.”

“Before the rebuilding, will you tour this wide world with me, a pilgrimage under the sky?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see what waits in the highest sky of swordcraft.”

The black-armored warrior thought like a stone weighing water, then nodded once, a simple fall of a leaf.

Julian arrived with her pack, steps quick as a deer. The three left together, light as travelers slipping into dawn.

They walked with no lingering, no worry, their departure a breeze that doesn’t look back.

Other warriors rushed to follow, feet drumming like rain on shields. At Swordgate’s threshold, they saw another youth, black hair, black eyes, shadowed like midnight.

A single horn rose from his right brow, bright as obsidian.

“Nameless Sword Saint, whom did you choose?” asked the Demon King, voice smooth as silk over steel.

“Us three. And you, Demon King,” the Sword Saint said, calm as moonlight.

“Then let’s go.”

The Demon King nodded and lifted a hand, a gesture light as a fan flick.

In an instant, the four vanished like sparks in wind, leaving the gathered warriors staring at one another, blank as stones in snow.