The spring breeze swayed the branches, casting dappled shadows across the forest path. The gray horse clopped steadily along the winding road, its ears perked as if in good spirits. Mio held the reins in her left hand, gaze fixed ahead, walking at a measured pace. Aimee followed behind, her eyes occasionally flicking to Mio’s left hand. That morning, during their sparring match, Mio’s left hand had taken a heavy blow from a wooden sword. What had looked like a serious injury now showed no trace at all.

"Mio," Aimee asked worriedly, "is your left hand alright?"

"It’s nearly healed," Mio replied. "I can move it freely. No need to worry."

"I’m sorry. I could control my strength at first, but halfway through... I got carried away."

"It’s fine," Mio shook her head. "If possible, I’d spar with you every day. I have some sword basics, but as you said—plain and unadorned."

"No," Aimee insisted. "Your swordsmanship is practical. No wasted movements. Your slashes are powerful, your thrusts fast and precise. You don’t cling to set forms. It’s battlefield-ready—simple on the surface, lethal beneath. I hold your skill in high regard. It’s been ages since I met a rival like you."

"Your swordsmanship is beautiful," Mio said. "Like dancing. Every motion flows."

"Haha, you flatter me." Aimee suddenly remembered something. "Oh—Mio, what’s your other weapon? A magic device? But I’ve never seen one like it."

"This is a gun." Mio drew the Punisher, spinning it once in her palm. "12.7mm caliber. Six-round cylinder. Fires multiple ammo types. Effective range: 100 meters. Max range: 350 meters."

"Looks formidable," Aimee’s eyes sparkled.

Mio sighed. Firearms, weapons of the industrial age, had one defining trait: accessibility. Anyone—young or old, man or woman—could take a life by simply pulling a trigger. Bullet power was constant. No decades of grueling training. No physical prowess required. Guns shattered the old limits. They multiplied killing efficiency exponentially. Because of guns, humanity could stand against Celestials, against lesser gods—even become Godslayers.

A notification window popped into Mio’s vision. Drones had spotted suspicious figures. She halted abruptly. Ten black-clad assassins emerged from the trees, encircling them. Aimee scanned them, then drew her sword with a cold laugh.

"Sword Saint," the lead assassin said, "we mean you no harm. Walk away, and we’ll pretend we never saw you."

"And let you kill her?" Aimee sighed. "Assassins of the Labyrinth—you underestimate a Hamodia Swordsman’s pride. We’d never abandon the weak to save ourselves. I serve Justis, God of Fairness and Justice. I won’t leave. Come then. Let my blade punish your wickedness!"

"Stay calm, Sword Saint," the leader urged. "The Hamodia Swordsmen haven’t joined the Royal Selection. You remain neutral—for everyone’s benefit. If you fight here to protect this border noble’s daughter, that neutrality shatters. You’re Sword Saint, but you don’t speak for the entire Hamodia Swordsmen. Consider this carefully."

Aimee hesitated, then laughed.

"Sword Saint is just an empty title these days," she said. "Stronger fighters exist. I’m a figurehead clinging to a hollow name. I’ve no attachment to it. I’ll cast it aside right now."

"Is that wise? For a stranger?"

"*Stranger*?" Aimee threw her head back laughing. "You’ve misunderstood from the start, assassin. Tell your master this: this girl is my irreplaceable friend. My sword fights for her."

"Understood." The leader sheathed his weapon. "I’ll convey your words."

The assassins melted into the forest shadows.

"Hmph. They retreated," Aimee slid her sword home. "Wise choice. They stood no chance."

"Aimee," Mio turned to her, "I’m grateful you defended me. But... was that truly wise?"

"What’s unwise about it?"

"Abandoning your title as Sword Saint."

Aimee sighed softly. Mio watched her face, troubled.

"Sword Saint is just a name," Aimee ruffled Mio’s hair, her smile warm and steady. "You’re what matters."

"Why...?" Mio shook her head. "I’m just a princess of a fallen kingdom. I have no value..."

"Your existence *is* your value." Aimee pulled her into a tight embrace. "You may have forgotten, but I haven’t. That blizzard night when we first met... *You* saved *me*."

A distant memory surfaced: a storm-lashed night. Young Theresa hearing sobs outside her window. A shivering girl buried in snow. Theresa knotting bedsheets into a rope, hauling her inside. Two children sharing warmth beneath blankets until dawn.

"If I could," Mio whispered, "I’d ask you to kill me."

"*What*?" Aimee’s eyes widened.

"Nothing..." Mio looked away. She wasn’t ready to confess everything.

For three days, no assassins appeared. They crossed the empire’s vast western forest, entering open plains. As mana density dropped, monsters dwindled. Endless wheat fields replaced emerald woods. Walking the broad highway, gazing at golden stalks stretching to the horizon, the thriving land lifted their spirits. At the fields’ edge rose towering walls. Mighty ramparts studded with watchtowers. Ballistae mounted on towers commanded longer ranges.

This was Seralni. A key stronghold in the empire’s northwest.

