WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Reincarnation of the Sword Demon

Chapter 99

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Audience

Excluding the severed east and the uncharted south, the largest nation on the continent.

The Empire of Grandika, with a thousand years of history.

Five hundred years ago it had been split into seven during the imperial succession war, and a fair stretch of territory had been lost during that Dark Age. But after Ruin Alastor, the Sword Saint, brought order to the chaos and clawed back the land piece by piece, Grandika remained the continent's one and only empire.

That same empire had personally hosted a party, inside the imperial palace, no less.

"A celebration for the founding of new knight orders in Gladiheim."

Gerhard, dressed in formal attire, spoke up.

"Why would the Empire be hosting such a party, and at the imperial palace of all places?"

"Because Gladiheim is the great fortress of the Empire's north, and Alastor has been the Empire's Grand Ducal protector house for five hundred years. Two new knight orders founded in a Gladiheim like that, the Emperor himself would naturally want to celebrate."

Gerhard adjusted his monocle and looked Kyle up and down.

"The party itself was proposed as far back as the exchange tournament. Given the Family Head's temperament, he declined, he has no patience for that sort of pageantry."

"It also fell apart when I lost to the Sword Church Master," Julius said, his expression flat.

"From the imperial court's perspective, my defeat was a blow to the gut. No one at an imperial party would dare snicker openly, but it would no longer be a party for pure celebration. These gatherings don't attract only the Empire's distinguished names."

Julius himself did not consider the loss to the Sword Church Master a disgrace. The opponent had been who he was, and the duel itself had been something Julius could respect. If anything, that defeat gave Julius, and every knight of Gladiheim who witnessed it, something valuable.

But the Empire didn't see it that way. The name Ten Peaks might have been coined by the imperial propaganda bureau, yet to the common people it carried enormous weight.

"Even the members of the Ten Peaks are, to varying degrees, at the mercy of that authority. They have too much to lose to ever compete purely on strength. The Sword Church Master doesn't care about any of that, being an elf, but the rest aren't the same. Honestly, neither was I."

"Still, Grandfather drew his sword against the Sword Church Master."

"The Sword Church Master walking into Gladiheim was no different from an invasion. Not drawing my sword then would have been a worse humiliation than defeat."

Of course, that wasn't the only reason. He had wanted to cross blades with the Sword Church Master as a fellow martial practitioner, and he had wanted to show the many watching what the absolute limit of the sword looked like. Helenas the Sword Church Master was, by Julius's reckoning, the strongest swordsman among all mortals.

"That was why I drew my sword. But for the Empire, it still stung, the reputation of the Empire's foremost sword had taken a mark. So the party that had quietly died was revived, and you're the reason, Kyle."

Julius fixed his gaze on Kyle with a wry smile.

"What was supposed to be a celebration for Gladiheim's new knight orders has become a party to introduce the Black Sword Kyle Alastor to the world."

"Uncle Roel won't be happy to hear that."

"He'll have to live with it. It's the imperial court that wants this, not me."

Julius glanced at Roel, seated beside Kyle. Roel's lower lip was pressed tight and his eyes were cast down. He felt the humiliation, yet couldn't bring himself to object.

Roel understood the Empire's position. For five hundred years, Alastor had served as the Empire's protector house, and as the continent's premier Martial family, it had always been in the public eye.

Into that Alastor, a figure no one could ignore had been born. A young knight, and young was putting it mildly. A fifteen-year-old nephew had defeated the Fist Demon, whose fearsome name had echoed through Erebos, and the fault for that confrontation had lain entirely with the Fist Demon.

The shameful fact that the continent's defensive line had been breached would have to be made public as well, but a breached line could be reinforced.

'Hard to just be jealous of him. That's what makes this so complicated...'

Roel swallowed the sigh rising in his chest. Red hair and golden eyes. To Roel, with his reddish-brown hair and green eyes, those two colors had been a source of old inferiority his whole life. He hadn't even been born with Julius's Thunder Spirit Root.

Of Julius's children, only Karthan, Katarina, and Arian had red hair and golden eyes. And Arian had not been able to walk the path of a swordsman.

