***
Thanks to that eerie presence, I was finally able to recognize him.
That distinctive deep-blue aura.
'Charles Edward Blake.'
Alias, the Swordsman of Blue Thunder.
I had not recognized him at first.
Because everything from his appearance to his atmosphere was completely different from the Charles in my memories.
Before my regression, the man I had seen through the media had short-cropped hair and a gaunt, sharp impression like a starving wolf.
He was sharpness itself, as though his mere existence could cut through everything around him.
"I swear I’ll pay you back, so just buy me one bottle of soju. Makgeolli is far too bland, you see."
But the old man before me had long white hair hanging down, and he was like a dull stone worn smooth by the storms of time.
Instead of a splendid uniform, he wore an old trench coat and begged for makgeolli like any drunk old man.
A wretched figure, like an eagle with broken wings.
"Why are you staring so hard? Is there something on this old face?"
The old man gave a small laugh.
A composure as though he were reading my mind.
I swallowed dryly.
His appearance had changed, and one arm was gone, but his essence remained the same.
He was not a relic of the past.
The legend was still alive.
"Please wait. I will go buy it."
The old man emptied the paper carton of makgeolli in one go.
Roughly wiping the white trace of alcohol from his mouth with the back of his hand, he stared straight at me.
Deep wrinkles, disheveled white hair, and unfocused eyes.
He looked exactly like the neighborhood drunkard.
"Hup."
The old man staggered to his feet.
When he stood, my gaze naturally followed upward.
He was huge.
I had not realized while he had been sitting hunched over, but once he straightened, he looked easily over 190 centimeters tall.
A strange pressure emanated from a body that had seemed like dry firewood.
His outfit was bizarre as well.
Under his grime-stained gray trench coat, he wore a stiffly ironed white modernized hanbok.
A mismatch where East and West, past and present, were mixed together.
But something else caught my eye.
When the wind blew, the right sleeve of his trench coat fluttered limply.
It was empty.
'One-armed?'
My brow furrowed.
Something was strange.
In my memories, Charles had definitely had all four limbs intact.
Before my regression, I clearly remembered him ranging across battlefields until just before his retirement.
Even though he had grown old, his sword had always shone like lightning.
'Then why...'
Something in this world was twisted.
Just as my brother’s existence had been erased, had Charles’s fate also gone awry somewhere?
The sight of his empty sleeve swaying in the wind felt strangely unfamiliar.
The convenience store plastic bag rattled.
Two bottles of soju and dried squid.
It was a poor offering to present to a legend.
"Here it is."
"Thank you. You’re the one Clerk Kim brought in, aren’t you?"
"That is correct."
The old man’s hand, as he sat on the stairs and poured soju, was rough.
A hand with calluses embedded like medals.
But that hand was trembling faintly.
"Yes, this is the taste. Makgeolli only fills the stomach and is not much good at all."
The old man drank the soju like water.
I sat across from him and observed him.
The motion of opening the bottle and pouring the alcohol with only his left arm was as natural as flowing water.
Proof that quite some time had passed since he had lost his right arm.
"I did not expect to meet you like this, Senior."
At my words, the old man’s movements stopped.
He turned his head and looked at me.
A strange light settled in his blue eyes.
"Senior, you say. Do you know me?"
"How could I not?"
I continued without showing agitation.
"Charles Edward Blake. It is an honor to meet you."
Instead of answering, the old man emptied his soju cup.
But the paper cup in his hand crumpled.
"That is an old story. A name everyone has forgotten."
"No. Many people still remember. The Yokosuka Gate raid is even included in textbooks."
Yokosuka Gate.
The first tower-type dungeon, and a grave that swallowed hundreds of Hunters.
The one who broke through that place alone and cleared it in two days was this very old man.
He had even donated the entire astronomical amount of Mana Stones that came out as a reward, and the words he left behind had become a legend among Hunters.
'Because there is an art museum I like there.'
An eccentric act wrapped in the word romance.
But I knew.
That it had not been simple romance.
"And··· at Campania Gate as well."
At that moment.
CLANG—
The sound of the soju bottle hitting the ground rang out sharply.
The old man’s eyes changed completely.
The cheerful drunkard from a moment ago was gone.
The air around us froze cold in an instant.
A tension like walking on the edge of a blade.
"Stop."
His low voice was a warning.
"Do not bring up that story. It is all in the past."
A deep shadow fell over the old man’s face.
"Please, stop there."
"······I apologize."
I stepped back.
Campania should have been the Gate that gave him glory.
Why did he react like that?
Was there something I had missed?
But I had to confirm it.
Whether this old tiger’s teeth were still sharp.
The old man poured the remaining soju onto the ground.
Then he staggered to his feet.
"Thank you for the drink. I will be going now."
He clasped his hand behind his back and descended the stairs.
Sagging shoulders, a lonely back.
He seemed to be running away.
From the memories of the past, and from gazes that recognized him.
I asked toward that back.
"Have you laid down your sword?"
His steps stopped.
There was no answer.
The silence felt like affirmation.
I looked down at the ground.
The old gateball stick the old man had left behind came into view.
A crude wooden stick.
But in the hand of a swordsman, even that became a sword.
I picked up the stick.
If words would not work, then I had no choice but to speak with the body.
Because for a swordsman, the sword was language.
