The trust of Avaria’s citizens in their empire was not easily shaken. For a millennium, the empire had stood unbroken, its peace enduring. Though rebellions had flared throughout its long history, each had been crushed beneath the iron heel of the state.
This trust had flowed through Avarian veins since the nation’s founding—a legacy nearly a thousand years old.
Avaria boasted no mages or Divine Artisans, yet its knightly civilization shone brilliantly. These knights valued loyalty, valor, strength, and justice. More than land grants, they craved glory—the purest expression of which lay in the Three Great Orders.
Each order enshrined the forty strongest warriors of their respective tiers. From lowest to highest: the Radiant Order, the Crown Order, and the Legendary Order.
Knightly ranks, however, extended beyond these three. They were: Saint Bronze Knight, Brilliant Silver Knight, Blazing Gold Knight. Only those above Blazing Gold attained true distinction—Radiant Knight, Crown Knight, and Legend Knight. Above them stood the mythical Apocalypse Level, a realm untouched for centuries.
No order existed for Apocalypse. Only raw power defined it. Legend claimed only Avaria’s founding emperor had reached this tier, his strength rivaling gods. Without it, he could never have risen from obscurity to forge the greatest empire.
The Legendary Order held merely thirteen names—far short of forty. So few had achieved Legend Knight status that filling the ranks proved impossible.
No hierarchy existed among Legend Knights. True battles between such beings were rare; even when they occurred, victory proved little. None dared rank these titans.
The Crown Order, however, held exactly forty names, ranked strictly by strength. Each knight on the list could crush ordinary Crown Knights without effort. Fights between listed and unlisted knights held no suspense.
That Archibald of Chaos Cross could duel Garia—the thirty-ninth ranked—proved his own terrifying prowess.
Every year, one or two newcomers challenged the established knights. Some climbed the ranks by trampling predecessors; others paid for their arrogance with blood.
Crown Knights were the empire’s bedrock. Seasoned in combat, they became the sharpest blades in wartime. The Radiant Order, meanwhile, formed the foundation—young blood, brilliant stars heralding the empire’s future.
Avaria was an impossible miracle: a thousand-year empire untouched by the tides of dynastic collapse. Unlike other nations, it had never bowed to the Holy Church. Elsewhere, kingdoms had become terrestrial theocracies—kings crowned by popes, cathedrals dominating every city skyline, the Church’s influence eclipsing royalty. To commoners, becoming a priest was the highest honor.
Had the Church not needed royal authority to maintain order, its knights would have long since shattered the rotting crown of kingship.
The Church, too, spanned a millennium—but its growth dwarfed Avaria’s. Its dominion covered over seventy percent of the continent. Only Avaria and the maritime city-state of Bluewater City remained truly independent.
*So I’ve tangled with a formidable enemy,* I mused, walking beside Eunice through the forest. *How do I shed this wanted status?*
According to Eunice, they hunted not me—but the "Demon King who drew the Demonic Sword." Neither the Holy Church nor Avaria knew who had pulled it, or even if it had been drawn at all. They hunted a phantom—a title demanding annihilation should it ever manifest.
I was safe for now. As long as my secret stayed buried, danger couldn’t touch me. Relief washed over me.
*I’ll find a way to ditch this Demon King title later.*
Only two knew I’d drawn the sword: me, and Eunice.
She stood with me—why else seek the Demonic Sword? Though her motives were unclear, her resolve to climb the Levitating Tower had been absolute.
The Levitating Tower. Thirteen floors of blood and ambition. Outlaws, greedy bounty hunters, and mercenaries gathered there—only to slaughter one another.
Everyone knew: only one would walk out alive.
Or perhaps none. The Tower devoured all who entered.
From the first floor upward, alliances shattered. Betrayals bloomed. Blood soaked every corner. Corpses lay forgotten as survivors fought like beasts.
Only the last one standing could claim the Demonic Sword—a weapon of immense power. Every sacrifice would be worth it.
Nothing tempted mortals like absolute power. With strength came everything else. Pure might outvalued gold.
I’d met Eunice—the final victor. Yet when I first saw her, her clothes were spotless. Not a drop of blood stained her. Even gripping a corpse, she stood serene and cold—like a black stone swallowing all light and sound, leaving only eternal silence around her.
She never expected *I* would draw the sword. No wonder she’d been furious.
It was like watching a girl you’d chased for months walk off with a stranger at first sight. I’d probably stab someone too.
My gaze softened with sympathy.
Now, returning the sword was impossible. I didn’t even know where it was. Worse—my own body no longer felt like mine…
Eunice caught my odd look. She turned, puzzled. "Why are you staring? Is something on me?"
"N-nothing at all!" I stammered. *Perfectly normal. Except for carrying a silver-haired girl like some kidnapper.*
Eunice, oblivious, shook her head lightly. "Hurry. I sense people ahead. They might know shortcuts."
"People?" My spirits lifted instantly. Time to practice my disguise. Because of the sword, I had to learn to act ordinary and normal around others.
*I won’t let the Church’s knights drag me away.*
*The Demon King’s identity must stay hidden.*
We pushed through the trees and found a narrow road. A stream glittered nearby, shaded by lush canopies. Parked along the path were over a dozen wagons. Most carried large rosewood chests bound with rough hemp ropes—a merchant caravan. Armored guards rested on the grass, some fetching water from the stream, others napping under trees. Most striking was a lavish carriage parked in the shade. Its wheels were gem-encrusted, and a crimson banner fluttered atop it, embroidered with golden threads forming an exquisite, nameless flower.
"Halt! Who goes there?" Two guards stepped forward, hands on sword hilts, eyes sharp with suspicion.
"We… uh… need directions to Bluewater City," I said.
Their alertness drew the attention of resting guards. Then, the curtain of the ornate carriage parted. A girl’s head poked out, curious eyes scanning us.
She had wheat-colored hair, about fourteen or fifteen, lively and animated. But her gaze locked onto me like I was a new continent—and burned with unsettling intensity.
"Uncle Gry! Bring that black-haired lady over! No—wait, I’ll fetch her myself!" The girl scrambled out of the carriage and dashed toward me.
*Does she know me? But this isn’t even my body!* I glanced at Eunice. Her expression mirrored my confusion.