Arian had been easy enough for Roel to resent, but not Kyle. Roel was the kind of person who acknowledged what had to be acknowledged. Kyle's sword talent was, compared to Roel's, not even in the same conversation.

'And on top of everything else, he's the one who woke Mother...'

Roel had spent over a decade wandering the world with Seros without catching even a thread of a clue toward waking Lavian.

He loved Lavian too much to let himself resent his nephew over something he had failed to do himself.

"In the end, the Empire wants a fresh wind," Julius said, having watched Roel quietly pull his feelings back into order.

"At your age, no one on the continent, let alone in the Empire, has a military achievement like yours. The Empire has every reason to trumpet it."

That was the Empire's concern. Since his previous life, Kyle had despised flashy events like this.

A party hosted by the Empire meant strong warriors and prominent Martial families would likely attend, and that much was appealing. But fighters worth meeting could be found in other settings too.

In the end, the only reason he was here against his will was a request from the Fragment. Kyle ran his fingers over the stiff, uncomfortable buttons of his formal attire and looked out the window.

He had passed through Vigrid's Warp Gate, traveled to the capital Luminas, and boarded a sky carriage headed for the imperial palace. Every member of both the Sword Wolf Knights and the Sword Spirit Knights had come along for this embarrassing affair.

The carriages carrying them all were sailing over the skies of Grandika's capital, Luminas. Looking down, the cityscape was utterly unlike anything he had seen five hundred years ago.

'Quite a sight.'

At the heart of Luminas, the imperial palace came into view. It hadn't changed as dramatically as the city, but it was noticeably different from five hundred years ago. As the residence of the imperial family, the palace was beautiful and imposing.

A flower made of blades. The sky carriages bearing the Alastor family crest crossed over the palace walls, a privilege granted to no other house among all those serving the Empire.

Descendants of the Sword Saint who ended the Dark Age and restored light to the continent, who set the Empire back on its foundations. For five hundred years the sole Grand Ducal house and guardians of the continent's northern reaches, only Alastor could enter the imperial palace from the sky rather than by road. Only Alastor was permitted to use its own carriages within the palace grounds as well.

'Five hundred years ago I climbed over these walls in secret. Now I walk in with my head held high.'

He was reflecting on what a remarkable family he had been reincarnated into when the coachman politely asked permission and opened the door.

In the plaza facing the imperial palace stood a thousand imperial guard knights, by rough count. A thousand armored knights alone. Being the protectors of the Empire's heart, the sheer numbers were one thing, but each individual looked exceptionally capable.

There was no hostility. Alastor was the most prestigious Martial family on the entire continent, not just in the Empire. The knights' gazes held respect and admiration, but even so, the collective pressure radiating from that mass of people was enough to make the skin prickle.

"Welcome, Grand Duke Alastor."

A middle-aged man standing at the head of the assembled guard knights strode briskly toward Julius. His position, his bearing, the composure that let nothing leak through, not even a trace of killing intent. Kyle's eyes sharpened.

"It has been a while, Sir Garen."

Julius smiled and returned the greeting. Before arriving, Gerhard had pulled Kyle aside and briefed him on the important figures he would meet.

Garen Vandemion. The eldest son of Leonar Vandemion, captain of the imperial guard, and himself the vice-captain.

"I heard that Lady Lavian has awakened. I am sorry I could not come to pay my respects in person."

"Think nothing of it. The guard keeps you busy."

Garen's gaze, which had briefly dropped lower, moved to Kyle. Seeing Kyle's vivid red hair, golden eyes, and the blade Fenris at his hip, his eyes lit up.

"Is that the boy..."

"My grandson."

"My name is Kyle Alastor."

Kyle gave his name with proper form, as he had been taught. Garen let out a low sound of admiration.

"I have heard a great deal about you. Sir Kyle Alastor, the Black Sword."

How far had the name traveled for the vice-captain of the imperial guard to be dropping his epithet like this?

'I only told my relatives about that name.'

