WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

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◈ Reincarnation of the Sword Demon

Chapter 1

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Sword Demon

Swinging a sword felt good.

If someone asked what was so good about swinging a blade whose entire purpose was killing people, I'd have no answer for that. Say what you will, though, I loved swinging a sword.

The world doesn't promise you'll be good at what you love. Lucky for me, I was just as skilled with a sword as I loved it.

As if I'd been born to hold one and swing it.

The empire that seemed like it would reign forever began to crumble with the emperor's sudden death. His children, each insisting they were the rightful heir, turned their blades on one another.

With the imperial family tearing itself apart from within, the nobles couldn't stay quiet either. Other kingdoms eyed the empire's territory and raised their armies.

Strife among the royal line. Rebellion from the nobility. War declared by foreign kingdoms.

While the flames of conflict spread across the continent, demons from across the sea poured in to take advantage of the chaos, and the other races that had been pushed to the continent's edges came flooding back. It was the most chaotic era in the entire history of the continent. And it was right now.

The word "peace" had lost all meaning in this age of endless war, but the mercenary industry was booming. Even a band of modest size never ran short of work.

Born to a mercenary father and a prostitute mother, I came into the world inside a mercenary band.

That band had quite a few children around my age.

While the adults went off to battle, the rest of us did odd jobs and passed the time swinging toy swords at each other.

One thing I'll brag about: I never lost a single sword fight. One-on-one, I won every time without exception, and in group fights, my side always came out on top.

I'd never had a single formal lesson, and I was still that good. The gift was obvious.

The first real lesson came when I turned eight.

"Finally old enough to be worth teaching."

My father had occasionally checked my stance when I swung my toy sword. Now he ran his hands over my arms and legs, satisfied that my bones had solidified enough, and put a wooden sword in my hands.

I lost a spar for the first time. My opponent was my father, a seasoned mercenary, so losing wasn't exactly a surprise, but still. It was the first loss of my life, and it felt horribly unfair. I plopped down right there and bawled.

"Son. Did you actually think you were going to win?"

Staring up at my father's incredulous face, I made a decision through my tears.

One day, no matter what, I would beat him.

That day never came.

As I said, it was an age of war. Battles raged across every corner of the continent, and mercenary bands were thriving.

I was ten when my father didn't come back from the battlefield. From what the adults told me, he'd crossed paths with a knight on the field. Bad luck, they said.

That day's tears came from too many places to name. My mother had died of illness when I was three, so my father was the only blood I had left.

I cried because I was sad he was gone. Because I was furious. And because now I'd never get the chance to beat him.

"Which knight... which knight killed my father?"

"Don't know the exact name... but his armor had a blue rose on it."

The blue rose was the symbol of the Leberto family.

The family that had hired our band for that campaign had lost the war and fallen under the Leberto banner. Our band packed up and moved on to find work elsewhere.

"Leberto."

Loading the wagons, dismantling camp, ten-year-old me burned that name into my memory.

Right now I had to leave. Right now I was too weak. But someday, definitely someday, I would kill a Leberto knight and avenge my father.

"If I kill the knight who killed the father I could never beat, that's basically the same as beating him myself."

The logic of a ten-year-old was remarkably sound.

Five years later.

The era hadn't changed, but the band was finished.

A crushing defeat on the battlefield. Most of the senior members, including the commander, had died, and the band couldn't hold together anymore.

"Boss, what do we do now?"

While everyone else scattered to find their own way, the kids who'd grown up sword-fighting beside me came looking. Every one of them had lost their fathers too.

"Maybe become bandits?"

Before I could even answer, someone threw out the idea.

"What about pirates?"

Another one offered.

All we knew was fighting. There weren't many options.

"Forget bandits and pirates. Let's just be mercenaries."

Born in a mercenary band to a mercenary father, it was the obvious path.

"What's our name?"

"Crow Mercenary Band."

Not much thought went into the name. Battlefields were always littered with corpses, so crows were everywhere. The animal I'd seen most in my fifteen years of life was a crow. Second was rats.

"Crow Mercenary Band? Isn't that name already taken?"

"So what. You think there's only one band with the same name in the whole world?"

And that was how the Crow Mercenary Band, a group of fatherless kids, came to be. Naturally, I was the commander.

Five more years passed.

