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After finishing the brawl with Dutz’s gang,
Yuri left the territory and entered a secluded forest path nearby.
Once he confirmed there was no one around, he urgently bent forward.
Cough—!
He quickly covered his mouth with his hand as a violent cough burst out.
Red blood seeped through his pale white fingers.
It was clearly a serious amount of blood.
But Yuri casually wiped his bloody lips as if it were nothing.
“Ah… damn pig bastard.”
Cursing Dutz with a look of irritation, Yuri suddenly collapsed from a splitting headache.
“Ghhk!”
Enduring the intense pain, he hurriedly pulled a pouch from his chest.
From the leather pouch, he took out a clump of medicinal herbs, chewed it quickly, and swallowed.
Breathing heavily, he waited for the medicine to take effect.
“Haaah… haaah…”
Even though the herb had strong pain-relieving properties, the headache didn’t subside easily.
Feeling the sticky blood in his palm, his face twisted even more.
‘Damn it!’
The “Black Calamity” that destroyed the Pauli family and struck down everyone connected to it—
That terrifying monster had suddenly appeared, taken countless lives, and then vanished without a trace.
Some said it had been slain. Others claimed it had simply moved elsewhere.
But the truth was different.
‘This is why I didn’t want to use it…’
Eight years ago, when he’d lost his mind and rampaged,
it wasn’t any subjugation force that stopped Yuri—
it was his own battered body.
‘Just dipping my toes in a bit of that power… and it ended up like this.’
He’d first realized the “curse” around the age of eight.
It happened toward the end of his bloody revenge, when he suddenly coughed blood and fainted.
The same thing repeated several times before he understood.
‘The power I thought came without cost… was actually a curse eating away at my lifespan.’
His body now was like a bomb with its fuse lit—
burning away even if he stood still.
And the more he used his power, the faster that fuse burned down.
‘How much fuse do I have left…?’
When the fuse finished burning and the bomb finally exploded—would he die?
Or would the black monster devour him completely?
Either way, that would be the end of the human named Yuri Holland.
‘I need to find a way to remove this curse.’
Eight years ago, his raging hatred and killing intent had eventually faded, replaced by survival instinct.
Suppressing his cursed power as much as he could, Yuri wandered the world like a stray dog, searching for a solution.
But nowhere could he find the identity of the “Black Monster,” nor the reason his body was deteriorating.
The more he failed, the more his will to live turned into obsession.
Now only fifteen years old,
he knew his time was limited—but not when the end would come.
He might live another ten years… or not wake up tomorrow.
Each day was precious, but also tormenting.
Tired of such a life, he had spent the last six months resting in the Irons territory.
But—
“…It’s about time I left here too.”
Yuri knew he had to move on again.
If he stayed any longer, he might grow too comfortable.
“Hoo…”
Once the headache eased somewhat, Yuri stood and headed toward his hideout.
And in the darkness—
Rustle—
A pair of eyes watching Yuri’s back as he disappeared into the forest blinked once, then vanished.
The next morning.
Yuri was inside Irons territory.
He blinked at the bustling energy he could feel in the air.
‘Quite a crowd.’
From the castle gate all the way to the village square,
people lined both sides of the broad, well-paved main road.
And there was only one reason for the crowd—
they had gathered to see the guests they’d waited three months for.
And this was why Yuri had come as well.
‘The Black Sword Corps.’
Their name was known across the continent.
The Sword Lord’s personal guard.
The strongest military force on land.
The Watchers of the Cradle.
But despite their fame, few ever saw them in person—maybe once in a lifetime.
Even Yuri, after years wandering the continent, had never seen them.
‘If I’m leaving Irons soon anyway, I might as well see them while I can.’
Opportunities like this didn’t come twice.
Just then, his gaze shifted toward the castle gate.
Clank—
Far in the distance, the heavy gate began to lift.
Murmurs erupted everywhere.
“They’re here!”
“Is that them?”
People craned their necks toward the gate.
Thud—
The gate fully opened.
And there they were.
Dressed in black uniforms adorned with golden tassels,
with black capes over their shoulders—
five Black Sword soldiers entered the territory on brown horses.
