The Sarkaz are strong.
Yet, why do they spend their days being struck and provoked by other nations, unable to move forward? It is partly due to their inability to unite, but there are other reasons as well.
Individually, their abilities are extraordinary. But every time they gather to rebuild the nation known as Kazdel, enemies inevitably appear to trample them. For example, history records a time when the Gargoyles spent days rebuilding the Great Walls of Kazdel, only for the foundations to be brought down within a single day by the march of foreign boots.
After cycles of reconstruction and ruin repeated dozens of times, and after a history of choosing to fight and die fueled by endless resentment... the Sarkaz and Kazdel ultimately remained as the losers who possessed nothing.
Raquelamalin wondered why these stories, which she had heard until they were etched into her ears, were surfacing now. She let out a sigh as she looked at the pursuers lying defeated before her. As someone shouldering the duty of a leader, these were heavy thoughts, but fortunately, she had not been stained by that ancient hatred.
Fleeing Kazdel had been a choice driven by the weight of duty and her desire to protect Kisha, but as the saying goes, "leaving home is a shortcut to misery." She had experienced little but hardship since arriving in Kazimierz.
Until recently, at least.
Gathering the pursuers with practiced ease, Larin gave a light gesture. Since she couldn't exactly carry a pile of bodies through the main streets, she would have to call for a pickup.
The execution of language through the bone-whistle—her power, a combination of Sarkaz sorcery and Originium Arts—was not to be taken lightly. Speak it, write it, and it shall be. That was the essence of the Banshee way. Of course, one could not simply overwrite reality beyond their own limits, but it all depended on the user‘s ingenuity.
And Raquelamalin was someone who could push that ingenuity to its zenith.
Runes of the Sarkaz tongue, a swirl of indigo and ash-grey energy, circled her. When the power of language materialized, it gained physical force through the medium of sorcery, mimicking the memories the Banshee held in her mind.
Facing the desperate final charge of the weaponless pursuers, Larin uttered a single command with indifference.
「 Sunder. 」
The runes floating in the air transformed into a series of blades capable of cutting through anything. The edge Larin gripped was sharp beyond measure. When she swung it, it felt for a moment as if the world itself had been sliced.
But after the strike, Larin realized with an instinctual start that she had mimicked someone else‘s sword. The blade, which in the past would have been a crude, meaningless strike, now carried the logic of a master‘s swordsmanship.
Yujin‘s blade.
That incredibly sophisticated swordsmanship had woven itself into her sorcery. This was what occupied Larin‘s thoughts now. She had dealt with the stalkers long ago, yet the words she had written for no particular reason had channeled Yujin‘s essence.
It was progress, certainly. But not knowing the cause left her feeling slightly uneasy.
Returning with her captives, Larin handed them over to the butler. The elderly man‘s icy smile made the prisoners tremble with fear, but Larin paid them no further mind.
They weren't part of the Confessarii. If they had been, they never would have used such shallow tactics. Having defeated the Graveyard Keeper and the woman who acted as the right hand of the leader of the Confessarii, that ominous man likely wouldn't move recklessly for a while.
Moreover, given their vast intelligence network, the Confessarii undoubtedly knew of Yujin‘s existence. Attacking him would be like kicking a hornet's nest; the moment the Nachzehrer King intervened, it would be over for them.
It bothered her that she had been the one to drag Yujin—who was already busy preparing for the Champions League—into a conflict with such a dangerous organization. Yujin himself didn't seem to care about them, but Larin, who knew their true nature, couldn't help but fear them. They were monsters who had abandoned their humanity, their honor, and their morality.
The reason she had fled Kazdel with Kisharsinagh was rooted in the same disgust she felt for that group. To the Confessarii, Larin had effectively kidnapped Kisha—the leader‘s daughter—and fled. But because of Larin's royal status and the fact that she was in Kazimierz, they were hesitant to launch a full-scale offensive.
"…Kisha."
"Sister!"
Kisha ran into Larin‘s arms, and the princess embraced her gently. She wondered how much pain this child had endured. Knowing the fate the young girl was destined to shoulder, Larin stroked her back with a soft touch.
"What did you do today?" Larin asked in her melodious voice.
Kisha grinned. "Master finally taught me some swordsmanship!"
"Master? You mean Yujin?"
At some point, Kisha had stopped calling him "Old Man." Yujin, who had just reached adulthood and felt a bit stung by the previous title, seemed to have finally escaped it.