The Crow Mercenary Band grew fast. Word spread across battlefields and people kept showing up wanting to join. We swallowed other bands too, crushing them and pulling them under our banner.

Every day, I swung a sword. On the battlefield, I swung it at people. Occasionally at something other than people, mainly orcs.

"Commander, the Leberto family just declared war on the neighboring Valcain family."

"Damn, finally!"

Mercenaries get called to wars. They don't start them.

"We're siding with the Valcain family."

"But, Commander, Leberto's army is twice the size of Valcain's."

"Beat them at two-to-one? Now that sounds worth doing."

Hoping the Valcain family wouldn't collapse too quickly, I rode hard to reach their lord. He sat there with a miserable look on his face.

"We can't afford a band as famous as yours..."

"I'll fight for half price. If you don't have that right now, pay us afterward."

"What... what? Why?"

"I've got a deep grudge against the Leberto family. In return, just promise me one thing: any Leberto knights go to me first."

Of course, a battlefield doesn't bend to your will, so I couldn't claim every single Leberto knight for myself. But there were enough of them that it hardly mattered.

"Did you kill a mercenary named Hans in the Cameron territory campaign ten years ago?"

I asked that question to a lot of knights, and not once did I ever hear a yes. In an era of endless war, mercenaries were everywhere. Nobody was going to remember the name of one they'd killed ten years back.

After a month of fighting, the day I burned the Leberto banners.

"I need to become more famous."

Hollow inside, because not a single Leberto knight had remembered my father's name, I made that vow.

"Famous enough that anyone on any battlefield would recognize me on sight. Famous enough that beating me, or killing me, would be a man's proudest story for the rest of his life."

"Commander, do you really need to push for that? Our band's already famous, and you're even more so."

We'd handed the two-to-one underdog Valcain family a victory and wiped out the Leberto family. Of course our name had spread.

"No. Not enough."

I knew all that, and still shook my head.

"Not enough."

What was lacking?

Fame?

After this battle, the Crow Mercenary Band's reputation had grown enormous. Countless bands were crawling under our wing without us even having to draw swords. Kingdoms angling to become the next empire were sending letters, trying to get close. Many of them offered noble titles outright, wanting to fold us into their knightly orders.

"Not enough."

I burned that pile of letters and muttered it again. Standing before the roaring flames, I finally understood what the thirst was. It wasn't fame.

This emptiness came from achieving the revenge I'd chased for ten years, only to find it meant nothing.

Swung a sword every day for this moment, and when it came, it was nothing. Whoever the Leberto knight was who'd killed my father, I'd never know. But out of the 117 Leberto knights I'd cut down, not one had made my heart race.

So what now? Travel from battlefield to battlefield and then rest a while? Accept a title and swagger around as the head of a knightly order? Retire somewhere quiet, now that I had more money than I'd ever spend?

None of it pulled at me. As the flames died down, I drew my sword. The light off the blade in that orange glow was the same as the first time I'd ever held a real sword.

No, older than that. The memory of watching my father and the other mercenaries draw their blades when I was young enough to barely remember it, that same impression, vivid and unchanged.

Swords were beautiful. And I loved swords.

"Still not enough."

Strength brings fame.

At twenty, I already had more fame than I knew what to do with, yet I felt the lack. Not of fame.

Of strength.

"Who's the greatest swordsman on the continent?"

Not me. Not yet.

"I want to be the best. The Crow Mercenary Band's gotten too big, honestly. It's in the way."

The next morning I gathered the band's officers, still half-drunk, and made my announcement.

"Starting today, I'm stepping down as commander. Wibel, you're taking over."

"What? Wait, wait, Commander, are you out of your mind?"

"You're the strongest here after me. Maybe not quite my level, but you can run this band fine."

"No, no, Commander! This is way too sudden."

"I'm going to roam battlefields with no pay from here on. Anyone want to come along for the ride?"

"..."

"Didn't think so. Then don't try to stop me."

"Commander..."

"I worked hard enough for all of you. I'm taking a horse and some money as severance."

The farewell stung a little. No regrets, though.

Looking back, it was the sword I'd loved, not the mercenary life. I'd fought on those fields for the love of the blade, not the gold.

From that day on.

I sought out battlefields every single day.

Alone, I moved far more freely than I ever had commanding a band. No contracts to tie me down, no single side I had to fight for.

I just fought whoever looked strongest. And if I spotted someone even stronger on the opposite side mid-fight, I'd charge straight at them.

