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chapter 49
“Ugh.
Puffing up your cheeks like that. You think that makes me go easy on you?”
“You said you’d lift the restrictions!”
“Who said I’d lift all of them?”
“That’s a scam!”
“Compared to murder, scams are minor offenses. You were trying to kill Isabel, weren’t you?”
Yuga seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Well, he had a reason to feel wronged.
I had tricked him with the promise of lifting the restrictions if he taught me sword magic. But I had no choice. I knew the moment the restrictions were fully lifted, Yuga would try to kill Isabel.
So, deliberately, I only lifted a tiny fraction of the restrictions—enough for him to interact with me in this space using a small part of his power. He could lightly strike or touch me, but overpowering me was still a dream beyond his reach.
After being restrained like this, Yuga’s suppressed frustration began to leak out. He even stomped around inside the prison.
“This is unfair! Really despicable!”
“Yeah, it is. And yes, it’s despicable,” I said, watching resignation slowly settle onto his sulky face. It made me feel a bit pitying, but my heart wouldn’t soften.
My goal was singular: help Isabel prevent the destruction of Opaland. My sympathy for Yuga didn’t matter; my reason would always focus on that goal.
“The second form of sword magic, Farewell, is easy enough. Forget that—teach me the third and fourth forms. You can do that, right?”
“…How do you know about sword magic, angel?”
I couldn’t answer, “I saw Dyke practice it in the Old Story,” so I ignored the question.
The second form of sword magic uses the nature of forbidden magic to tear space itself. It’s powerful, but flawed—insufficient for the journey ahead. Therefore, learning the third and fourth forms was essential.
In the Old Story, Black Knight Dyke fought with a magic sword to master these forms, just as the holy sword tested Marcel in his inner world. Here, in this private space, I planned to recreate that duel.
Hearing this, Yuga let out a scoffing laugh.
“Angel, have you ever actually wielded a sword? Tried a proper stance?”
“Once, when Gerolt was chopped last time.”
“That wasn’t a stance. That was imitation.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Imitation never becomes yours, no matter how many times you try.”
That was surprisingly insightful. But I agreed—this wasn’t about imitation anymore; I wanted to make this skill truly mine with Yuga’s help.
Yuga threw me a short laugh and said,
“I’ll give you a question.”
“Not interested.”
“Just humor me and listen! You’re so frustrating.”
“Fine, fine. Go ahead.”
“Sigh… Here’s the question. If you want to flow well, who should be your master?”
I tried not to show my surprise, but I couldn’t hide it. Rarely did I see a hint of triumph on Yuga’s face. Really, is my surprise that satisfying to him?
“The answer is water. Next question: if you want to shine well, who should be your master?”
“Uh… a light?”
“The answer is a mirror. So, even an angel doesn’t know everything.”
“…Okay.”
Absurd, but I understood the meaning: if you want to flow, learn from water; if you want to shine, learn from the mirror.
“So, if I want to cut well, I should make the sword my master.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m the best teacher.”
“I know that. That’s why I’m asking you to teach me.”
“Wanting to learn from me isn’t wrong—but your order is.”
Yuga gazed at me arrogantly through the bars, as if looking down on me.
“You must first learn to melt. Only then can you learn from water. Only when you’re polished can you learn from mirrors. Without that, what use is the best teacher?”
“….”
“My teaching is still premature for an angel. First, become familiar with the sword. Learning from me comes after that.”
“Trying to take shortcuts, huh?”
“Shortcuts? That’s not my aesthetic.”
“I’ve wondered, what exactly is this ‘aesthetic’ of yours?”
“Didn’t I tell you? My aesthetic is my essence.”
Yuga snapped his fingers, and a violet flame burst at the collision of his fingers and palm. The sparks crumbled into smoke, which he shaped with his fingertips.
Suddenly, an image appeared: a person wielding a sword, piercing the chest of another frighteningly well-crafted figure.
“The essence of a weapon is to take life. The essence of forbidden magic is to defy the world. Those who don’t understand that can’t wield me. Without you, I would have killed my master without mercy. They know nothing about me.”
It wasn’t a threat. He was sharing his truth. Brutal and violent as it sounded, it was like chatting with a friend over drinks.
“Likewise, anyone who doesn’t understand my aesthetic can’t understand me. If you can’t take life, is it really a weapon? If you can’t defy the world, is it really forbidden magic? Without essence, it’s nothing.”
“What if I understood your aesthetic?”
Yuga looked at me, then chuckled.
“Useless assumption. You’ve already broken it. My aesthetic.”
Right. I had already destroyed his aesthetic—trying to crush the will to resurrect the Demon King, preventing him from killing Isabel, and stopping him from being at the hands of the true master. That would go against his aesthetic.
Yuga buried his face in his knees and muttered,
“So, if you want to learn sword magic… leave at least a little of my broken aesthetic intact.”
Strange. I’d had conversations like this before, but this felt different. Watching a weak person who lost something precious beg the stronger to protect what remains—it was a filthy feeling, almost nauseating. A sensation I hadn’t felt since becoming an angel.
It reminded me of days long past—the layered accumulation of Kim Sumin’s life.
‘Sumin must be lucky, just lying there. How peaceful.’
What I hate most is feeling like the perpetrator. When someone suffers because of me, and they don’t know—or don’t care—about my suffering.
Yuga was an unbearable brat. He wanted to resurrect the Demon King, knowing how many would die. His polite demeanor, his beauty, all were calculated to manipulate me. And now he viewed me as the perpetrator. How could I not feel disgusted?
