My name is Gildreas, Grandmaster of the Hamodia Swordsmen. I hail from Sader Province in the Empire’s western reaches. At thirteen, my father sent me to join the Hamodia Swordsmen. As the third son, I never stood to inherit the family estate or title. Yet my swordsmanship talent threatened my dull-witted elder brothers. To prevent the family’s fracture, Father cast me out early—I was merely excess baggage. Without me, the household might thrive better.

Thus, I became a disciple of Swordmaster Mordred, the Hamodia’s Grand Tutor. Alongside hundreds of others, I endured rigorous training. Through sheer skill, I climbed to the position of Chief Disciple. Yet Master Mordred seemed disappointed in me. At thirty-two, I ascended to Grandmaster of the Hamodia Swordsmen. I yearned for the title of Sword Saint, but my master dismissed the notion with contempt.

One day, Master Mordred left Hamodia to seek the next Sword Saint. As Grandmaster, I became the de facto leader in his absence. I managed the guild’s affairs diligently, nurtured new talent, and expanded our ranks over a decade. Yet without a Grand Tutor and Sword Saint, the Hamodia felt incomplete. I was merely a placeholder.

Time flew.

A decade passed since the Grand Tutor’s departure. He wandered the continent, his heroic deeds reaching us through merchants and bards. Lord Mordred vanquished a drake in the Southern Wastes, liberated the Orandite Mountains from orcish control, and even bested a Death Servant in single combat. Each victory sparked celebrations among the swordsmen, but bitterness filled my heart.

Because I remained bound here.

I, too, craved to roam the land, carving my own legend.

But my master had said: *You’re too weak. You’d die.*

Then he vanished for ten years.

On a day when I’d given up hope of his return, Master Mordred reappeared at Hamodia—with a young girl. Before the entire guild, he declared this girl, Esmeralda, the next Sword Saint.

The scene remains vivid. My nine fellow Chief Disciples and I stood speechless. Teris, the most impulsive among us, challenged the girl—who looked no older than fourteen. In an instant, his two-handed greatsword flew skyward. He fell without landing a single blow. Most onlookers hadn’t even grasped what happened. Next came Daos, our most level-headed peer. After a few exchanges, the girl’s blade rested at his throat.

No one doubted the new Sword Saint’s strength thereafter.

The Hamodia Swordsmen regained its full structure: the Grand Tutor as guide, the Sword Saint and Grandmaster beneath him. I commanded the guild; the Sword Saint answered only to the Grand Tutor. Though equal in rank, I held no authority over her. Sharing status with a fourteen-year-old girl chafed me—I neared forty, respected and seasoned within the guild.

Yet the new Sword Saint’s progress stunned us all.

Under Master Mordred’s tutelage, within a year, no swordsman in Hamodia could match her. She earned the Supreme Blessings of the War God and Justice God, becoming the strongest blade-wielder bearing the titles Chosen One and Arbiter. I realized I could never catch her stride. This was the gulf between genius and mortal.

Two years later, Esmeralda requested permission to train abroad. The Grand Tutor granted it without hesitation. Despite her prodigious talent, Aimee—she preferred that name—was only sixteen. She couldn’t read or write, and her wits were slow. All her gifts poured into the sword. Perhaps that *was* the true mark of a Sword Saint? I offered to send two veteran swordsmen as her guards, but she refused.

She told me then: “Though I can’t read or write, and my mind’s dull, I still chase the pinnacle of the sword. My strength doesn’t yet deserve the title Sword Saint. I won’t return until I’m stronger.”

I sighed. Perhaps this was for the best.

For three years, the Sword Saint roamed the Empire. Tales of her exploits reached us often, sparking envy among junior disciples and wistfulness in us seniors.

Then, abruptly, Grand Tutor Mordred summoned me.

“A Death Servant has appeared in Seralni,” he said. “Likely born to replace the ‘Greed’ I felled. The Sword Saint is already there. I command you to lead the elite First Company to reinforce her. Destroy the new Death Servant before it fully awakens!”

I accepted the order and marched a hundred elite swordsmen toward Seralni.

The distance wasn’t great. After seven days of forced marching, we reached Seralni. True to its name as a northern stronghold of the Empire, its towering walls stood firm against the dusk sky. Before the grand city gates, I met the Sword Saint. Esmeralda—now eighteen—wore simple, earth-stained clothes, but her gaze was a honed blade, sharp enough to cleave a man in two.

“Thank you for coming all this way, Grandmaster,” she greeted me politely. “I didn’t expect Master to send someone of your caliber. I thought Teris senior brother would come.”

“Long time no see, Esmeralda,” I returned her bow lightly. “Teris is here too, with the First Company’s finest. We’ve orders from the Grand Tutor to eliminate the Death Servant before it fully awakens.”

“Just call me Aimee.” She smiled—a genuinely sweet smile. “Seralni’s defenses are thin. Relying on city guards alone would make them mere sacrifices to the Fallen God. Oh, Grandmaster, the Governor awaits you. This robed, suspicious-looking fellow is Rasputin, the Governor’s mage.”