'[Synchronization].'
WOOONG—.
I rotated the mana core in my heart.
Mana converted into aura and gathered at my fingertips through my blood vessels.
A faint white wave formed along the wooden stick.
My heartbeat quickened.
Even if he was old and sick, my opponent was a legend.
Even rotten, a prized fish remained prized.
'Just once.'
A blow into which I poured everything.
With that, I had to make him turn back.
CRACKLE.
The surrounding air vibrated.
Dust rose, and the dirt on the ground cracked faintly.
Aura resonance.
The old man slowly turned his head.
His blue eyes faced me.
There was neither surprise nor panic in them.
Only the indifferent gaze of someone looking at a bothersome child.
'That expression...'
I put strength into my toes.
I kicked off the ground.
BANG—!
My body shot out like an arrow.
I lowered my waist and threw my center of gravity forward.
The stick in my right hand cut through the air.
The Sword Saint’s skill, [Slash].
The fastest blow, with mana calculations added to that speed.
'It will reach.'
The tip of the sword rushed toward the old man’s shoulder.
It was not a simple slash.
It was a sure-kill trajectory that occupied space as it entered.
A speed that ordinary Hunters would not even be able to react to.
But.
SWISH.
The old man did not move.
No, he did not appear to have moved.
He had merely twisted his upper body slightly, very slightly.
A difference as thin as a sheet of paper.
My stick grazed the hem of his clothes and cut through empty air.
'How?'
An evasion I could not follow even with dynamic visual acuity.
Before I even had room to be swept up in shock, the old man approached me.
His left hand stretched out like a snake and snatched my wrist.
CLAMP.
A grip like steel.
I thought my wrist was going to be crushed.
The gateball stick in my hand passed futilely into his.
"Your swordsmanship··· is strange."
The old man casually twirled the stick.
Whoosh, whoosh.
A light movement of the hand, as if handling a switch.
"It is fast, but it has no depth. A shell that relies only on mana."
His gaze changed.
The dull drunkenness disappeared, and a razor-sharp Sword Energy became light in his eyes.
"I will pay for the drink."
The old man raised his left hand.
At that moment.
RUMBLE—
Space grew heavy.
I could not breathe.
It was pressure as though a massive mountain were collapsing over me.
The eerie aura I had felt in front of the cultural center during the day.
No, a far more ferocious and vast energy than anything comparable to then exploded from the old man’s body.
'This is it.'
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
My instincts screamed.
Run.
That was not a person, but a disaster.
But my legs did not move.
I was not overwhelmed by fear.
I was seized by awe.
The old man skillfully spun the stick once, then casually swung it from his waist.
There was no shout, nor any grand preparatory motion.
Just a gesture that looked annoyed, like chasing away a fly.
WHOOOSH—
CRACK!
My vision twisted.
The sound of tearing wind struck my eardrums.
A blue afterimage remained along the trajectory the stick passed through.
A very thin, sharp line.
BOOOOM—!
An explosion burst out.
The Sword Energy that brushed past my side struck the pile of waste materials stacked in the corner.
Wooden partitions, metal chairs, and old desks flew into the air like bowling pins.
No, they had not flown up.
They had turned to powder and scattered.
And the ground.
In the direction Charles’s stick pointed, the concrete floor was split open.
A crevasse as though a giant beast had clawed through it.
"······."
I looked down blankly at the mark.
He had not even put strength into it.
There had been none of the common shouts swordsmen used.
He had merely swung.
"I suppose Clerk Kim will nag me a bit tomorrow."
The old man calmly planted the stick on the ground.
I gulped.
The common sense of aura I knew had collapsed.
'Right before the slash··· he exploded the aura.'
An ordinary swordsman coated the sword with aura and slashed.
But this old man was different.
Until the moment of cutting, he erased all presence, then condensed and detonated aura at the instant of impact.
'Single-point explosion.'
Destructive force that existed only in that brief instant.
It was not simple physical power.
That was violence on an entirely different dimension, ignoring the arrangement of mana and forcibly twisting it.
A flow of energy that could not be calculated even with 9th Circle computations.
But at the same time, a thrill ran through me.
That was it.
The ultimate compression that changed formless power into a tangible blade.
I had to learn that.
'This is··· Charles’s sword.'
The "Blue Thunder" I had only heard of in rumors.
Its reality far exceeded my imagination.
Old age, the handicap of one arm, none of it mattered.
He was still a predator standing at the peak of this world.
"Please."
Pride?
My past as a 9th Circle mage?
None of that mattered.
I had to learn.
I had to make this power, this technique, mine.
Only then could I cut off the Evil God Dragon’s head.
"Senior. Please."
"What are you asking me for?"
"Please teach me the sword."
Charles looked down at me in silence for a while.
His eyes sank deeply.
A lonely and complicated gaze, as though he were seeing a ghost from the past.
"Do not joke, young man. With this body, even swinging a sword once a day is difficult."
He gave a small laugh and shook off the stick.
"Besides, I am not someone fit to teach anyone."
He turned his back.
But I did not back down.
Standing up, I shouted at his back.
"It does not matter."
Charles’s footsteps stopped.
"It has to be you."
I knew by instinct.
That this moment was the branch point that would divide my fate.
Because this man had been my brother’s master.