A wild Raven sprang from the grass, like a startled lynx bursting from dew-wet reeds.

…Only, it wasn’t exciting. Even the Sword Saint, who never turned down a challenger, wore a tight, storm-bound look.

The Nameless Sword Saint wasn’t cold or hollow; his strength towered like an ancient mountain, and time had thinned what could still move him.

Raven managed it… though not in any way you’d call good, like a cracked bell ringing at dusk.

“How many times is this now? Please just go home.” Julian shouted through gritted teeth, her voice a whip cracking in the wind—yet she didn’t draw her sword.

She knew it like winter knows frost: she couldn’t beat Raven anymore.

“I—if the Sword Saint refuses me… I’ll leave!” Raven faltered, then braced her cheeks and raised her focuslight blade, like a torch shaking in a gale.

Her Construct gleamed like blue crystal, every spike and shadowed edge barbed with cold-blooded elegance, a machine cathedral humming with iron prayers.

It was the perfect doll of Slaughter, a steel storm meant to tear obstacles like paper, not to wear human doubts like mist.

The Nameless Sword Saint had felt a flicker of killing intent. His intuition, quicker than sight, tasted the threat her Construct breathed out.

The first time he saw me he hadn’t tightened this much; now his spirit strung itself like a bow under a hunter’s moon.

If not for Raven doing something human—hesitating, softening the air—he’d almost cut her down in a single, thunder-split stroke.

He cleared his throat, a pebble in a still pond, and kept to his vow. He lifted his iron sword, scabbard and hilt bound by chains, ready to fight.

—This thread of a story runs back about a week, like a scroll unrolling by candlelight.

The first time Raven charged in, she piloted a giant Construct, a four-meter brute, a steel giant striding like a storm cloud.

The Nameless Sword Saint was stunned for a beat; challengers were usually warriors trading blades, not Arcane Engineers field-testing war machines mid-pilgrimage.

We had announced we’d answer any challenger. Raven broke no rule; so he saluted, then swung, and in seconds dismantled her Construct like straw.

We figured the Arcane Engineer episode was over, a ripple fading on a pond—then day two, new route, Raven burst from the grass again, trimmed frame gleaming.

That put the Sword Saint in a bind, like a fisher with two nets torn—who imagined someone would be brazen enough to challenge again and again?

Usually, those who dared face a Sword Saint were named warriors, not dogs nipping at the same heel. Seeing his trouble, Julian said to Raven:

“Beat me. Then trouble my teacher.” Her words rang like a drawn bow—good thinking, in most seasons.

But I, the Nameless Sword Saint, and Julian all underestimated Raven, this genius born into the wrong era, like a phoenix in a rain barrel.

Julian’s first cut flicked aside the focuslight blade, a swallow cutting through fog; her second tore the charging machine gun; her third blew the armament bay.

The Arcane Engineer bowed to the lesson, then pulled another Construct from her space ring, and hauled the wreckage away like a hawk with broken prey.

On day three, Raven sprang from the grass again. The Construct had shrunk to a head taller than a strong adult, compact as a clenched fist.

Julian edged out a win against Raven, like a candle surviving a gust.

Day four, they battled half an hour, blades sparking like meteors, and it ended when Raven’s Construct ran dry of mana, a well gone to stone.

Day five, Raven pressed Julian hard, a tide pounding a cliff; Julian had to trade wound for wound to claw out victory—her final move failed to bloom.

Her sword and Raven’s focuslight blade snapped together, two icicles shattering in the same cold breath.

The Nameless Sword Saint held his student back and said, his voice steady as a sword spine:

“Julian, think. For what do we wield the sword?” His tone cut like wind over a ridge.

“For… the strength of the human world.” Her answer was low, like embers under ash.

“Then what did you want from trading wound for wound? A moment’s blood-brave? Pride? Julian, the Lunarfolk spirit runs too wild; that much is written in stone.”

“Remember what blood you bear. Think more. Swing less.” His words fell like snow, quiet and heavy.

Julian held her silence, a lake under ice.

The Nameless Sword Saint said no more. He turned to Raven, who stood lost, like a deer in a bell’s echo, and asked:

“Will you come tomorrow?”

“Ah—ah, if you don’t wish it…” Her voice fluttered like a leaf.

“Of course. You’re welcome, Arcane Engineer. Spend all your strength, pour out your talent, and grant me a warrior’s death.” He lifted the cup like an oath.

He meant to encourage a promising newcomer, a warm coal held to the wind.

He wanted Raven to grow stronger, yet even with death’s eyes, he didn’t see her limit; he didn’t realize this was the start of a chain of troubles.

—Today, the Sword Saint still took her Construct apart in two strokes, a storm splitting two trees, but I think he’s near his limit.