“Honored to meet you, Grandmaster,” Rasputin said with a strained smile. My junior sister never held her tongue. Though his attire *was* questionable…

“Understood,” I nodded. “Teris, take the men inside. The Sword Saint and I will meet the Governor.”

“Got it, big brother.” Teris spurred his horse forward. “Follow me, brothers!”

As he left, he shot Aimee a fierce glare. She seemed utterly unfazed—perhaps thick-skinned, perhaps magnanimous. Likely both.

It felt improper for the Sword Saint to walk while the Grandmaster rode. I handed my horse to a Seralni guard and followed Rasputin on foot toward a carriage waiting inside the gate. As I stepped toward it, a silver-haired, crimson-eyed maiden drifted into view. Her beauty was otherworldly, as if she belonged to no earthly realm. Her platinum hair and blood-red eyes gave an impression of pure, haunting unreality.

“Who is this…?” I found myself staring.

“This is Mio,” Aimee pulled the girl close. “My disciple.”

“Disciple?” Mio and I echoed in unison.

“I’m the Sword Saint,” Aimee declared, stroking Mio’s hair. “Taking a disciple shouldn’t be strange. I’ve already informed the Grand Tutor—he didn’t object.”

“Wait,” Mio looked up, her tilted head endearingly earnest. “No one told *me* about this?”

“I planned to tell you later,” Aimee grinned at me. “But since the Grandmaster asked… This child wields a lethal blade. Her movements lack flair, but her sword is pure, unhesitating death. You’ll be impressed once you see her.”

*A sword of death.* I studied the girl. She looked heartbreakingly delicate—porcelain skin, wrists like spun glass. I couldn’t picture her wielding steel to take lives.

“Mio,” Aimee prompted. “Greet the Grandmaster.”

“Greetings, sir.” Mio bowed. Such polite grace, those lowered lashes stirring a fierce protectiveness in me. I’d shatter myself for this child without hesitation.

“Honored guests,” Rasputin stood by the carriage door. “It grows late. The Governor has prepared a feast.”

This mage was uncommonly worldly—more bureaucrat or servant than the typical truth-obsessed, otherworldly wizard.

Governor Ludendorff of Seralni struck me first as a mountain of flesh. His belly jutted alarmingly; sagging cheeks nearly brushed his collarbone. Two bare-chested slaves fanned him, yet sweat poured down his face. Though not yet early summer, the heat clearly overwhelmed him.

“Welcome, heroes of the Hamodia Swordsmen!” He raised a fleshy hand. “By His Imperial Majesty’s grace, I, Sidley Ludendorff, steward Seralni. Yet the Fallen God’s shadow now threatens our city, breaking my heart daily for the people’s safety. The gods be praised—you arrive like timely rain to quench Seralni’s thirst! On behalf of all citizens, I thank you.”

“We’re honored,” I replied as the guild’s representative.

“I’ve prepared a humble banquet to welcome you,” Ludendorff gestured to an aide. “Please, enjoy.”

With that, two lovely attendants helped him waddle back into his manor.

A brief, perfunctory greeting. I understood his haste to retreat behind layered wards and guards—but we, left outside, were far better protection than his soldiers. This wasn’t concern; it was distrust. A regional lord relying on outsiders… Rasputin must have argued fiercely to convince his master.

“This way, please,” Rasputin bowed slightly. “The feast awaits.”

I glanced at Aimee. The Sword Saint showed no irritation at the rushed meeting. Instead, she looked relieved. Beside her, Mio stared into the void with unfocused eyes. What did she see? Something beyond our sight, surely. Her mysterious, flowing hair swayed faintly, weaving an aura of enchantment.

“Time to feast!” Aimee declared, as crudely charming as ever. Her lack of pretense was precisely why I remained Grandmaster—a blessing in disguise.

Mio snapped back to attention and fell in step beside me. The silver-haired, crimson-eyed maiden walked at my side, her platinum strands swaying gently with each step. It felt… strangely wonderful.

The banquet was lavish—platters of meat and vegetables lined long tables. Aimee stuffed her cheeks with meat until they bulged like a hamster’s, comically round. Mio ate daintily, occasionally glancing at the swordsmen. The Hamodia warriors stood disciplined, all clad in signature red-and-blue cloaks. Each wore a longsword at their hip—styles varied slightly, but blades were universal.

“Grandmaster,” Mio spoke to me unexpectedly. “Your swords aren’t standardized.”

"That’s right," I replied patiently, enjoying the chance to chat with a pretty girl. "The Hamodia Swordsmen don’t teach just one style. We’ve gathered every sword discipline across the continent. Then we match each disciple to training based on their build and preference—rapiers, greatswords, longswords, one-handed blades, even sword-and-shield combos. Everyone gets the right path. That’s why we’re strong."

"Very scientific," Mio nodded, seemingly impressed.

Few actually approved of our methods. Most called it wasteful—too slow, too costly. New recruits finished basics, then chose a sword and master for specialized training. The Imperial Army called us inefficient. Yet they couldn’t deny our strength. Only true Hamodia swordsmen understood why.

"Hey! You!" Teres stomped over. My gut twisted.