“….”
The next moment, Yuga found himself standing not in the prison, but on the sand.
“Huh?”
He tested the ground, kicked sand, walked around, then shouted,
“You’re letting me go?”
“Depends on how you handle yourself.”
I imagined a toy sword in my mind, and a plastic sword appeared in midair. I tossed it to him. Yuga caught it, staring at me in disbelief.
“Don’t be mistaken, Yuga. You think you’re the victim because you’re a sword.”
I decided to confront his resentful gaze directly.
“Your ‘aesthetic’ is something everyone possesses. People adjust their aesthetic to avoid troubling others. Same with me, same with Isabel.”
“Maybe the angel, but not the master.”
I ignored that remark. No point in debating. Isabel could be a nuisance at times, sure.
“…Anyway. Don’t play the victim. If you insist on imposing your aesthetic and bothering others, I’ll respond the same way. Understand? Now, teach me sword magic.”
Just now, I wondered: was my displeasure Yuga’s fault? As intelligent and skilled as he was with the notorious magic sword, Yuga was just a child in other respects. He thought his pain outweighed all else, so he resented me for restraining him.
That’s why I had to teach him—not through simple domination, but by a difficult, painful, yet correct path.
Destroying the prison was my first step in finding that path. I hoped never to have to imprison him again.
Isabel decided to stay at the church. Denk and Liz headed to the lodging recommended by city hall.
“Uncle, is the dislocation healed now?”
“Yes. Fully recovered.”
“So you’re not a one-time punch anymore? Reusable?”
“…Don’t bring up that nickname, miss. No one to hit anymore.”
“Right. Whatever.”
While waiting for food at the inn’s dining room, they sat across from each other. Liz continued carving wood with a dagger, almost finished.
Watching the falling shavings land in an ashtray, Denk asked,
“I’ve been meaning to ask, why carve that cross? Are you a believer?”
“Believer, my foot. There weren’t even churches in Rat Hole.”
“True enough.”
Liz checked the small wooden cross under the light for rough edges.
“Isabel told me to make one. She said she’d bless it herself. Once I hold it, she can bless whenever needed… Why that face?”
“Just… bad memories with blessings.”
For Denk, it was almost reflexive. Isabel had forced him to quit smoking with her purification blessing. Even after the effect wore off, he couldn’t smoke while hosting her.
Liz shrugged.
“Anyway, making it by hand works best. No idea why.”
Neither knew theology well, so they accepted it.
With the cross nearly done, Liz took out sandpaper, smoothing it while murmuring,
“Quiet without Isabel around.”
“She seems focused on goals. You, not so much.”
“I have no goal. Just worried about leaving her exposed, and I didn’t want to stay stuck in Rat Hole.”
Denk nodded, understanding. Both being from Rettena, they seemed to relate well.
Just as the cross was nearly finished, a furious voice shouted,
“I’ll pay for it!”
Another voice snapped back,
“We don’t serve that fake knight! Go to your superior!”
“Who said I’m feeding your knight? I will!”
“You’ll run off the moment you get the food. Get lost before you spill anything!”
The innkeeper, normally cheerful, argued fiercely. Apparently, someone refused to buy food despite offering payment.
The door slammed, and the innkeeper stomped back inside, muttering curses, then addressed Liz and Denk:
“Surprised? Happens all the time. Don’t worry, food’s coming.”
Denk asked what happened. The innkeeper scowled:
“That’s no guest. A shameless beggar. Ever heard of Galtan?”
At the mention, other diners laughed, not at Liz and Denk, but at Galtan.
Yet Liz felt the name familiar. She recalled it from a Gerolt meeting. A drunk soldier asked Dyke about Galtan, and he casually replied:
“Galtan. Knight order.”
“Ah!”
She remembered. After Marcel drew the holy sword, Goat said he recognized it because he had been part of the order long ago.
The “Holy Sword Knights,” led by Galtan, had roamed the continent 300 years ago, slaying monsters with strength and command. But now, Galtan was a shadow of his former self, hiding in a room, called the “Wall-Facing Knight.”
“Do you know the Wall-Facing Knight?”
The innkeeper, curious, asked.
“The woman who came earlier is his follower. She came to buy food for him. That’s why she wanders shamelessly through the city. Probably shouting the same at other inns now.”
“Why does everyone dislike Galtan?”
“Because while everyone else risks their lives defending the city from golems, he hasn’t participated even once, despite having the strength and weapons. Shameless. Kids run around carrying water and snacks during the defense, yet a knight does nothing…”
The innkeeper shook his head and returned to the kitchen. The dining room regained some liveliness.
Liz frowned thoughtfully, and Denk whispered,
“If you want, you can go meet him, miss.”
“Huh?”
“If you want to meet him, go ahead. You know that Galtan guy?”
“I don’t know him personally. I just heard about him from an acquaintance. And… you know how it is. Getting involved with a wreck like that just frustrates me.”
“True enough.”
In Rettena, the most common people were those who failed to adapt and became hermits, coughing in solitude, slowly eating away at family and friends.
Galtan, mocked as the Wall-Facing Knight, was just one of many, sustained by his follower. Liz wasn’t that meddlesome, and Dyke’s acquaintance didn’t make it any closer.
Better not to get involved, Liz thought, and waited for the meal with Denk.
But the innkeeper didn’t mention one thing: the last stop of Galtan’s follower’s food run was always the church, to get food there. Isabel’s presence at Castletina Church was unknown to the innkeeper.
