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Chapter 14
Milleon bit his lip in shock.
He had been speaking briefly with Patrick—never in his worst imaginings had he expected the Sacred Flame to hurl itself at Dante.
“Lord Dante!”
No one had thought the flame would suddenly move of its own accord. The sight left him inwardly shaken.
Yet despite his panic, Milleon did not feel fear.
Somehow… even if a dragon fell from the sky, Dante would find a way.
But no reply came.
Dante stood frozen in place, wrapped in fire—immobile, as if time itself had stopped.
Only then did the three knights realize something had gone terribly wrong.
“Sir Patrick.”
Milleon refrained from touching Dante recklessly and called the most experienced among them.
“Did he… try to touch the flame?”
“The opposite,” Patrick muttered grimly.
It wasn’t Dante who had moved. The relic itself had acted.
Patrick’s face hardened. He had been so shocked at Dante’s sudden stigmata awakening that he hadn’t considered this possibility.
“I believe this fire is a divine relic left by one of the gods who fell in the Holy War.”
“I agree,” Milleon said tensely.
“And relics sometimes…”
Patrick’s expression darkened.
“…are cruel.”
Most relics were inert remnants of power, devoid of will. But rarely, as now, they sought to anchor themselves back into the world—by seizing the minds of those who touched them.
A parasite wearing the guise of a blessing.
Yes, the host gained immense strength—but only after being consumed.
They ceased to be themselves. What remained was a puppet, a hollow vessel that existed only to obey the god’s will.
“Then… what do we do?” Elaine asked.
Patrick could not answer.
Normally, elaborate wards and rites were required to claim a relic. One had to weaken the god’s essence, shield both body and mind, and prepare fail-safes for immediate separation.
Dante had done none of that. He had touched it barehanded.
There was only one path left:
He would have to overcome it himself.
But Patrick’s thoughts were grim.
A relic is called such because it holds a god’s power. Even defeated, even reduced to a fragment, it is not something a mortal can withstand.
Perhaps my lord could… but a boy of ten? Impossible.
“Where is the nearest city?” Patrick asked sharply.
“Termann,” Milleon replied without hesitation. “Six hours on horseback.”
“Send word there at once. The Marquis must be told. We’ll need mages and priests dispatched immediately.”
They had no other choice. Waiting here would achieve nothing but wasted time.
Patrick was giving orders when—
Brrrrrr!
Dante’s body convulsed violently.
“Lord Dante!” Milleon cried, rushing forward, but he dared not touch him.
Crack—crrrk!
Bones and muscles twisted with grotesque sounds. His posture looked ready to collapse to his knees in submission.
Patrick’s eyes widened in horror.
“…He’s resisting?”
Yes. Dante, in that small body, was resisting the god’s will.
His limbs shook like a leaf in a storm, but—his knees never touched the ground.
“Unbelievable…” Patrick whispered.
The sight was so shocking he forgot even to move.
“Nhghh!”
Dante bit his lip until it tore, blood trailing down his chin. His eyes blazed.
He would not yield.
Crackle—crrk!
“Khuhhh!”
Patrick heard it clearly—the sound of mana circuits tearing apart inside Dante’s body.
The pain should have been beyond imagination.
Yet still…
Dante endured.
The three knights could only watch in silence.
Then, slowly, Dante’s trembling hand moved—reaching instinctively for the sword at his waist.
“Even now… he seeks his blade?”
It defied reason.
Shing.
Vooooom!
As his fingers closed around the hilt, mana erupted. Terrifying power—impossible to believe from a child.
But the knights barely noticed the torrent of magic.
What held them was something else.
“…That’s…”
“…a sword?”
Though the weapon never left its sheath, the presence of a blade cut through the air.
The will to strike down an enemy—the killing intent of a true sword—manifested.
Patrick swallowed hard.
“He’s raised the Sword of Imagination!”
The Mind’s Sword.
Even as a veteran, Patrick had never reached such a state. Within the Marquis’ household, perhaps only their lord and commander could achieve it.
Yet Dante—ten years old—summoned it as easily as breathing.
Patrick’s skin prickled.
Awe. Pure awe.
The presence expanded without end, until—
Slash!
Something unseen was cut down.
And then—
Woooosh!
Unimaginable mana erupted outward. Blue firestormed around Dante, spiraling like a cyclone.
“Back!” Patrick shouted, stumbling away.
Even he could not withstand the shockwave.
“…Madness…”
He echoed Milleon’s old word of wonder, staring in disbelief.
The raging maelstrom shrank, compressing, folding into Dante’s body.
The god’s flame vanished within him.
Fssssh.
Smoke rose, as if from burnt-out wood. Then even that disappeared into the air.
“Lord Dante?”
Milleon swallowed nervously, stepping closer.
Patrick’s hand hovered near his sword. The pressure emanating from Dante was staggering.
At last, Dante’s eyelids fluttered open.
His eyes were clear—deeper than any lake, untouched by madness.
Patrick exhaled in relief, letting his hand fall away from his weapon.
“How… how did this happen?” Elaine asked, her voice a storm of concern, reproach, and awe all at once.
Dante sighed faintly.
“…It seems I made a mistake.”
Then he bowed his head.
“Forgive me for worrying you. I never imagined this would happen.”
Patrick wanted to scold him for his recklessness, but forced the words back. Dante’s safety mattered more.
“Are you unharmed, my lord?”
“I am. Better than ever.” Dante nodded. His body was uninjured; only his spirit seemed drained.
“Then… what of the relic?” Milleon asked cautiously.
Nothing looked different—but something had changed.
Dante smiled faintly.
“Thankfully, the effort was not wasted.”
“What do you mean?”
“I obtained it. Only a small shard… but it’s mine.”
That evening, Dante lay stretched on a bed.
They had decided to remain in Fran’s village for another night, so he could rest properly instead of sleeping cramped in the carriage.
“I never expected events to turn out this way.”
Still, he had achieved his goal. Even if Eina had scolded him fiercely on the way back.
“Sacred Flame, huh…”
He released mana.
Whoosh—!
Pure power shaped itself into blue fire, exactly like the flame he had touched.
In truth, the gain seemed modest. His mana had grown only slightly.
Yet Dante was far from disappointed.
The flame was no ordinary power—it was holy.
A flame that would surely burn brighter against evil. That alone was more than enough.
In the world to come, darkness and corruption would rise. This was a weapon against them.
In my past life, the mercenary was consumed. He died screaming a god’s name, not his own.
Dante snapped his fingers, dispersing the flame.
Now only one matter remains—the Sword Empress.
If the reports were right, he would meet her within a fortnight.
A woman who had climbed to the summit of the sword. That alone made her worth every bit of Dante’s interest.
What kind of sword does she wield?
She was said to be as strong as his father. To cross blades with such a figure—it made Dante’s heart race.
If the gulf between them was vast…
Can I ever catch up to her?
Just imagining it filled him with excitement.
“…No. I can’t wait.”
He needed to swing his sword.
Dante rose from the bed and opened the door.
“Where are you going, my lord?”
He froze. Elaine stood guard outside, face colder than ice.
“Ah… I thought to practice a little…”
“No.” Her reply was swift and merciless.
“Mm.”
Normally, he would have argued—but not tonight. He had already sinned enough.
“You must rest. We depart at dawn. Refuse, and I will summon Eina this instant.”
That threat… chilled him.
“…Very well.”
Not wishing to return to her endless nagging, Dante quietly closed the door.
Tonight, at least, he would stay put.