He broke the linkages between arcane modules with one strike—so on day two, Raven switched to an integrated mana circuit, seamless as poured glass.

He carved through outer armor with sword-wind—so next day, she changed materials till ordinary physical force slid off like rain on oiled silk.

He used technique to flick her focuslight blade aside and set his tip to Raven’s throat—so next day, she coded every such parry and all theory-bound counters into her core.

That move never worked again, like a key filed blunt.

Raven herself wasn’t strong; her mana reserves were middling for the Hero Academy, and she made a fistful of errors.

But she excelled at mending flaws. What she couldn’t do, she taught the Construct to learn—her Arcane Engineer creed etched like seal script.

That night I drank with the Nameless Sword Saint. He sighed into the cup, breath rising like steam. “She’s too strong.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I spread my hands, a dealer with no more cards. “You played cool; you deal with it. Don’t dump her on me.”

“My wish was for her to grow strong—but she’s past a line. I mean her talent; if not now, then inevitably later.” His gaze was a winter star.

“I don’t think ‘talent’ fits. No Divine Being favors Miss Raven; her thought and her work are greatness this world doesn’t contain, near-divine.”

“If she resembles anyone, it’s you,” I added, a smile like a knife’s rim. “You do things this world refuses to admit.”

Power too strong, and— “It breaks the balance.” The Nameless Sword Saint nailed the lid on that truth like a coffin’s last nail.

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, her Construct will cross that taboo line, step beyond mortal sanction, and break the balance.”

“So what? What are you going to do? You only swing a sword, right? Shame the world holds things a fight can’t fix.” I let the words drift like smoke.

“Not so. I’m grateful for the pilgrimage you arranged, Demon King. But my time is near; I can’t guide someone walking too far, too fast.”

“Yet there’s you, isn’t there?” His smile was thin, like frost on iron.

“You’re asking me? Fine. Price then. I want equal pay.” My tone was coin on the table.

He laughed, big and clean. “Hahahahaha. Forgive me, I couldn’t help it. You act so calm; it’s too amusing.” His mirth rang like a bell.

Those words… dark as a cloud rim. “Head told you? About who I am?” I asked, the air cracking like ice.

He stopped laughing. He watched me darken like a sky before rain, and stayed light as drifting snow.

“You’re her shackle, the weight that keeps her from flying past the far shore’s sky. No Divine Being whispered it, and swordplay shows no visions.”

“I’m dying. So I glimpsed your true face by chance, like a flash of lightning on a night road.” His voice was candle-soft.

“So… what will you do? Stop me?” My palm hovered over my beloved halberd buried in the Shadow, authority domain stirring like storm tides.

I won’t allow anyone to break my script. Not. At. All.

“Nothing.” His answer came as expected, a leaf touching water—yet hearing it eased my chest like a door unbarred.

If it’s not necessary, I won’t cross blades with a man like him; iron against iron breeds only ruin.

“What you do is beyond good and evil, let alone right and wrong. It’s the ‘correct’ this world requires. If I burn the last candle Fate granted me, I’ll die with the weather.” His words settled like dusk.

He would do nothing. He’d be an actor, dancing, fighting, swinging to a written script, accepting and embracing all things like the sea takes rivers.

Life and death didn’t weigh him. He had done what he should for the human world—held the Demon Realm’s gate for two hundred years like a lone wall in endless wind.

Now he sought only what he wanted, and left worldly grudges to wash away like sand.

He only wanted to see the summit of swordplay, a single star over a cold peak.

“If I kill, will you stop me?” I asked, voice like a blade sheathed.

“Yes. That isn’t my wish.” His eyes stayed clear as winter water.

“If I kill in the name of the Demon King, will you stop me?” I let the title fall like thunder.

“No. The human world has its human answers.” His reply was stone-steady.

“If I deceive others, will you stop me?” My words coiled like smoke.

“Yes. Malice isn’t my way.” His refusal was a clean cut.

“If I, as Andor, preach the correctness of evil, will you stop me?” The candle guttered, and I watched his face.

“No. After all, you wouldn’t be lying.” He held his cup, half-smile like a knife’s reflection.

The Nameless Sword Saint sipped and watched me, body and gaze straight as a blade, unwavering as a plumb line.

I waited as evening thickened, until it felt like dinner-time. I told Vega to arrange the meal for everyone, a bell to bring people to table.

As for me…

When Raven works on arcane machinery, she’s a monk before a sutra—no stray thoughts, no sleep for a day or two, sweat beading like rain on stone.

The workload is heavy, and sweat comes like summer rivers. When I found her collapsed in the workshop, the first thing was water, to keep her from drying out.

She’s likely forgotten dinner again. If I bring a warm meal to her myself, like a lantern to a dark doorstep, her favor should rise.