Clop-clop—
“Waaahhh!”
“It’s the Black Sword Corps!”
“The Watchers of the Cradle!”
Cheers erupted as the long-awaited figures appeared.
Yuri’s gaze sharpened.
The first thing he felt was their blade-like aura.
Then, when he met their eyes, cold sweat trickled down his back.
‘Those guys…’
Did the cheering crowd even realize—
the way the Black Sword Corps was looking at them?
Probably only he did.
‘They don’t see people as people.’
Their gaze was like someone looking at a rock in the road.
An obstacle to be removed if necessary.
‘Disgusting look.’
Their eyes brought back memories of that day eight years ago, and Yuri’s expression hardened.
The training grounds.
A boy with golden hair and green eyes swung his longsword with fierce focus.
His handsome face was serious, his movements disciplined.
He practiced relentlessly, vertical slashes echoing through the air with sharp wind sounds.
This boy was Günter Irons.
His concentration was astonishing.
Eventually, his strikes became so precise and fast that even the sound disappeared—
a sign he was reaching a high level of mastery.
After finishing his set, he calmed his breathing.
At that moment, a deep voice called from behind.
“Are you finished?”
Günter turned to see Ashraf, the lord of Irons territory and his father.
Their interaction was stiff, more like a commander and soldier than father and son.
Ashraf began speaking, unusually at length:
“You’ll pass the Cradle’s proof without trouble. But that’s just the starting line. I expect more from you.”
He explained that the Cradle was the training ground that had produced countless powerful figures shaping the continent’s history.
He told Günter to reach the top of the Cradle—
to prove himself the best, ensuring Irons’ glory for the next 50 years.
Günter simply replied, “I will,” with unwavering resolve.
Ashraf smiled faintly, proud.
Then cheers erupted from outside.
“The stage is ready, it seems,” Ashraf said.
The two headed out.
Back in the square.
The Black Sword soldiers arrived at the center.
Crowds pushed forward, but soldiers held them back.
People climbed trees and rooftops for a better view.
When the Black Sword soldiers dismounted, they remained stoic, unfazed by the staring masses.
Then a booming drum announced the arrival of Ashraf and Günter.
They met at the center of the square.
Ashraf greeted them courteously, but the Black Sword soldiers ignored him.
One soldier stepped forward:
“Recommender, Ashraf Irons, present the Dragon Plaque.”
An attendant brought forth a golden plaque engraved with a dragon—the Dragon Plaque, a one-time recommendation and certificate for entry into the Cradle.
After verifying it, the soldier said:
“Candidate, step forward.”
Günter stepped up.
“I, Günter Irons, eldest son of the house, will take the Cradle’s test.”
The test would be decided in a single exchange.
His opponent—a young Black Sword soldier—drew a straight single-edged blade favored by martial warriors.
Tension filled the air.
Günter breathed deeply, activating his family’s Magic Body Art.
Mana surged through his body like fire catching dry wood.
He exploded forward with incredible speed, swinging his sword with a technique modeled after the griffin’s talons.
Three white lightning-like “claws” slashed toward the soldier’s throat.
It was a formidable attack for a fifteen-year-old—people were awestruck.
But—
With a single elegant motion, the Black Sword soldier’s blade slipped between the three claws like a snake.
Clang!
Günter was blown back, sliding three meters, his sword snapped in two.
The crowd buzzed in confusion.
Then the Black Sword soldiers gave their evaluation one by one:
“Grade: High.”
“Grade: Top.”
“Grade: High.”
“Grade: Top.”
“Grade: Top.”
The captain summed it up:
“Overall grade: Top. Passed.”
A platinum Dragon Plaque engraved with the number 50—the 50th Cradle class—was tossed to Günter.
The square erupted in cheers.
Though his sword had broken, his performance was recognized as exceptional.
Ashraf scolded him briefly, but inwardly he was proud—
he himself had entered with only a “High” grade, but his son had achieved “Top.”
Ashraf invited the soldiers to a feast, but the captain coldly declined.
Their mission done, they turned to leave—
And then, from the crowd, a rough voice called out:
“Since you’ve come all this way, why not take care of one more job before you go?”
