Volume 3 Chapter 222 The Reason For Wielding The Sword ③
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Izerland’s motel faded into the distance behind him as Kian stepped out onto the street, where glowing fish drifted lazily through the air.
The alley was narrow, hemmed in by low buildings on either side—among them the motel itself. Nothing here rose higher than a few stories.
Far to the north, unchanged and eternal, hung the round moon. Behind it loomed Count Cain’s castle, a jagged silhouette etched against the night sky.
(What a strange style of architecture, Kian thought. In Izerland and Chatillon, buildings are open to the wind, simple in structure. You can tell from the outside exactly where the rooms are, how big they are…)
But in Count Cain’s territory, everything felt sealed off—packed with unnecessarily tall spires. It was like a forest, but made of stone.
The spires rose like ancient trees in a deep, uninviting woodland.
Even the motel from earlier looked huge from the outside, but inside, the rooms were cramped, and the corridors long and narrow. In other words, all those soaring towers were just decorative fluff.
Form over function. Aesthetic over utility.
It was as if the very inefficiency of it all was being worshipped as the pinnacle of beauty.
(When you build a spire that tall, the outer walls get pushed not just vertically but horizontally too. To stop them from collapsing outward, they brace the structure with diagonal stone ribs.)
T/N: These “diagonal stone ribs” refer to architectural reinforcements.
Useless techniques designed to support other useless elements—turning the whole place into a stone sea of trees. The very architecture seemed to bleed the spirit of a nation in decline.
”…Sorry. Kept you waiting,” Kian said as he stepped out from the alley into a small square, rejoining the Night Wraith.
The hideous, black-cloaked creature floated lazily toward him and stopped just in front. Then, without warning, it returned to blank-eyed idleness.
Of the seven Night Wraiths, this one was the most vacant—and the weakest in terms of magic.
Natra, Lufna, Sara, Linca… and finally, the composite form made from two. Kian had deployed six in total, and this one was the only survivor.
So, he’d assigned it to baggage duty.
Carrying supplies was a serious role—if used wisely, it could even become the party’s greatest weapon. But most people underestimated it.
Kian, however, had been a pack mule himself for years. He knew just how vital the job was.
Without a carrier, you couldn’t adventure properly. Someone had to hold the backup weapons, someone had to haul the spoils home. That was the baggage handler’s duty.
Kian offered the Night Wraith a few quiet words of thanks, then began retrieving his gear from the creature’s body.
”Wooden sword… the iron one I got from Maribel… and this… huh, a club. Guess I never threw it out. It’s a keepsake, sure, but now it’s just a filthy lump of junk. Once I’ve got a place to live, I’ll smash it and bury the pieces in the garden. A proper farewell.”
There were also flash bombs made from eggshells, a batch of strange pills kneaded from dried citrus peels—mostly ineffective—and all manner of other garbage.
Now that he’d tasted the power of the Windcry Blade and Silver Ice, he couldn’t understand why he’d kept any of this junk.
Compared to the club, at least this next item was easier to dispose of. Kian reached for the glasses tucked deep inside the Night Wraith.
Of course, they’d made it back to him after the war—after that chaos.
Honestly, everything else here could be tossed. Only the glasses mattered.
The iron sword from Maribel didn’t have any runes, so it hit softer than Kian’s fists. It might be useful for hacking through grass or sugarcane, but once he scoured Moonshore, he was sure he’d find better tools for that.
”…Was this the right choice?” Kian asked, sitting on the edge of a dry fountain. “Hey, what do you think?”
He glanced at the Night Wraith standing beside him. It said nothing, of course. Unlike the Kitsune or Tengu, this one couldn’t talk.
Kian wasn’t even sure if it had a will of its own. It just existed—empty.
The silence was absolute.
(At times like this, what would Glasses-Kian think?)
He looked down at the silver-framed glasses resting on his knees.
That version of himself—hot-blooded, brash, unrepentant—never wavered. He affirmed every vice, prioritized pleasure, and always acted. No hesitation. No regrets. He solved problems quickly, if not gracefully.