"You hear? The former commander of the Crow Band has completely lost his mind."

Even by my own standards it was madness, but my name kept spreading.

"It's the Sword Demon!"

"The Sword Demon's here!"

Three years of that, and people were calling me by my nickname more often than my real name.

"Stop, stop!"

"The Sword Demon's here!"

"Kill the Sword Demon first!"

Five years after that, armies that had been fighting each other started joining forces just to take me down first.

Honestly? Fine by me. More opponents without having to choose.

Two more years, and just my presence was enough to stop a battle cold.

"You. You. You. You. The ones I pointed at, step forward."

I was thirty now, and that came with some weight to carry, so barging onto a battlefield just to cause chaos wasn't something I did thoughtlessly anymore.

"I'm not going to kill anyone, so relax. Just want to have a bit of a fight. Nothing formal. Keep it light, keep it fun."

Two more years passed.

Without me going to find them, people started coming to me, wanting to cross swords just once.

Three years after that, people calling themselves my followers started hanging around. They wouldn't leave even when I told them to.

I shook them off a few times. Drifted to entirely different battlefields. Stayed there for a while, gathered new followers, shook them off again. That was how I lived.

Of course, I didn't win every time.

The world was vast and strong people were everywhere. More than a few times I'd nearly died.

Each time, I swallowed my frustration and ran. Didn't matter how ugly it looked. Better to survive than die losing, get stronger, come back, and win.

"You let me go last time, so now I'll return the favor."

Whenever I'd run, come back stronger, and won, that was what I said.

"I didn't let you go, you insane Sword Demon, you just ran away!"

"So? Should I have died instead?"

"Yes! Kill me!"

"No. Come back when you think you can actually win."

Three years of living like that.

The imperial succession war ended.

Forty years it had gone on.

Honestly, partway through, even without a single emperor on the throne, the imperial family had grown so sick of the fighting that the empire's territories had turned fairly peaceful. Though "peaceful" carried a certain flavor: war had simply become part of daily life.

The seven imperial factions had each carved out a share, calling themselves this-king or that-king and ruling their own slice. The nobles who'd risen against them declared their own territories independent and started calling themselves kings too.

The world was still a mess. The empire's lands were still a mess. But it was managing to roll along somehow.

Until it wasn't.

The empire's lands had already settled into a kind of stable chaos long before, no truly vicious wars to speak of, so I hadn't bothered going there. For about the last ten years the rest of the world had been in a similar state. War had become background noise, and there weren't many battles that really set the blood running hot. I was already getting restless.

Then came the news that the succession war had finally ended. I nearly choked on my meal.

"Ruin Alastor? Who the hell is that?"

According to my followers, the war ended because of a single man.

He appeared out of nowhere and cut off the heads of six of the seven imperial heirs.

The only one spared was the fifth prince. The reason he survived was that the territory he ruled had been more livable than the rest.

"We don't know much about him. A man who'd been living in seclusion somewhere in the empire, training... apparently he decided he'd had enough and came down from the mountains."

"What were the royal families' knights doing while their lords were getting their heads cut off?"

"Everyone who tried to stop him died."

"What?"

"Really. Anyway, the succession war is over. The fifth prince became emperor."

The continent's chaos had started with the imperial succession war. Now that it was over, the empire would gradually stabilize, and the world would settle along with it.

I loved swords, loved swinging them, but I wasn't a madman who wanted the world to keep burning. Peace? Fine by me. I'd seen too many battlefields. Honestly, war had started to wear on me.

The tail end of a forty-year conflict. The era had already changed years back. The people I'd known had changed. The world around me had changed. And so had I.

The Crow Mercenary Band I'd built hadn't fallen apart. It had settled somewhere in the west and was doing well enough.

The followers I'd called a nuisance and tried to shake off more times than I could count, I'd stopped fighting them on that. They'd become part of my life now.

Because I'd finally let that happen.

"Where are you going in the middle of your meal?"

"The empire."

"Pardon?"

Couldn't sit still.

A man who'd appeared from nowhere had ended a forty-year succession war. He'd cut through all the forces protecting six imperial heirs and taken their heads.

I was called the Sword Demon, but even I had never done anything that reckless. And yet this man, some unknown ascetic who'd been swinging a sword in the mountains, had done exactly that.