An epithet he had tossed around at home had spread to the far ends of the world. The culprit was obvious. Gerhard had filed the report to the imperial palace about the Beltua Island incident, so he had clearly slipped the Black Sword epithet into that report. Kyle smiled, forcing down the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"It is an honor to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, to meet the young blood who will guard Alastor's future and the Empire's."

Garen smiled and extended his hand. Kyle shook it squarely. Being young was no reason to adopt a submissive posture. The scale might differ, but Kyle was a knight order commander and a member of Alastor.

Martial practitioners who have reached a high level can read a great deal from a simple handshake. In Kyle's hand, Garen felt an amount of experience no fifteen-year-old should have had.

'How many times has this boy swung a sword?'

Not the hand of someone who had simply swung blindly. At that age, it would be natural to not yet have established one's own sword, and the fumbling of that search tends to leave habits in the hand.

But Kyle's hand held none of that. Remarkably, this boy had apparently been swinging his sword with a clear, settled conviction for some time. And was that sword simple, the way a boy's sword might be?

Not that either. The hand of a swordsman who wields a fast sword differs from one who wields a heavy sword. The hand for a powerful sword, a flowing sword, a shifting sword, all different. The kind of sword one specializes in shapes the hand, and as one's level rises, that shape spreads beyond the hand to the entire body, to posture itself.

'Extraordinary.'

Garen studied Kyle with genuine admiration. There was no clear distinguishing mark to suggest what kind of sword the boy used. That didn't mean he hadn't reached a level where such a mark would appear. It meant he had reached a depth so profound it couldn't be read by looking.

Unbelievable to the eyes, and yet it was true. Then there was the strength felt through that handshake, the flow of mana circulating through the Circuits beneath the skin. The surprises kept coming.

"Sir Garen?"

The handshake was going long. Kyle knew why Garen was holding on, but he was getting too absorbed, so Kyle said his name.

"Ah, forgive me."

Garen finally let go. Julius, who had been watching with an easy smile, spoke.

"What were you so lost in thought about?"

"Ha... that is a mischievous question, Your Grace."

Garen smiled ruefully and opened and closed the hand that had shaken Kyle's.

"I found myself wondering whether the hand I had just held truly belonged to a fifteen-year-old boy. I got rather lost in the thought."

"He did not come here as a fifteen-year-old boy."

Julius looked at Kyle with unmistakable pride.

"He came as commander of Gladiheim's new knight order."

"I overstepped."

Garen smiled ruefully and turned his eyes aside. Kyle had not been the only one to arrive today as a new knight order commander.

"It has been a while, Sir Roel."

"Yes, a while."

Garen and Roel knew each other.

That may not have been the only reason, but the handshake between Garen and Roel ended almost the moment it began.

Alastor's party was led inside the imperial palace under Garen's guidance.

The knights assembled in the plaza were naturally not the entirety of the imperial guard. The deeper they moved into the palace, the more capable the stationed knights became.

The doors to the throne room were sealed shut. Everyone standing before them took a final moment to check their attire. Then, slowly, the doors began to open.

Following the etiquette Gerhard had drilled into him, Kyle bent low and kept his eyes down. The Emperor was the master of the Empire. His face could not be looked upon without permission, and that applied to Alastor as well. The only one permitted to enter with head raised and gaze direct, without needing that permission, was Julius, Family Head and Grand Duke of Alastor.

"Entry is granted to the rampart of the Empire's north and the blade of Grandika, heir of the Sword Saint's bloodline and bearer of the continent's light, lord of Vigrid and master of Gladiheim, holder of Grandika's singular Grand Ducal rank, Family Head of Alastor, Thunder Emperor Julius Alastor, and his company!"

The thundering proclamation announced their entry. Julius led the way, walking with full composure, followed in order by Gerhard, Kyle, and Roel. Behind them came the members of the Sword Wolf Knights and the Sword Spirit Knights.

With every step, a suffocating weight pressed down on them. This was not simply the sensation of eyes, pressure, and atmosphere. The entire throne room was suppressing the flow of mana. As the dwelling of the Empire's most exalted person, every precaution against the unforeseen had been taken.

'That explains why they didn't take our swords.'