(Maybe he could give me an answer. Maybe… just for a moment, I’ll wear them.)
Even if they triggered a complete personality shift, he’d already warned Linca about Glasses-Kian. In the worst-case scenario, she’d keep things on track.
And even if his brain short-circuited and he started fantasizing about devouring every woman he saw… it was just Linca here. No risk. Honestly, she’d probably be down for some intense glasses-play.
No downsides.
So there was no reason not to put them on.
”────”
Kian exhaled deeply, then mimicked the motion he’d used that first time.
He slipped the magic glasses onto his face.
”…………”
One second.
Two seconds.
Three. Four. Five.
His head didn’t clear. Nothing changed.
He sat there, looking like an idiot.
Still himself. No Glasses-Kian.
(Weird. I’m still me.)
Was it because Erynys—the one who had been pushing thoughts into his head—was gone?
Maybe the transformation had only worked because she was part of the equation.
Or maybe it was because he’d drained so much magic from Linca during their 24-hour lovey-dovey marathon. His resistance to magic could’ve spiked temporarily, muting the glasses’ effect.
Linca had power to spare—and top-tier quality, too. Her magic boosted Kian’s own more than any other woman’s ever had. Probably because of her spirit blood and her background as a miko [T/N: “Miko” refers to a Japanese shaman or priestess with spiritual powers]—a line of shrine maidens known for enhancing others.
Their minds were highly compatible. That likely played a role too.
Whatever the reason, the glasses were now just that—glasses.
Not even prescription ones.
Just a keepsake.
The only other possible use? Slipping them onto Linca for some “glasses girl” fun.
Kian sighed and took them off.
Since choosing to spend his erotic life with Linca, there was no point in weighing alternatives. He didn’t get what she saw in him, but if she truly loved him, he couldn’t let her die. Couldn’t make her cry. He had to give that love back, the best way he could.
That was what it meant to be a man.
Kian slapped his knee and stood up.
He’d recovered his prized glasses. Time to head back before Linca—surely getting anxious—came to find him.
But even if he was retreating, he couldn’t just leave trash like swords and clubs lying around. It was still a public space. Kian, obsessive about order, would lose sleep over it.
So he stooped and picked up the battered club lying in the lineup of junk.
And then—
”Yo, me. Long time no see.”
”────!?”
The voice struck like a slap. Familiar, yet utterly foreign.
Kian’s hand darted to Maribel’s iron sword, and in a single motion, he flung himself toward the building on his left.
He landed in the corner of the plaza, eyes locked on the slowly emerging figure from the street to his right.
Fog slithered into the square, and beyond the silhouette, shadows twisted—thorny coils swaying like a massive serpent.
”Who are you?” Kian demanded, sword charged with Impact, Leap poised on his soles.
”It’s me. Me, me,” the voice called.
”────”
The fog thinned.
No—someone stepped through it.
The moment Kian saw the figure, sword still raised, cold murder in his eyes, his expression warped with disbelief.
”It’s me. You.“
”You… are…”
(Impossible. You can’t be here.)
(Because—you’re me.)
Even shaken, Kian’s trained body held its stance. Muscles coiled, ready.
The other man’s cold gaze glinted behind silver frames. His confident mouth twisted into a smirk.
Standing before Kian was Kian himself—wearing glasses.
* * *
(What the hell…?)
Kian snapped his gaze sideways, scanning the space around the other him—standing on the far side of the plaza.
Behind that figure, thorny tendrils twisted and writhed.
Above, the thick, milky-white mist had gathered, glowing faintly with ghostly fish drifting through the sky in a soft, round shape.
It mirrored the scene from when he’d fought the guardians to gather the keys to the sacred realm. Each time, the mist had deepened, and the thorns had conjured illusions—tangible and precise.
(That’s not me… It’s an illusion born from the thorns. A ‘record’ stitched from memory.)
He caught himself.
(…No. Wait…)
Kian narrowed his eyes.
