Savior Demon King Andor once asked the Nameless Sword Saint if a Sword Saint could split the human world in two, like a river parted by a blade.

The Sword Saint only smiled and drank, foam clinging like frost to his lip, and answered with silence.

To a soul that clean and spare, being able yet unwilling, or simply unable, were dust on a sleeve—both beneath notice.

No one would ever see a sword flash that halves the world, because there is only one Sword Saint, and he keeps his blade sheathed: disciplined, self-searching, humble.

But now, the duelists stand outside the mortal world, as if on a strand between night and sea.

God of Strength Bell wielded her authority. She conjured a silhouette of a future world where the moon never sank, and the sun never rose, like a lamp held under still water. Time was nailed to this moment. There would be no tomorrow.

This place was an arena, a promised ground, and a funeral terrace woven for the Nameless Sword Saint.

Then the Great One spoke, her voice cold as starlight on steel.

“Sword Saint, I permit you. Use your full strength.”

“As Your Majesty wishes.”

There was no time for bows. Greatsword and wooden sword crossed like lightning in rain, and killing intent rang sharp as winter bells. The Divine Being’s indescribably beautiful blood and the Lunarfolk’s crimson blood tangled, sprayed, and scattered like twin comets.

No more courteous steel. The sand in the glass ran thin. Cast off grace and beauty, and fight in the hottest, harshest way.

Like beasts, like monsters. Stand as warriors. Blood for blood, wound for wound, until death lays you down like snow.

Sword light rose and scythed down hillsides of red plum blossoms, petals falling like fresh-spilled scarlet.

Two fighters under different laws and orders met like surf and reef. The crash threw up mountains of spray. With the Sword Saint’s wooden blade, a pearly-white arc cut the scaffolding of the world—physics, order, causality—one stroke, two halves, nothing uncut.

Yet the Divine Being stood here. She writes law, keeps law, guards law. She kept this shadow-world from collapse, its bones still holding the old order, like a frame under silk.

The greatsword hurled a hurricane. Speed so pure it stirred the sky. The side effects of Bell’s strikes turned into natural disasters that howled through this sublime scene, and smashed into the pearly arc with an eardrum-splitting roar.

This was a sword duel, a duel of wind, blossoms, snow, and moon, like ink on rice paper.

Each swing held the might to tilt and flip the world, like a table upended. They had no need to name their arts. They were too strong. Their catalog of techniques was an ocean; naming waves would be childish.

Only one thing still made their hearts pound: seize a single-move victory, and let the sword drink the other’s heart-blood, like a chalice raised at dusk.

No grudges and no hate. Only joy, and praise for the opponent’s edge, like two mirrors facing.

They were warriors. On this earth paved with red plum and white snow, there were no gods, no Sword Saints, no heroes, no great ones, no burden to guard the world—only wind and breath.

Only two warriors, and their duel, like two fires leaning into the same night.

Not gaudy, not florid. Attack met attack. When there was no strength left to guard the body, forget guarding the clothes. Fabric tore like old banners in a storm. Their bodies, carved and notched, were nearly pared to bone. There was no glamour to it. Blood lacquered every inch of skin. Where the cuts ran deep, white bone shone like frost.

Red plum and blood blended, no longer telling one from the other, while white snow hissed and melted in the heat of blood, and the red-and-white ground washed to a pure, burning crimson.

Leyline mana flowed into the Sword Saint like spring through roots, letting him swing at full pitch for hours.

But even a peerless Sword Saint grows old. A hero at dusk casts a longer shadow. Magic could dress his body in borrowed youth, but the timber beneath still creaked toward its end.

He braced on his sword and heaved for breath. His chest burned from mouthfuls of icy air, as if a firework were nested under his ribs.

His left hand trembled, a lantern flame guttering. Life neared its shore. Inside, he was draining dry; his recovery lagged behind the coughing blood and the tumble of wounds.

Skin and muscle knit back quick as lizards’ tails, but the irreversible harm deepened inside like a crack in ice. Old injuries and stubborn curses, never healed from old wars, leapt from the corners of memory as his once-blazing life-flame dimmed, and barred his step like chains.

If it were that talkative Demon King, he would have said something now, he thought—lungs screaming, and still he’d toss a few lines of trash talk to break the gloom, like throwing open a window.

The Sword Saint wanted no glory—too rich a wine. He only wished to die like an ordinary soldier, to lie down the way a tool returns to its box. He felt the image of the summit of swordsmanship nearing with death, closer and clearer, like a mountain clearing out of fog. He was very satisfied. To want more would be greed.

