Isitor was wreaking havoc in his own palace.
"Find my sword!!"
CRASH!
In a frenzy, Isitor threw teacups, table clocks, and anything else he could get his hands on.
The things he had broken so far would likely cost more than a maid's annual salary.
Seeing this, Ikael hid behind a pillar for a moment.
'Should I wait a little before going in?'
He did not want to be struck by something Isitor threw.
He heard a maid trying to soothe Isitor gently.
"Young Master Isitor, please calm down. We told them to select and buy you a good sword, so word should arrive soon!"
But the maid's words only stoked Isitor's anger.
"Shut up. I do not need some sword like that. Tell the volcano's blacksmith to forge me a sword!!"
'The volcano's blacksmith?'
Ikael, listening from his hiding place, snorted.
It was impossible from the start.
Only the volcano's blacksmith could forge Recrit Swords.
But the volcano's blacksmith was, above all else, a man who admired Kairon.
The reason he had given Isitor a sword was only his reverence for Kairon, not because he acknowledged Isitor.
Yet Isitor had lost his sword and wanted him to forge another. There was no way such a tyrannical request would be accepted.
Moreover, Recrit Swords were not made by forging mere lumps of steel.
'Demon Swords.'
There had been six swords that Kairon used when he fought the Demon King.
People called them Demon Swords.
And Recrit Swords were forged anew from those Demon Swords.
Only with the Demon Swords, the volcano blacksmith's skill, and Recrit bloodline combined could one barely wield a Recrit Sword.
Isitor had not only lost such a sword, but now wanted another one. There was tyranny, and then there was this.
But if Isitor listened to reason, he would not be Isitor.
His anger only continued to grow.
"I will go find the volcano's blacksmith myself! Have the knights stand by! I will torture that bastard if I have to and get a sword!"
Unable to watch his rampage any longer, the maid tried to stop him by grabbing his sleeve.
"Young Master Isitor, please calm down!"
"Get your filthy hand away from me!!"
WHOOSH—
The moment Isitor raised his hand as though to slap the maid.
Step—
Ikael quickly intervened.
"Brother Isitor. Are you looking for this?"
"Huh?"
CLINK.
Ikael deliberately shook Cresen, the fine sword, where Isitor could see it.
At the sight, Isitor's eyes bulged as though they would pop out.
"You... You bastard!!"
"Ah! Young Master Isitor's sword is right there. I am glad you found the sword you lost."
The maid spoke without reading the room.
Isitor had not been able to say that his sword was taken from him, so he had merely made excuses about having lost it.
"Grrr!!!"
As Isitor began to rage again, Ikael quickly moved up and threw an arm around his shoulders.
They stood close enough for anyone to mistake them for friends.
Ikael whispered in a voice only Isitor could hear.
"Brother, are you not going to greet me?"
"Why would I greet a lowborn wretch like you?"
'This one is something else too.'
Even after taking such a beating, he was still going on about lowborn wretches. It was Isitor through and through.
But Ikael had no intention of letting it slide.
'If nothing has changed, he has not been beaten enough yet.'
PRESS—
"Gah."
Ikael lightly pressed Isitor's solar plexus.
Isitor's knees buckled.
Since he pressed the very spot that had already been hit once, it had to hurt so badly that he could not breathe.
Ikael grinned.
"Good. If you want your sword back, come before me and offer the greeting of a subordinate. Just as you are now."
Isitor answered without giving in.
"Guh... Father will return soon."
"So?"
"If I stand in the welcoming formation holding a worthless sword, do you think Father will let it pass? When he learns the whole story, Father will be furious!!"
"Exactly. You are in big trouble, Brother."
'What kind of pathetic threat is that?'
Ikael sneered at him instead.
Isitor's words were exactly the sort of thinking one would expect from a child.
"If I were you, Brother, I would never let Father find out. He did not give you a Recrit Sword so you could play at children's sword fights."
"Ghk...!"
Isitor might be vicious, but he was still only twelve.
His small mind could not understand what Kairon truly wanted.
But Ikael knew Kairon very well.
In his previous life, Ikael was the one who had watched Kairon from closer than anyone.
Grind—
'Damn it.'
The sudden memory of his previous life made his teeth grind.
Ikael soon shook his head.
'It begins now.'
In four days, when Kairon returned.
That was when it would begin again.
'I am Ikael Pui Recrit. Kairon's youngest son.'
When he faced Kairon anew, he would take his first step toward revenge.
* * *
The day Kairon's knight order returned had come.
Kairon's knight order had sent word that they would arrive in the morning, yet there had been no news until the sun began to set.
But not one of the countless people lined up at Bronze Castle dared complain or move.
They only held their swords straight and silently waited for their lord.
The knights, filling Bronze Castle's vast front courtyard like waves, did not move by even an inch.
Though the sun settled like a golden carpet and stabbed at their eyes, they did not so much as stir.
Anyone who saw them would have thought suits of decorative armor had been lined up in rows.
And at the end of the knights' formation, the central stairs of Bronze Castle finally came into view.
From the top of those stairs downward, the seven Recrit brothers stood, each occupying a step.