The other Kian—stationed across the plaza—tilted his head and asked casually, “What’s wrong?”
”My left arm… it’s gone,” Kian said, voice tight.
”Heh. But you’re missing your right arm,” the other Kian replied, smiling faintly.
This version of Kian wore black warrior monk robes—busō [T/N: “warrior monk,” a martial artist with religious roots]. The left sleeve was puffed to the elbow, but below that, the cloth frayed thin and ragged.
Two days ago, Kian’s right arm had been severed—not his left. The guardians were shaped from someone’s memory. But this Kian… this one had never existed.
”Who are you?” Kian asked, voice low.
Suspicion thickened in his gut.
Even a dull mind would’ve hesitated.
Kian swayed forward, ki crackling across his body, coiling with sharp killing intent.
”I am you. Kian Vahid,” the illusion said evenly.
”Kian Vahid is me,” Kian shot back. “Are you some phantom born from Thorns? Or a shapeshifter—some subtype I haven’t seen?”
The urge to strike surged in his blood—but first, he had to extract information.
(If it’s a new monster, and it can mimic real people… I need to know if it thinks. How closely it imitates. Otherwise, even if I kill it, Linca might misidentify me later.)
”Well, I dunno,” the other Kian said, shrugging. “All I really know is—you called me, so I came.”
”What?” Kian asked, eyes narrowing.
”Wasn’t that your glasses just now?” the double said. “Don’t you want my opinion?”
(This one answers directly… No repeats, no hollow mimicry. It’s intelligent. Not a shapeshifter. Maybe a Thorns illusion—but unlike the guardians, this one recognizes me. It speaks to me.)
The glasses-wearing Kian spread his hands—empty, nonthreatening. His black robes flared in the cold wind that swept across the square. The fabric below his left elbow snapped violently in the gusts—unnerving, hollow.
”Looks like you’ve decided to join Linca in ‘restoring’ Erynys, huh?” he said.
”You sure know a lot,” Kian muttered. “Did you dig through my memories?”
”But what you really want,” the phantom said, tone easy, “is to return to your original world. To fight Erynys again. Am I wrong?”
Kian’s breath hitched.
”Living with Linca… I tried to forget everything. Dedicate myself to her. If I didn’t, I’d just make her cry.”
The wind twisted between them, swirling fog around their feet.
His own white monk robes fluttered wildly, stark against the black of his doppelgänger’s.
”Linca,” he added, softer now, “even loves a guy like me. So I want to return those feelings—with everything I’ve got. Of course I have feelings of my own. But the past is past. Everyone stumbles. No one’s perfect, no one’s righteous all the time… Honestly, I like Linca Tsai this way—human-like.”
”I deny that,” the black-robed Kian said with a laugh.
”Don’t act so human,” he added. “You’re a monster—wearing a man’s face. Living in some secluded world with a beautiful woman… You think you can just wake up happy every day?”
”You’re saying I should take revenge?” Kian asked, brow furrowed.
Even as he thought, What the hell is this illusion talking about…, he found himself unable to stop responding.
He understood this enemy.
A dangerous illusion. One that used logic. One that could read emotions. That made it worse.
(I have to destroy this thing. Then return to Linca. Tell her everything—)
Still, his chest ached with the words spoken by the glasses-wearing Kian.
”For what purpose have you wielded your sword, ‘me’?” the illusion asked.
Kian stared.
But the phantom didn’t wait for an answer.
”Why did you struggle so desperately to graduate the monastery? Even after Azrael expelled you, why did you keep refining your skills?”
”Because—I was frustrated,” Kian admitted.
”That’s it?” the illusion pressed. “When Sarah beat you down… when you said goodbye at the port—what were you thinking? What did you vow? Remember. What started your journey?”
”────”
Kian’s eyes trembled.
The milk-colored fog deepened, and in it, the ghost of a younger him surfaced, carved from memory.
”I’ll definitely come back,” the glasses-wearing Kian said, voice barely audible.
