# Chapter 135
—
In the darkness, a single glimmer of light flickered.
The Meteorite Sword.
It was the keepsake of Leo Bayern, a blade forged from a fallen star.
Arthur gazed at it for a moment—this long-missed sword of meteoric iron—before slowly drawing it down from above.
Whooong—
The air was cleaved.
For a brief instant, even the darkness surrounding him split apart.
At that change, the corner of Arthur’s lips lifted.
*I can do this.*
For the first time, the hopeless curse of Whitebeard showed a crack.
Overwhelmed, unable to conceal the surge in his chest, Arthur once more swung the blade down.
Whooong—
Again, from top to bottom.
His trembling flesh, his very breath—all moved in accord with the sword.
But this time, his brow furrowed.
*Not enough. This isn’t it.*
Shaking his head, Arthur raised the sword again.
And just as before, he cut downward.
Whooong—
Thus began the lonely training of a swordsman.
—
—
The one advantage of this place was that no bodily needs weighed on him.
*No need to eat. No need to sleep.*
Perhaps because of that, he felt no fatigue at all.
Dozens, hundreds of swings—and yet his muscles did not ache, his breath never faltered.
Thanks to that, Arthur could swing endlessly.
Whooong—!
At first, he counted each stroke, but once the number passed a thousand, he stopped.
What use was counting, when what he needed was a near-perfect strike to break free of this darkness?
No one could say how many swings it would take until then.
*Perhaps I’ll be swinging for the rest of my life.*
But no—that would not happen.
Arthur had confidence.
Confidence that he would one day grasp the strike capable of severing even the vile curse of a thousand-year black magician.
*The sword has never once betrayed me.*
With that conviction, he swung again.
Whooong—
The solitary training continued without end.
—
—
Arthur wondered.
*How long have I been here?*
A day? A week? A year?
Perhaps even ten years.
The notion of time had dulled; the days stretched unbearably long.
*Father said the flow of time here is different from outside…*
Regrettably, he hadn’t heard in what way.
Perhaps a day here was a year outside. Or perhaps a year here was only a day beyond.
If it was the latter, he could breathe easy. But if the former… it was disastrous.
*The reason I wield this sword is to protect my mother and sister.*
If too much time passed and he failed to protect them, what meaning would these swings have?
Perhaps because of that, for the first time, his blade wavered.
Whooong—!
A crack appeared in his once-steady stroke.
Arthur shook his head.
“No. Now isn’t the time for such thoughts.”
The only thing that mattered was the sword and himself.
The rest could wait.
Resolving that, Arthur swung once more.
Whooong—
The rhythm returned.
The Meteorite Sword once again began to shine, illuminating the darkness.
Arthur smiled faintly at the change.
Whooong—
He swung again.
Pouring all doubts and distractions into the blade.
—
—
Days passed.
In that time, Arthur shed stray thoughts and concerns.
Such things were unnecessary here.
All of his spirit was poured into the sword tip.
From above to below, striking only to cleave the darkness.
To an outsider, this reckless repetition might have seemed meaningless.
But to Arthur, it was different.
Whooong—
After the first hundred swings, he found rhythm and breath.
Whooong—
After the first thousand, he grasped the core of body and timing.
Whooong—
After that, he stopped counting.
But one thing was certain: his strikes grew sharper, more precise than at the beginning.
And yet, Arthur still felt lacking.
*Someone once said—to become a Sword Master requires not only mana, but also mental growth.*
That growth was to become one with the sword.
Swordsmen called this state *Sword-Spirit Unity*—body and blade as one.
*Can I truly reach that height?*
He had swung countless times, yet had never once thought of himself as “one with the sword.”
How could man and sword truly be one?
That thought nearly pulled him into speculation, but Arthur quickly shook it off.
It was meaningless.
Whooong—
To reach Sword Mastery, it was a path one must walk regardless.
So now was not the time to doubt, but to continue pouring everything into each swing.
With that conclusion, Arthur resumed.
Whooong—
The blade cut through darkness.
With each strike, the heavy wall began to crack.
—
—
As time passed, Arthur stopped even thinking.
He had exhausted every worry.
Now his mind was wholly absorbed into the Meteorite Sword that cleaved the dark.
Whooong—
The more time passed, the more natural the sword felt in his grip—more natural than even breathing.
To swing the sword was more comfortable than to draw breath.
With that change, light began to spill faintly from the blade.
Whooong—
But Arthur did not notice.
Having ceased thought, having merged his whole being into the sword, he was blind to it.
The light grew stronger.
Whooong—
As the glow swelled, the range of cleaved darkness widened.
But the surrounding dark was deep, viscous.
Even as the sword’s light carved it away, the darkness crept back to fill the void.
Yet Arthur’s strikes did not stop.
Whooong—
Precise, unbroken, ceaseless.
The darkness split and dissolved again and again.
Then Arthur, regaining a moment of awareness, muttered:
*This isn’t enough.*
To tear apart this world, he needed something greater.
And to grasp that, he had to step further forward.
Arthur swung again.
Whooong—
Darkness fell away.