The firstborn, Exitor, was away training. Below him stood Lir, Centor, Pelletor, Hector, Isitor, and finally the youngest, Ikael.
The only things moving were their shadows, shifting as the sun set.
Then, amid the hushed silence, someone spoke.
"I am sorry."
"!"
The speaker was none other than Isitor.
For a moment, Ikael thought he had misheard.
Isitor, of all people, was saying he was sorry.
It was barely audible, but still.
"I said I am sorry. Is that enough? Now give me my sword."
Of course.
Isitor would never say something like that without an ulterior motive.
"No."
Ikael firmly cut off Isitor's words.
He had not wanted to hear an apology without sincerity.
"Offer me the greeting of a subordinate. Then I will return it."
"You bastard!!"
"I suppose you do not need your sword?"
Ikael gave Cresen in his hand a small shake.
"Grr...!"
Isitor was so dumbfounded by his situation that he could not speak.
To have his sword taken by the Ikael he had looked down on.
And to have to stand in the welcoming formation with a worthless sword, not a Recrit Sword.
'This is impossible!'
Of course, the sword Isitor had acquired anew was an excellent fine sword.
It simply could not compare to the original.
'That lowborn wretch... How dare he touch my sword!!'
But Isitor could not dare say it aloud.
He had to reclaim his original sword somehow.
What would Kairon say if he saw Isitor standing in the welcoming formation with such a worthless sword?
The mere thought made his flesh tremble.
Isitor made his voice as calm as he could.
"Ikael, I said I was sorry. So give me back my sword."
"I said I will. If you kneel here and offer the greeting of a subordinate."
"Ghk!"
Isitor was dumbfounded.
Here, where all his brothers and the knights were gathered, Ikael wanted him to offer the greeting of a subordinate. Did he truly believe that was possible?
In Recrit, where the fight for rank was fierce, to do so was practically a death sentence.
Isitor had endured as much as someone of his temper could. Normally, he would have gouged out Ikael's eyes.
But he suppressed his rage as much as possible and spoke again.
"Ikael, you do not seem to know this, but Father hates insubordination. What will he say if I tell him you dared lay hands on my sword?"
Heh.
Ikael almost snorted. Was this supposed to be a threat?
'Kairon hates insubordination. But he is a man who despises the weak.'
Kairon Fel Recrit.
He was a man who would cast aside even his own child if they were weak.
"If you want, run along and tell on me. I look forward to seeing what Father will say."
It was the best advice Ikael could give Isitor.
And Ikael's real purpose was not an apology at all, but something else.
'I will declare before everyone that Cresen is mine.'
Ikael only pretended to be a sickly young master when it was to his advantage.
If it put him at a disadvantage, there was no reason to cling to it.
He would declare it proudly.
That Ikael, too, was a child of Recrit.
'No knight follows the powerless. That is even truer in Recrit.'
The ransacking of his room had made Ikael realize it clearly.
To survive in Recrit meant becoming strong.
That was the path Ikael had to take from now on.
'Never again will I let anyone take what I hold in my hands. I may take it from others, but it will not be taken from me.'
Ikael's eyes were honed to a hard edge.
Strength filled his clenched fist.
Then a knight called out in a loud voice.
"Family Head Kairon Fel Recrit is entering!"
CREAK—
Bronze Castle's heavy iron gates opened.
One man entered through the gap, bathed in the setting sun pouring through it.
Everyone corrected their posture.
As though souls had been breathed into the swords each held, their stances subtly changed.
At that moment, something thumped inside Ikael's chest as well.
"Kairon..."
The name escaped him like a groan.
For a moment, Ikael forgot his own status as Recrit's youngest son.
Kairon Fel Recrit.
The instant he walked in, it felt as though time and space had twisted and Ikael had returned to his previous life.
The feeling of looking at his old lord—no, his enemy—was that painful.
Ikael's daring use of his father's name was completely buried beneath the cry that followed.
"We greet the lord of Bronze Castle—"
The knights in formation shouted as one.
Bronze Castle rang once with a resounding boom, as though being forged by a hammer, then fell silent.
Kairon gave a slight nod, as if used to it, and received their greeting.
Kairon approached one step at a time.
Thump. Thump.
Each time he came closer, Ikael's heart pounded.
He feared his heartbeat might leak out through the waves of silence.
He had sworn revenge.
He had vowed and vowed again to drive a sword into Kairon.
But the moment he faced him, his body stiffened as though his soul itself had twisted.
Snap—
"We greet the family head."
"We greet the family head."
Each time Kairon passed, the Recrit knights offered a sword salute.
The swords that existed to be stained with blood were, in that moment, decorating the path for Kairon.
It was a path only one person, the lord of Bronze Castle, could walk.
Before long, Kairon was climbing the central stairs.
When Kairon passed Ikael, the sound of Ikael's sword salute and greeting should have been heard.
But there was no sound.
Kairon's eyes turned toward Ikael.
Toward his sickly youngest son, who stood without bowing his head or lowering his posture.
'Kairon...'
Ikael's and Kairon's similar eyes met each other's gaze.