The words blended with the distant howls of the Bloodsucking Kind [T/N: likely a class of monster], but to Kian, they struck like the roar of surf—far-off and crashing.
”I’ll come back stronger. Greater.”
”That’s right,” the phantom whispered, taking a step closer. “You drew your sword to grow stronger. To become great. To return. You didn’t take up the blade to drown Azrael in blood. It wasn’t to slaughter those you left behind. You’re not grand enough for that.”
”────”
”You fought because of Umar. Because of Sarah. Because of Jibril. Because they exiled you. Because they were better than you. You wanted to be a warrior monk strong enough to be acknowledged by the ones who cast you out. You wanted them to regret it. To say, ‘We were wrong to exile you.’”
He smiled.
”You’re that petty a monster.”
Kian didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
As he did that, a presence flared behind him—magic bleeding past camouflage. Footsteps slapped the stone—thud, thud, thud. Someone burst through the fog and landed in the plaza.
Linca’s eyes darted between the two Kians, tension wound tight in her stance.
Realizing the Kian with glasses was a fake—and sensing the strange aura clinging to him—Linca stepped forward to protect the real Kian.
”Don’t come, Linca,” Kian said sharply.
”Sir Kian!? B-but…” Linca stammered, hesitating mid-step.
Through the thick, milky fog, she glimpsed the shadow of thorned limbs slithering forward.
”That’s a phantom,” she warned. “I’ll handle it quickly—”
”Just be quiet,” Kian cut in. “I have business with that strange phantom.”
”Business?” Linca asked, casting a wary glance at the dark-robed Kian. “Are you in your right mind?”
Her eyes narrowed. The Kian in monk’s robes was missing his left arm from the elbow down. She frowned.
”It’s true,” he said, “that I drew my sword when I thought of Umar, Sarah, and Jibril. But at the same time, it’s also true—I want the ones who exiled me to drown in blood.”
People changed.
Even if, as a child, your heart held hopes untouched by violence… with time and the wrong environment, that same heart could learn to crave blood. That was the Kian standing here now. No longer innocent—no different from a murderer. In that way, he and Erynys were the same at their core.
”Erynys wants to destroy this world,” he said. “So do I. Everyone who failed to see me—let them all die.”
”Then why did you save Ramsey? Why did you pull Maribel from Oswald’s grip?” the phantom pressed, voice low but insistent.
”That—was situational,” Kian muttered. “I was swept up in it. Inevitable, really.”
”Don’t lie,” he snapped. “Look deeper. Why were you willing to stop Erynys’s massacre… with your own death?”
Kian—the one with glasses—spoke now, tone hard and unrelenting.
”Why do you try to save people? Why do you forgive them? Answer me, Kian Vahid!”
”…I saved Maribel from Oswald because I saw her as who I used to be,” Kian said at last, voice quiet.
He began to speak again, the memory pulling his words free.
”When Azrael exiled me, I just… wanted someone to help. I wanted someone to say it was okay I existed—to hold me.”
(Rain hissed in the fog.)
”────”
Linca gasped, but Kian kept going.
”It hurts when no one in the world stands beside you. I couldn’t ignore Maribel, caged by injustice… or Christy and the others, with death looming. So I risked everything to fight Oswald.”
”Even if you save them, nothing comes back to you,” the phantom Kian said with a sneer. “Look at Maribel. She’ll wring every drop out of you and toss you aside when you’re no longer useful.”
”I don’t know that yet,” Kian replied evenly. “But the memory of what I did for her—it has to still be inside her. After she unified Izerland into a peaceful nation, when she was granted the title of King of the Frontier by the Western Church… she’ll thank God for that salvation. Maybe she’ll even laugh and realize the world wasn’t so cruel after all.”
He exhaled faintly.
”That thought alone… is enough for me.”
There was no need for Kian to be remembered.
Just the fact of salvation—that someone had been saved—that was enough.
