# Chapter 150
—
The moment Arthur unleashed Sword Force, the sensation he felt was exactly this:
*‘Wow… dizzy.’*
His chest churned, the world spun in circles.
Something nauseating rose up his throat.
Arthur quickly understood the cause.
*‘This dizziness… it’s from a lack of mana, isn’t it?’*
It seemed the amount of mana consumed by Sword Force in real combat differed from when he practiced.
*‘Well, I did use Aura a few times earlier, and even wrapped it around my body.’*
Because of that, he felt the shortage of mana for the first time in a while.
But the result that had manifested was more than satisfying.
Hwaaa—!
Moonlight surged from his sword.
If Aura was like a thin film of light, Sword Force was a solid mass of it.
Moonlight, indescribable by any comparison, was engraved upon the blade.
Arthur stared at that mysterious power for a while and murmured:
*‘Couldn’t Sword Force be fired like a slash?’*
It seemed possible.
Unlike Aura, which always retained a fixed form, Sword Force had none.
*‘A mass of light. Meaning, if I do it right, I can shape it however I want.’*
At that moment, a horrified scream rang in his ears.
Arthur looked up.
There he saw Hitran and Massius, their faces twisted in terror, turning to flee.
“Th-that’s Sword Force—!”
“H-how can he be a Sword Master?!”
Watching them, Arthur’s eyes glimmered.
*‘Hmm… perfect.’*
If they ran like that, it would be better to shoot rather than swing.
Decision made, Arthur spread his feet shoulder-width apart.
At the same time, his breathing shifted.
His gaze naturally fixed straight ahead.
The grip of both hands adjusted to align with his center.
In an instant, the stance Arthur Bayern had found after swinging his sword thousands, tens of thousands of times, took perfect form.
From within that stance, Arthur slowly but precisely raised his sword overhead.
Whooom.
The air trembled with his motion.
The world seemed to move with it.
His eyes shining, Arthur calmly brought the raised sword down.
At that instant—
Hwaaak—!
Moonlight burst from the Sword Force and cleaved through the world.
At least, that’s how it looked to Arthur.
At the same time, fountains of blood erupted from Hitran and Massius’s necks.
“Uh?”
With a strangled cry, they faltered, then collapsed.
They never rose again.
“……”
The search officers stared with jaws dropped.
They could not conceal their shock as they gazed at the two great powers of the backstreets, slain in a single stroke.
Arthur retrieved his sword, and an exclamation escaped him.
“Ah…”
A thrilling shiver coursed through his body.
In that ecstasy, which he had never felt before, Arthur realized:
“I’ve grown again.”
He had thought Sword Master was the pinnacle of swordsmanship.
But it wasn’t.
Beyond that realm lay another world.
And just now, he had stepped into it for the first time.
Arthur smiled, unable to hide his pounding excitement.
“As expected, learning never ends.”
—
—
The surviving search officers gaped.
“Wh-what in the world…”
They could not hide their horror.
No wonder: that mysterious swordsman who had appeared out of nowhere had just slain Massius—the man once called Captain and now Chief of the Arcane Police— with a single stroke.
*‘How? How could the Chief die so easily?’*
Massius was a 7-circle swordsman.
A master beyond anyone’s reach in Arcane.
He had swordsmanship fit for the knight-commander of a small kingdom.
And yet such a man had been slain in one strike.
Killed pathetically, while fleeing with his back turned.
It was an event so unthinkable that the search officers stood frozen, mouths working soundlessly.
Arthur spoke up.
“Phew… I’m tired.”
“…?”
“Maybe it’s because I used Sword Force, but I don’t have much strength left. So, dear officers—”
Arthur beamed at them.
“Why don’t we all spare ourselves the struggle? I’ll send you off as peacefully as I can.”
“……”
At his words, dozens of search officers belatedly screamed.
“You crazy bastard!!!”
“Stay still? You monster?!”