Curious didn't cover it. I wanted to fight him. I needed to see it with my own eyes.

Straight to the empire, no plan.

Vaulted over the palace wall. Shouted the name Ruin Alastor.

Long story short, I lost.

Losing wasn't new to me. Over thirty-six years of life, I'd lost more than ten times.

Except for my father, who was gone before I could settle things with him, I'd paid back every defeat. One loss, one win. So truly, the only defeat that had ever stood in my life was that very first one.

Now it was two. And unlike before, I couldn't even retreat after this one.

Ruin Alastor's sword.

His sword was… how do I even say it. The kind of sword that made you not want to step back, even when you knew you'd already lost.

"Damn."

I'd swung a sword my whole life. Fought more times than I could count. Lost a fair number, and won far more, enough wins that counting became pointless.

But I'd never had an opponent like this. Someone I knew I was losing to and still didn't want to stop. Someone who made me think I might actually die if we kept going, and still I didn't want to retreat.

Just the act of clashing blades with him was a joy. Time stopped existing. Just a little more, just a little more, all the way to the moment there was truly no going back, that thought in my head as I kept swinging.

After a long time of that.

My right arm fell. The sword with it.

My chest, sliced deep.

I saw all of it. And then I understood.

I had lost. That terrifyingly joyful fight was over. And I was going to die soon.

"Damn..."

I was in awe.

Genuinely amazed. My arm was gone, my chest was open, blood was pouring out, death was closing in. Even then, what I felt wasn't grief at losing. I was captivated by Ruin Alastor's sword.

Couldn't stay standing anymore. I sank down where I was and looked up at him.

Hair red as blood. Eyes like gold.

He was human, same as me, but right now he looked like something else entirely. The living incarnation of the sword itself.

My whole life, I'd believed I was born to hold a sword and swing it.

Because I loved swords, and loved swinging them. Because the sword had loved me back just as much.

Looking at the man standing before me, I felt how arrogant that belief had been. Being truly loved by the sword, that was something reserved for someone like him.

"One question."

Breathing was hard. Getting words out was harder. Still, I squeezed out what I could.

"Of everyone you've cut down, where did I rank?"

"Right now, first."

I forced my blurring eyes open wide and stared at Ruin Alastor. The man who'd ended my life and my sword. I wanted to fix him clearly in my eyes.

His expression was strange. Something like disappointment, something like admiration, something like regret. All at once.

"Right now?"

"There are still many I must cut down."

"Should have come a little later, then."

I laughed softly at that hollow thing I'd said.

"Sword Demon Raikal."

Ruin Alastor spoke my name. Good thing I got famous, I thought. My father hadn't been remembered by the man who killed him. But I would be remembered by the man who killed me.

"I will remember you."

I wanted to answer. I couldn't. The world went dark and every bit of strength drained out of me.

Dying. I accepted it.

Regrets. So many.

Didn't want to die losing. Wanted to fight Ruin again. Wanted to win.

Why did I lose? Wasn't strong enough? Probably. More training. More strength.

Ah.

As many regrets, that much longing. The fight with Ruin had been joyful enough that I hadn't wanted to run, even knowing the end. And I still wanted to do it again.

Probably lose next time too. That's exactly why I wanted to keep coming back.

Until I won.

"Ahh..."

Why did people die and just end? Why couldn't you enjoy something like this more than once? Dying, I genuinely hoped for a next time.

More than twenty years wandering the world. Crossing every kind of battlefield, swinging a sword, earning the name Sword Demon.

Even as the world grew calmer, I never let go of the sword. Always, always feeling like it wasn't enough. Wanting to fight more. Wanting to get stronger. Wanting to swing a sword better.

Look at this.

A man whose name no one had heard once in forty years of war had ended an entire era. The world was that wide.

That was what I regretted most.

The sword.

Something brushed the fingertips of my limp left hand. A sword. The hilt of the blade that had fallen to the ground along with my right arm. I moved my hand one last time and closed my fingers around it.

"Sword..."

As many regrets, that many sorrows.

I felt sorry to the sword. If only I'd done better. If only I'd loved it more. If only I'd swung it harder, I wouldn't have let go and lost like this.

If I could hold a sword again, I'd love it more.

If I could hold a sword again...

"Oh!"

A fussing, excitable voice.

"It grabbed my finger!"

The hand that had been wrapped around a sword hilt was holding someone's finger.

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