"So you’re the Sword Saint’s disciple?" he sneered. "A kid who hasn’t even hit puberty playing swordsman? Pathetic."

"Teres," I said flatly. "Sit down."

"Hmph!" He slammed his palm on the table. "I won’t accept this! I’ve trained for years and never earned that title. But this little girl waltzes in above me? Hamodia has rules! A disciple needs a Chief Swordsman’s recommendation. And I sure as hell didn’t recommend her!"

I’d planned to formally recommend Mio later. Teres had pounced first. Damn.

"See? Against regulations! Not even the Sword Saint’s above them." Teres’ voice rose. Nearby swordsmen turned. The stink of alcohol rolled off him. Older members shook their heads—we all noticed.

"Teres, you’re drunk. Go rest."

"I’m not drunk!" He hurled his wine cup aside. "Crystal clear!"

One drink turned him into a raging fool. Infamous in the guild. Probably still bitter about losing to Aimee years ago.

"Teres-sempai," Aimee cut in sweetly, "why don’t *you* be her recommender?"

"Huh? Me?" Teres froze. Even I hadn’t seen that coming. This airhead truly thought only of swords.

"Only if she beats me," he jabbed a finger at Mio. "Otherwise? Never."

"Mio," Aimee whispered to her, "is that okay?"

"...Fine," Mio sighed. "But must we?"

"No problem!" Aimee grinned. "Teres-sempai’s all muscle upstairs, but he’s a good guy. If you cross blades with him, he’ll respect you."

Mio paused, then nodded. "Understood."

Aimee gave a thumbs-up. I just sighed. Two sword-obsessed idiots—one with brawn, one with brains—were about to collide. Teres flushed, trapped by his own words. Around us, swordsmen shot him disapproving glances. Most had doubted Aimee too, until she toppled two Chiefs and earned her name across the land. Only Teres still nursed that old grudge. Especially when drunk.

"Grandmaster," Aimee beamed, squeezing my hand, "be our referee?"

*Damn.* I’d hoped to mediate. Now I was cornered. I glanced at Mio. How could she win? Teres stood 186cm tall, 110kg of honed muscle. His 150cm greatsword could split cavalrymen and horses in one stroke. Mio? Barely 155cm, maybe 40kg. A nightmare matchup.

"No practice swords here," I said. "Someone could get hurt."

"Real blades are fine," Aimee chirped. "But Mio, deactivate that force field on your sword. Don’t break Teres-sempai’s weapon."

"Understood." Mio nodded seriously. Did she feel no fear?

"*Real* blades?!" Dizziness hit me.

"What an insult!" Teres roared. "Is this brat going easy on me? You two bitches think I’m weak?!"

That snapped something in Mio. Her bored eyes turned sharp.

"Outside," she said. "No holding back."

"Bring it!"

They moved to the courtyard training ground. Teres drew his massive greatsword with a flourish.

"Last chance to yield," he growled, almost sober now.

"Unnecessary."

*Shhk!* Blue lightning crackled from Mio’s sword hilt, forming a blade. Gasps rippled through the crowd—*an enchanted weapon?* But the sparks died instantly, leaving only cold steel.

"Begin," she said.

"Don’t underestimate me!"

Teres swung his greatsword overhead like a thunderbolt. Mio sidestepped minimally, closed the distance in a flash. His reach advantage vanished. *Clang!* He blocked her strike with his crossguard.

"Not bad!" He bared his teeth in a feral grin. "Next one won’t be gentle."

"Neither will mine."

They broke apart. Teres lunged, sweeping his blade sideways. Mio parried. Everyone braced for her to be flung back—but her sword tilted slightly. His greatsword slid off its edge, crashing into the earth. Mio used the buried blade as a springboard, spinning midair to kick Teres square in the jaw.

A lethal move. With a sword, it’d be over.

But Teres countered instantly. As his head snapped sideways, he wrenched his sword free and slashed upward at Mio. *Sparks flew* as blades clashed. Mio flipped over his greatsword like an acrobat, landing to sweep his ankle.

Teres staggered but didn’t fall. *Hamodia’s finest heavy swordsman indeed.* Mio dodged his next blow with tiny, precise steps. Silver strands of hair floated down, severed by his blade. Her empty left hand darted to her waist—

"Mio! No guns!" Aimee yelled. "That’s cheating!"

Mio hesitated, leaping back as Teres’ redirected strike sliced empty air. *So fast.* Not Aimee-level, but for a 14-year-old facing our Chief Heavy Swordsman? Remarkable. What *was* that weapon at her waist?

"RAAAH!" Teres roared, spinning his greatsword like a windmill. My palms sweated—he was serious now.

Drunk or not, alcohol only fueled his fury. I almost called it off—until Mio *accelerated*.

"Body-enhancement magic?" I muttered.

She danced around Teres’ strikes, reading his moves, waiting. Like a wolf circling prey.

"Don’t mock me!" Teres raised his sword high.

"Open!" Mio lunged.

Then—*thud*. Her foot connected squarely with Teres’ groin. Every male swordsman present instinctively cupped himself. His greatsword clattered to the dirt. Teres face-planted, clutching his crotch.

Just like that. The match ended.