“Run!!! Scatter and flee from that thing!”
With that cry, they fled in utter panic.
Arthur scratched his head as he watched.
“Tsk. Pointless… it won’t help to run. You’ll just wear me out.”
Just as he was about to raise his Beast, a presence stirred behind him.
He turned his head and saw a familiar elf glaring.
“Oh, Jeannie. When did you get here?”
Jeannie’s expression was sour.
“Just now. But…”
She trailed off, her gaze drifting.
There lay Massius, bleeding out in death.
Jeannie could not hide her shock as she muttered:
*‘…Killed him? That Massius, in such a short time?’*
Surely this was an illusion?
A 7-circle swordsman couldn’t possibly die so easily.
Arthur spoke.
“This works out, Jeannie. Could you handle the cleanup?”
Jeannie blinked. “Cleanup?”
“Yes. About twenty search officers ran away just now.”
“…And you, Young Master?”
Arthur’s lips curled into a grin.
“I’m going to find Elder Willet.”
“…!”
“I can smell him from beyond here. I’ll bring him out quickly. Can I count on you?”
Jeannie’s lips closed on her shock, her eyes shining.
“Of course. Go quickly. I’ll take care of things here.”
Arthur smiled.
“Then I’ll leave it to you for a while.”
With that, he dashed off into the distance.
Jeannie turned her gaze.
As Arthur said, traces of hiding search officers lingered everywhere.
But considering there was only one exit from this underground prison, it was a foolish act.
*‘That such brutes had been feeding off Arcane all this time…’*
She clicked her tongue, but then her eyes fell again on Massius’s corpse.
Jeannie murmured.
“…He’s really dead. That Massius.”
How much pain had Arcane suffered because of him?
He had leeched the blood of mercenaries and citizens alike to bask in luxury.
But in Jeannie’s mind, his true crime was something else.
*‘That dog who sold Arcane to Dormund.’*
Had he not opened the city gates, things might have been different.
Arcane might still have remained a land of opportunity, free of Dormund’s occupation.
But he had cast away that future.
Jeannie whispered:
“…For a traitor like him to die so miserably.”
Yet in another sense, perhaps this was the most humiliating end for him.
For a man who craved attention, such a silent death was the worst disgrace.
Jeannie chuckled faintly.
“Another legend is born.”
An intruder who stormed into Arcane’s underground prison alone.
Hundreds of search officers, and the Chief of Police, slain by his hand.
Even a novel would not dare spin such a tale.
*‘Perhaps that’s why it will be called a legend.’*
With that thought, Jeannie moved.
For the story to remain a legend, there must be no witnesses.
And so she began finishing off the surviving search officers.
Meanwhile, Arthur sprinted through the dark underground prison, muttering:
*‘Elder Willet… are you alright?’*
Seven years— for someone already close to fifty, that was an even longer span.
The man who had been middle-aged might now be old.
Though Willet was a superb martial artist, aging could still come suddenly.
*‘Professor Norse had aged so much too… from hardship. Elder Willet must be the same.’*
As rebel leader, he surely suffered more than Norse.
Arthur imagined how much he might have changed, then shook his head.
*‘I’ll see him soon. Better think about what to say when I greet him.’*
How could he make Willet show his signature look of surprise yet still be glad?
*‘If I said, “I’m actually a ghost,” would that shock him?’*
He was fainthearted enough that he might actually believe it.
Arthur chuckled as he mused.
Just then, his nose caught another scent.
“?”
He blinked. Tilted his head.
“Blood?”
In a prison, the smell of blood wasn’t unusual.
Even now, corpses left uncollected were rotting and bleeding out.
But this blood smelled familiar.
“This is… Elder Willet’s blood?”
Arthur’s eyes sharpened, and he quickened his pace.
A storm of thoughts filled his head.
Had Willet been tortured into bleeding?
Or perhaps his skin was torn against the hard stone floor?
Either was possible— but neither was good.