But as he lifted the sword once more, something flashed across his mind.
*Perhaps… Sword-Spirit Unity doesn’t mean becoming one with the sword at all.*
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Indeed—no swordsman, no matter how noble, had ever *truly* become one with a sword.
*Why should the swordsman, who wields the blade, merge with it?*
A sword was but a tool, forged for killing.
To become one with it would be to become a killing tool oneself.
The realization made Arthur exhale a tremor of awe.
“…Now I understand. What it means to become a Sword Master.”
Not to merge with the sword.
But to bring it under perfect control.
*That is Sword-Spirit Unity. That is the true meaning of becoming one with the sword.*
Arthur then asked himself:
*Have I fully bent this blade to my will?*
After a pause, he raised the Meteorite Sword high.
At once, its light blazed brighter.
Fwaak—!
Radiance burst forth, devouring the darkness.
The shadows surrounding him writhed as if resisting, but the sword’s brilliance overwhelmed them.
For the first time, cracks split the void.
Pazijik—!
Arthur felt his heart pound.
With that beat came the sensations he had refined over countless strikes—the lifting of the blade, the breath, the focus.
The feel of the weapon in his grasp.
All of it converged into a strike that belonged not to any other swordsman, but to *Arthur Bayern alone*.
*So this is it… the strike born of perfect control.*
Not another’s, but his own.
This was the first threshold of Sword Mastery.
The moment he grasped it, light from the Meteorite Sword gathered and formed something more.
Fwaat—!
Sword Aura.
The ultimate strike, coveted by every swordsman, that could cut even the uncuttable.
Arthur’s eyes gleamed.
“…I can cut through.”
With conviction, he raised the sword.
Then, from above to below—slowly, deliberately—he swung.
The culmination of tens of thousands of strikes.
In that instant—
Wajajachang—!
The darkness was devoured by light, an explosive roar battering his ears.
At the same time, the world began to reverse.
Arthur’s mouth fell open at the grandeur of it—
And a voice whispered.
\[Well done, Arthur.]
Startled, he turned his head.
The Meteorite Sword in his grip—no, his father Leo Bayern—was standing there, smiling faintly.
Arthur’s lips curved gently.
“…Father. You’ve been watching me all along, haven’t you?”
No answer came.
Instead, with his fading consciousness, the world shifted entirely.
Kwaang—!
The thousand-year curse of the black magician Whitebeard was broken at last.
—
—
Arthur opened his eyes and rose.
“…Huh?”
Instead of endless dark, he saw an unfamiliar scene.
Collapsed ruins.
Sunlight streaming through.
Blinking, Arthur muttered:
“…This is the altar.”
Had he returned?
He touched his body.
Toned muscles, a completed frame.
The sensation was both strange and familiar.
“Wow… I finally made it back.”
He stood, inhaled deeply, then exhaled.
The crisp air filled his lungs, proof that he was alive.
*Ah… how strange.*
After so long in that void, he could hardly believe it.
Still dazed, his eyes caught something glimmering in the sunlight.
The rotting corpse of Whitebeard.
“Oh?”
Only his trademark white beard still fluttered in the wind.
Arthur nodded softly.
“…Seeing you here means I really am back.”
He stepped closer, tapped the corpse’s shoulder—
And it scattered into dust.
“…You’ve gone at last, Whitebeard.”
After a silent bow, Arthur looked upward.
Through the gaping ceiling, light poured in.
Summoning his Vampire Lord’s bloodline, he leapt.
Fwaaash—!
Soaring into the air, he burst free of the altar.
What greeted him was a ruined city.
Crumbling buildings overrun with unknown plants, a small stream trickling through.
Arthur whispered:
“…The underground city. Hm. But it looks like a lot of time has passed.”
The moss and growth suggested not days, but years.
As he pondered, his eyes caught a broken magic sword standing alone.
“…Ah.”
He walked to it, grasped the blade.
It trembled faintly—then, like Whitebeard, it crumbled to dust.
Arthur murmured:
“…So you waited for me.”
He brushed the hilt that remained.
No tears came.
Clicking his tongue, he muttered:
“…Sorry, my friend. Seems I have no tears left for you.”
With a shrug, he searched for its companion, Beast.
But no trace appeared.
*Perhaps it was obliterated when the meteor struck.*
It was plausible—Whitebeard’s spell had been catastrophe itself.
Sighing, Arthur buried the broken hilt in the earth, making a grave.
He smiled faintly.
“You’ve done well. Rest now.”
No answer came.
Nor did he expect one.
Turning away, he gazed up.
“…Time to get out of here.”
The underground city’s ceiling had collapsed—he could simply fly upward.
At that thought, he remembered his father’s warning:
*Time flows differently here, Arthur. Careless, and you may never see your loved ones again.*
Murmuring, he frowned.
“…I wonder… Have I been too late?”
How long had he swung his sword in Whitebeard’s curse-world?
Too long, surely.
But he shook his head.
*Now’s not the time to brood. Now is the time to move.*
His eyes gleamed.
His destination: Arcane.
That beloved city.
Arthur Bayern began hurrying his steps home.
Noooo