”Same with Ramsey,” he continued. “If I’d left him, the Beastmen would’ve torn him apart. And if that had happened, thousands—maybe tens of thousands—would’ve cried out that the world offered no salvation. You live quietly, day after day, and then something unjust rips it all away. No help comes. Nothing remains. Ramsey would’ve vanished into the cracks of history.”
Kian looked straight at the phantom wearing his face.
”That’s why I wasn’t afraid to die. In the end, Ramsey survived, and its people still live. Their hopes—passed down, undying. Unless Erynys destroys them first.”
Right and wrong didn’t matter anymore.
He just wanted to save them.
He wanted the innocent people of Ramsey to have lives full of warmth. Maybe… maybe that was his real reason.
”Is that what you think a ‘noble human being’ is?” the phantom scoffed. “Is that what a strong warrior monk should be?”
”I don’t know,” Kian said, shrugging. “I don’t even know if what I’m doing is right. I stumble through each day, unsure. Sometimes I forget all these questions and lose myself in s*x with women. Maybe I’m not even taking it that seriously.”
”So, a hopeless hypocrite. A selfish philanthropist?” the phantom said, voice dripping with disdain.
”Maybe,” Kian admitted. “But as long as there are people crying out for help, I’ll try to save them. So they can smile. So they can believe salvation still exists in this world.”
Kian doesn’t know salvation.
──He’s never truly been loved.
He’s never once been loved in any real way.
Umar gave him the opposite of love.
Jibril and the others? They stood by and watched.
Sarah… gave him a fleeting sense of salvation.
But given her circumstances—her own human frailty—it was just a mirage.
So he can’t believe in love. Doesn’t even know if it exists.
But still, he wants to believe it does.
Even if he’s not the one to find it—
If someone else could prove it’s real, that would be enough.
But if no one else will…
Then he’ll prove it himself.
Even if it’s stupid. Even if it’s crazy.
The kind of madman who’d swing a sword for something so pointless.
That’s probably who Kian Vahid is.
A tiny monster, deluded by hope.
”Another me,” Kian said softly. “That’s why I save people. I was probably someone who was never saved myself. So from my point of view, if you do nothing, salvation never comes. I want to reject that kind of world. I want to believe that—if I scream for help from the bottom of my heart—someone will answer.”
He looked up at the phantom.
”And to protect that hope,” he said, tightening his grip on the hilt, “I’ll stop Erynys from destroying the world.”
The phantom seemed to laugh—just for a second.
But in the next instant, a flash of killing intent cut through the air. Kian’s instincts flared. He reinforced his blade with ‘impact’—a force-based technique and caught the glint of silver aimed for his throat.
”Sir Kian!” Linca cried out.
”Ghh…”
Before him stood the phantom, cloaked in jet-black monastic robes.
It was a second Kian—glasses glinting, eyes sharp, face twisted with fury as he locked blades with him.
Their brows clashed. Literally.
The other Kian slammed his forehead into Kian’s, rage radiating from every line of his face.
Up close, behind the glasses, he looked monstrous. His eyes burned red. His mouth, torn wide to the ears, exposed every tooth and gum—a devil’s grin.
Clack—
”I deny everything you are!” the phantom Kian roared.
(──!)
”Self-righteous savior?” he spat. “Disgusting. You’re me! I’m vengeance itself! And anyone who denies me—no matter who they are—I’ll never forgive them. I’ll make them watch my power crush everything they care about until they fall into despair!”
”Whoever that was just now,” Kian muttered, eyes narrowing, “I don’t know—but until Erynys returns, we should probably lay low.”
He bent down, picking up the sheath Maribel had given him, and slid his longsword back inside.
He called over his Night Wraith pack mule. Methodically, he began restuffing the creature’s stomach cavity with a club, small vials of citrus-based pills, and other provisions.
Linca, scanning the area with sharp, measured glances, finally turned his way—concluding the threat had passed.
”Um… Sir Kian,” she said hesitantly.
”Don’t worry,” he said, without looking up. “I’m not going to abandon you to go save the world or anything like that.”
He tucked the last of his gear away, then looked down at her—still kneeling, head bowed.