Arthur’s expression hardened.
Then a foul stench—burnt garbage—stabbed his nose.
He slowed. Blinked.
“…Huh?”
He bent down.
There, in a space barely two pyeong wide, lay two arms, discarded like trash.
Arthur stared at them and muttered unconsciously:
“Elder Willet?”
Two arms, left on the ground.
From them drifted a faint but familiar fragrance.
Willet Chirstol.
The subtle, dignified scent of that fine old gentleman.
—
—
**Willet Christol.**
Once called the Legend of the Backstreets.
Now the leader of the Rebellion.
A man who lived a life both ordinary and extraordinary opened his eyes.
*‘Where… am I?’*
He couldn’t answer.
His thoughts were frayed threads, unraveling.
Even when he tried to speak, only thin breaths escaped.
In that state, a voice muttered:
“At last you’ve awoken. Willet Christol.”
At the sound of his name, Willet turned his gaze.
He saw three heads—no longer quite human.
And he knew instantly who spoke.
“Do… rmund’s… hound.”
“‘Hound\~’? You haven’t been beaten enough, rebel bastard.”
Kyeon, whose feet resembled a bear’s, struck him hard.
Willet’s chest caved from the blow, blood spewed.
It hurt to even breathe.
Then Kyeon seized his hair.
“Say it again. Arcane’s new \[Mayor] and \[Governor]. Lord Kyeon.”
Willet forced his eyes open and spat.
Blood-mixed phlegm hit Kyeon square.
Kyeon gave a hollow laugh.
“You son of a bitch.”
“…Aren’t you the real dog?”
“Even in this state, that mouth runs well.”
“Then why cut my arms, not my tongue?”
At his words, Kyeon glanced down.
Willet’s body bore the marks of brutal torture.
Most strikingly, his arms were gone.
Kyeon sneered.
“If I cut your tongue, you’d die too quickly. You need to die publicly. And besides…”
A vile smile spread.
“What could be crueller to a swordsman than cutting off his arms?”
Willet’s eyelids trembled faintly.
But beyond that, no emotion showed.
His unshaken will made Kyeon smirk.
*‘This bastard… even now he clings to pride.’*
He wanted to torment him more.
But any further, and Willet Christol, the rebel leader, might truly die.
That wouldn’t do.
To the people of Arcane, and the rebels, Willet was \[Hope].
*‘Hope of freedom from Dormund’s rule. He cannot die cleanly.’*
His death had to be seen with their own eyes, to extinguish that hope.
Kyeon yanked his hair again and shouted:
“Open the gates! The execution begins now!”
The iron doors swung wide, sunlight pouring in.
Willet squinted, barely conscious.
*‘Ah…’*
The sight he had yearned for in the underground prison— Arcane, spread before him.
His lips worked unconsciously, eyes straining to take in every detail.
Dragging him out, Kyeon leaned down and whispered.
“See there, Willet Christol?”
“…?”
“All those people gathered to watch your execution. Do you see them?”
Willet looked.
A vast crowd filled the square.
Kyeon pointed at them.
“I plan to massacre them.”
“…!”
“Children, old folk, women, cripples… none spared. I’ll order the guns to fire indiscriminately.”
At that threat, Willet thought with wide eyes.
*‘Is this real? Or a bluff?’*
He pondered—then concluded it was neither.
There was no reason to bluff now.
And his prediction proved right.
“It’s the perfect pretext… A purge to root out rebels hiding in the square. Any extra deaths? Unavoidable sacrifice. Don’t you agree?”
At the hollow words, Willet spoke.
“What… do you want?”
Kyeon’s eyes gleamed.
“Confess.”
“…Confess?”
“Yes. Admit all your wrongs, and kneel before me.”
Willet’s eyes widened.
A twisted smile spread on Kyeon’s lips.
“Throw away your pitiful pride. Do that, and I’ll spare the citizens’ lives. Willet Christol.”
—