The high gates teemed with orderly crowds. Imperial soldiers in silver armor and crimson cloaks inspected entrants. Merchant wagons rumbled past. From wooden cages came the hollow moans of slaves. Seralni’s chief trade was human flesh. Twice yearly, its colossal arena hosted gladiatorial matches. Countless slave-warriors died there—to please the gods.

"A freewoman?" A soldier eyed Mio. "Entering from the Northern Reaches?"

"Yes." Mio nodded, watching him place her identification on a rune-inscribed stone slab. The magic script verified its authenticity. No issues.

"Two silver coins for entry," he said. "Ten-day limit. Extend at the district office—five copper per day. Overstay without permission? Ten silver fine daily. Can’t pay? You’ll be sold as a slave on the spot. Remember that."

"Thank you." Mio smiled, taking her papers. She didn’t notice the middle-aged soldier’s face flush slightly. Beauty, whether woman or girl, held lethal charm.

Past the checkpoint, Aimee waited amid the crowd, waving. Soldiers nearby stood rigidly respectful.

"You skipped inspection?" Mio asked.

"No need." Aimee flashed a pendant around her neck. "Hamodia Swordsmen insignia. Grants entry to any city. Join us, Mio—you’ll get one too. No more entry taxes."

"What *is* the Hamodia Swordsmen?" Mio frowned.

"You don’t know?"

"I just entered the empire..."

"Right." Aimee sighed. "We’re one of the Senate’s three direct legions—but not frontline troops, so no number. We train junior officers and swordmasters. Every year, we gather talented youths at Hamodia HQ for training. Most historical Sword Saints came from us. Hence ‘Sword Saint Corps.’ In swordsmanship and tactics? Unmatched. Pit us against two imperial legions—we’d still win easily."

"Amazing," Mio’s eyes gleamed. "Though it sounds more like a school than an army."

"Close enough." Aimee grinned proudly. "In half a year, I’ll be a Master. Be my disciple, Mio. Defeat me someday. Become the next Sword Saint."

"Later," Mio said. "First, we find Rukhus’s family."

Aimee glanced at the gray horse behind Mio. It was stealing carrots from a wagon. In its saddlebags, an urn took up significant space. The wagon driver turned—just as the horse stuffed the carrot into its cheek and casually looked away.

Seralni divided into four districts:

Administrative. Commercial. Artisan. Slave.

Rukhus was a blacksmith. His home would be in the Artisan Quarter. Mio led the gray horse through the inner gate separating districts. The scene shifted instantly. Chimneys belched dark smoke. The clang of hammers never ceased. Goldsmiths displayed glittering jewelry behind glass. Weapon shops drew men’s hungry stares. This district was a colossal factory. Slaves and artisans toiled day and night, forging goods and luxuries for the northwest.

Mio tied the horse outside a modest workshop. Aimee munched skewers bought from the Commercial Quarter.

"Odelias Workshop," Mio read the Roman letters on the sign. "This should be it."

"Huh?" Aimee blinked. "You can read?"

"A little," Mio demurred. "Not much."

"Amazing!" Aimee chewed noisily. "I can’t read a word!"

*The current Sword Saint is illiterate.* Mio sighed inwardly. Education here was shockingly scarce. Commoners couldn’t afford schooling. Slave literacy was more common than freefolk’s.

Mio entered alone. Heat blasted her face. A massive furnace dominated the space. Around it, a dozen slaves labored in loincloths, sweat sheening their muscular backs. She passed two slaves pumping bellows and approached a smith.

"Are you Master Odelias?"

The smith glanced up, then returned to hammering steel. He plunged the glowing bar into a water bucket. Wiping his hands, he faced Mio. She waited politely as he finished. He looked late forties, golden hair plastered with sweat, muscles gleaming under droplets.

"Are you Master Odelias?" Mio asked again.

"Little girl, if you're here for jewelry, you've come to the wrong place," the blacksmith said, wiping sweat with a towel. "I'm Titus, Titus Odelias. What brings you to me?"

"Excuse me," Mio paused for a moment, "do any of your sons go by the name Rukhus?"

Surprise flashed across Titus's face. He dropped his earlier impatience and studied Mio carefully. When his eyes fell on the urn she cradled in her arms, his brow furrowed.

"Little girl, that can't be an urn you're holding, can it?"

"Yes," Mio nodded, her long hair swaying gently.

"The ashes inside... they can't be my ungrateful son's, can they?"

Mio confirmed with another nod.

"Damn it... I knew it..." Titus couldn't mask his grief. "'Give me armor and a sword, I'll become a general,' he said. And now he's back like this. I shouldn't have forged that gear for him!"

"I'm sorry," Mio bowed her head, offering the urn with both hands. "This is all I could do for him."

"How did he die? My foolish son, I mean."

"He fell in battle," Mio concealed Rukhus's later transformation into a corpse demon. "He gave his life gloriously for the empire."

Titus took the urn silently and turned toward the workshop's depths. Mio held her bow until his figure vanished from sight, then straightened. Curious stares from the surrounding slaves lingered on her beauty, reflected in their eyes. Before drawing more attention, she turned and walked out.