”I promised to live with you,” Kian said, voice low. “Sure, my reason for drawing a sword lies elsewhere—but I’m not bound by some compulsive duty to die for that cause. I enjoy being with you. And that farming you keep going on about? I’m not exactly uninterested. Actually… if I could do that with you, it sounds fun. I’m excited.”
”Um… Sir Kian…” Linca’s voice trembled.
Kian smiled.
”All my life, I’ve been obsessed with the sword,” he said. “But after Erynys took my dominant arm, it’s like the weight of that obsession fell away too. Now… I want to try something else. Something that might actually bring me joy.”
”…Please stop,” Linca whispered.
”Hm?” Kian tilted his head.
”I said stop,” she repeated, louder.
”Stop what?”
Linca’s shoulders shook. Then she looked up sharply, tears burning in her eyes.
”Stop killing yourself for my sake,” she said.
”Eh…? After telling me to obey Erynys for your sake, now this?” Kian asked, raising a brow. “Where’s that coming from all of a sudden?”
”I changed my mind,” she said. “Is that so terrible?”
”It’s not terrible,” he said slowly, “just doesn’t make sense.”
As Kian’s brow softened in confusion, Linca bit down on her lower lip.
”After everything I just witnessed between you and… him—that reaction is what makes no sense,” she said tightly.
”I’m not as perceptive as you,” Kian replied with a wry smile.
Linca reached out and took his left hand, cupping it between both of hers.
Then, gently, she pressed it against her chest.
”You’re someone who doesn’t know love,” she said quietly. “But… no. That’s exactly why you believe in it more than anyone else. That’s why you try to bring salvation.”
”Is that so?” he asked.
”It is!” she said, eyes shining.
She looked at him with a bright, earnest expression.
”Like a hero from a story,” she said. “And compared to that… I was nothing. Just a selfish little creature trying to justify letting myself live, dragging you down with me.”
”Everyone fears death,” Kian said. “From where I stand, people who romanticize self-sacrifice are the real problem. It’s not natural.”
Linca shook her head slowly.
”But I once admired heroes like that,” she said.
A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips.
”Remember what I told you? Even after Lord Jibril rejected me from his harem, I still followed his ideals into battle.”
Ah—
”Even though he was always half a step from death on the battlefield, he kept fighting. Why? Because he looked up to Lord Jibril. Because Jibril fought for the people of Izerland. But once he got promoted, started making money, and saw the other kids living normal lives… he started to wonder if that was enough.”
Linca leaned down and pressed a kiss to Kian’s knuckle.
”I’m weak,” she whispered. “I don’t want to die. If I could stay safe and comfortable forever, I would. I’m scared of taking the first step alone. Without someone beside me… I’d probably die from loneliness.
But—”
”If it’s with you,” she said, voice trembling, “I feel like I can go anywhere. That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
”I see,” Kian murmured.
”Not just ‘I see,’” Linca snapped. “When we decide, we’ll plan to defeat Erynys. We’ll save the world ourselves!”
”…Didn’t we say we wouldn’t follow Erynys?” Kian asked, voice low.
”If we follow her, Ms. Sarah and the others—naturally Izerland—everything will perish. If Sir Kian intends to fight to save the people, I’ll prepare myself too. Let’s do our best to defeat Erynys together,” Linca said firmly.
Rain drummed.
Where had that decadent atmosphere from a few hours ago gone?
Linca looked as if she’d come back to life—brighter, her posture sharper, energy humming in her bones.
Kian slipped Wraith into his clothes and turned to face her.
”If you’re willing to fight, I’ll feel reassured,” he said. “Still, if you ever want to go for a slow life again, just say so. I don’t want you to be scared.”
”Stop preparing escape routes, please,” Linca shot back.
Rinka, inflamed, declared that loudly, then quickly tidied her hair, returning to the neatly pressed look of someone ready for battle.
She continued, “And besides…”
”I really miss sunlight,” she said softly. “I hate such a dark, scary world.”
Notes:
• Count Cain – Talia’s father.
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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