"Kiril might get a bit jealous," Larin mused. She assumed Yujin had taught Kisha the Sarkaz forms, while Kiril was focused on the Nearl style. Since the proficiency levels would naturally differ, she worried for the boy.
"No, Kiril is learning right now too!"
"Kiril? Already?"
Larin was surprised but decided to stop questioning it. She was a novice when it came to the blade; she would leave those judgments to Yujin.
What determines the form and function of an Art?
Lineage, environment, education—many factors play a part. But Yujin believed that, of these, lineage was the most dominant. Just as Theresis and Theresia walked similar yet distinct paths, the Nearl Arts had always been unified under the image of the Golden Pegasus.
"Alright, try to draw it out."
Yujin handed Kiril a wooden sword embedded with a catalyst. Since Kiril wasn't Infected, he needed an Arts Unit to channel his power. Kiril gripped the hilt with both hands and closed his eyes. Slowly, a golden aura began to shimmer at the tip of the practice blade.
He only held it for a moment before his breathing became heavy. It was his first real attempt at channeling Arts, and the strain was visible.
"Stop."
At Yujin's command, Kiril released the power. But through the lingering golden haze, the way he saw Yujin had changed.
A wall. An insurmountable wall. He saw a barrier that reached the clouds—a structure so dense and solid it looked like it could never be broken or bypassed.
"…Master, I want to spar with you."
Whether it was a sudden surge of youthful resolve or just an impulse, Kiril made the request.
"Suddenly?" Yujin raised an eyebrow but eventually nodded. Soon, the two stood in the center of the training ground with wooden swords in hand.
Kiril had talent. More importantly, he had a relentless work ethic. Yujin predicted that once the boy found his rhythm, his growth would be explosive. Furthermore, the races of Terra each had their own physiological advantages. For a Kuranta like Kiril, that advantage was endurance—absurd, near-limitless stamina.
Kiril lunged at Yujin. Leveraging his strong legs to keep his balance, he swung the blade with everything he had. It was a swift, clean strike; his posture was honest and well-grounded from the basics Yujin had drilled into him.
To an ordinary observer, it was a flawless attack. But Yujin, with one hand still in his pocket, lightly flicked his own wooden sword. It wasn't unreactable speed; it was a move possessed of such casual weightlessness that it caught Kiril‘s forearm perfectly.
The impact rattled Kiril‘s posture, and the clean trajectory of his strike collapsed instantly.
Kiril fell but looked up at Yujin. The Master‘s eyes were calm. Kiril scrambled up and charged again.
Through a dozen exchanges, the result was the same. Every time Kiril tried to land a significant blow, Yujin would find a microscopic opening and dismantle him. Yujin was seeing things the boy simply couldn't perceive.
"Want to keep going?"
Covered in dust and sweat, Kiril stared at him. Eventually, the boy flopped onto his back, staring up at the sky.
"Master."
"Yeah? Giving up?"
Sensing something off in the boy‘s tone, Yujin sat down beside him.
"…No. I just realized how long the road ahead of me actually is."
It wasn't defeat; Kiril‘s eyes were burning with a new competitive fire. He was looking at the heights he wanted to reach. He was a Nearl, and even though he was just beginning, he had the talent to get there.
"The only thing I can teach you is the foundation of the Nearl blade. I can't show you the secret techniques of the past heads or your grandfather."
"Why not?" Kiril asked, confused.
Yujin let out a hollow laugh. "Because even if you copied them, they wouldn't be yours. You‘d just be a hollow mimic. You‘re too young to get it now, but you‘ll understand eventually."
Yujin, who had spent his life being beaten by Netsalem to learn, was now the one lecturing. He held one principle above all else: a warrior must forge their own sword.
"…Then, Master, what defines your own swordsmanship?"
Kiril wondered why Yujin was bothering with the Nearl style at all if he had already perfected his own.
"Me? I just plunder the best parts of everyone else's styles," Yujin replied with a grin.
Kiril stared at him, wondering if his Master had finally lost his mind. In response, Yujin took a small dagger and lightly nicked his finger. A single drop of blood formed. Instantly, a golden light—the Nearl Art—wreathed the wound, and it sealed without a scar.
"……???"
"See? I just 'plundered' the one thing I was missing."
Watching this, Kiril felt uncharacteristically indignant.