He knew the measure. No matter how he counted and weighed and patched himself, he had strength left for one more strike. And the Divine Being knew it too. Bell planted her feet, raised the greatsword, and lifted it slowly for the final cut, like a crescent moon drawn high.

No need, he thought, brushing away solemnity like dust from a sleeve.

He wanted to learn from the Demon King he’d kept company with for a month. Make the air more open, not so solemn, heavy as stormclouds. He did not expect a grand, festival death, nor did he mean to become a yearly hymn sung at this hour, a statue gathering snow.

For a plain warrior, that was unnecessary—like gilding a wooden bowl.

But he did not have the Demon King’s silver tongue. He pressed down the iron taste in his throat, and in the end could only say:

“…Thank you.”

Truly, he wasn’t good with words, he thought, with a faint smile. He stamped his feet, tilted his body, and ran toward the far side where the foe stood, like a runner facing dawn.

One last lift of the sword. One last charge. While this old body still moves, go as a warrior goes, like a wave taking its line to shore.

What stands at the summit of swordsmanship?

Very well. Now he knew.

“…This body of Valor will not grow old on a sickbed,” he said, voice steady as oak.

Pearly-white sword light carved a great circle that split the dome of heaven. That final resonance climbed against the onrushing gale, a bell rung backward, traced the sky, and then vanished like a swallow.

Crack—the clean snap of wood broke across the red-and-white ranges, crisp as ice breaking.

The Nameless Sword Saint sat cross-legged, propped on the remaining half of his wooden blade, as he had sat for two hundred years at Swordgate, like a stone under eaves. He brushed aside snow and saw his incense burner still breathing smoke, and the iron sword that had been broken before. He set the two relics together, like kin reunited.

The wound at his chest had ripped through to his spine. From the front, you could see the blurred moonlit night behind him, like light through paper.

The Divine Being touched the sword mark on her neck and turned. Between peak warriors, hurting and killing are two different bridges; a vital strike and death sit close—off by a hair, a blade, a hand.

He had spent everything. Still… well. Lost, and lost at peace, like a river meeting the sea.

“Sword Saint.”

“Your Majesty, I am here.”

“Did you see it?”

“I saw it.”

“That’s good…”

“Are you satisfied, Your Majesty?”

“Mm. Completely. It was a rousing, heady battle, like winter wine.”

“That’s good. That’s good…”

After a duel that upended heaven and earth, idle clouds gathered and parted. A few lonely flakes drifted down and fell on his hand, cold as carved ice, refusing to melt.

The Sword Saint sat straight, closed his eyes, and laid his hands on his knees. He laughed, bright as a bell, and spoke.

“I had but one wish: to behold the summit of swordsmanship.”

“Now it’s fulfilled.”

“I have never regretted my life. I believed in justice, I kept watch, I stood for myself, and became myself.”

“Bury me beneath these red plums, with no stele and no mound. No shame, no tears.”

“You could call it…”

“No regrets in this life!”

Falling plum and snow slowly covered the Sword Saint’s ever-lifted head and unbent spine. The Divine Being stepped before him in quiet, and fed one last pinch of herb to the incense burner, smoke rising like a slender dragon.

——————

Hattie’s mind locked on the duel. She forgot her snacks, like a child staring at fireworks.

A kid, after all, Victor thought, shaking his head with a wry grin. He scooped a handful from the tub of popcorn in her arms and chewed, the crunch like tiny drums. He resonated with the Shadow Realm and sent the agreed signal pulse to his boss.

——————

“Sir, my lord is ready on his end. Please release Miss Stini.”

In the blizzard, Vega’s bow was meticulous, crisp as a blade’s line.

Far off, the blurred giant wolf and the girl seemed to grumble something, like thunder under snow, but the wind buried it before it reached Vega’s ears—or perhaps he chose not to hear.

“You. Go back.”

“Yes.”

“Tell Andor that, though he conjured me, I owe him nothing now.”

“Yes. If the master has further requests…”

“Don’t come to me! I know. I owe him nothing!”

“We’ll frame it as a trade…”

“No. I’ll refuse.”

“…Which is why we’ll name a price you can’t refuse.”

A few more rumbles rolled through the white. The afterimages of wolf and girl faded into the blizzard like chalk in rain.

The weather eased. Vega lifted a lock of hair and tucked it behind her ear. Sunlight slipped through a seam in the clouds like a blade through silk.

“…That leaves only Princess Anna’s matter,” she murmured.

The maid tucked another strand behind her ear and struck one more line from her notebook, ink drying like a quiet seal.