Kyle walked with his eyes on Julius's heels. The breathing of Roel beside him and the members behind them grew shallower with each step deeper into the throne room. The mana suppression was that strong. Kyle's own breathing stayed calm. Four years spent in the Cultivation Floors had made this kind of mana suppression familiar.

Julius stopped. The instant Kyle registered it, he dropped to one knee. The right to ignore the standard etiquette of audience belonged, again, to Julius alone.

"Julius Alastor."

A voice descended from above. The Emperor's voice was a smooth tenor.

"How many years has it been since we last met?"

"Seventeen years, Your Majesty."

"Did you not miss the sight of my face?"

"With the burdens I carry, not beholding Your Majesty's face is a gift of peace to the Empire."

"Meetings need not happen only for unpleasant reasons. That is precisely why this occasion brings me such genuine joy."

The words came in that smooth tenor, somewhere between joke and earnest. A quiet laugh followed, and the Emperor continued.

"So, Julius Alastor. After seventeen years, what is your impression of me?"

"You look more vigorous than when I last saw you. Still chasing youth, Your Majesty?"

"Where is the man who can truly enjoy growing old?"

The Emperor laughed again.

"Everyone, raise your heads."

Permission given. Kyle raised his head and looked up. High on a flight of stairs, beneath the sun emblem that symbolized the Empire, sat a golden throne. The Emperor sat there in a crimson mantle, and at his side stood Leonar Vandemion, member of the Ten Peaks and captain of the imperial guard.

The Emperor on the throne.

Zermea Valhart.

Kyle had heard he was past seventy this year, but the Emperor looked absurdly young. People of that station usually grew beards to project authority, yet this Emperor had none. With an already youthful face and not a hair of a beard, he looked, at most, nowhere near thirty.

"I am the master of this Empire."

The Emperor propped his chin on one hand and smiled.

"You must be the grandson Julius dotes on, Kyle Alastor?"

Smiling eyes turned toward Kyle. A peculiar, unsettling gaze. Merely having it directed at him felt like something was piercing straight through his chest.

He had been told the Emperor was neither a remarkable martial practitioner nor a mage. The Emperor was not a being who wielded power built through disciplined cultivation. The Emperor was a being who commanded those who did.

And yet he maintained that youth, and with just a look he reached right through Kyle's chest. Was it the weight of his station?

'No. Something else.'

The mana suppression filling the throne room. And the Emperor's gaze. Neither felt unfamiliar to Kyle.

'It resembles the Cultivation Floors.'

The Emperor's eyes in particular resembled the gaze that had looked 'down' from the Cultivation Floors.

"Yes."

Kyle answered without shrinking.

"My name is Kyle Alastor."

"I was told you are fifteen this year."

A faint light stirred behind the Emperor's smiling eyes.

"The age when the body is just coming into its own. And at such a young age, you have earned Julius's recognition and been entrusted with a new knight order in Gladiheim."

"It is more than I deserve."

"Babelio Erebos sent me a letter, an apology regarding the Beltua Island incident, and a request that I convey his apologies to you as well."

"We had no casualties on our side, so I hold no grievance."

"Your achievement in that battle was remarkable, I am told."

The Emperor lifted his free hand. At that signal, a man standing at the base of the stairs called out in a resonant voice.

"To the heir of the Sword Saint's bloodline and grandson of the Thunder Emperor, the Black Sword Kyle Alastor, the Red Star Medal is hereby bestowed!"

The Red Star Medal.

Awarded to those who have distinguished themselves on the battlefield. Within the current Alastor family, Karthan, Barkas, and Katarina each held one. In the hierarchy of the Empire's military decorations, it ranked third.

"To every member of the Sword Wolf Knights, the Dark Moon Medal is hereby bestowed!"

The medal given to the order's members ranked fifth among military decorations. It was the imperial court's formal recognition and commendation of their valor in fighting the Demon Tribe inside the Secret Realm.

"For one your age to receive the Red Star Medal is the first time in the Empire's history."

The Emperor said it with a smile. That was how unprecedented Kyle's achievement was, but the fact that the Red Star Medal had been awarded also meant the Empire was fully committed to putting Kyle's name before the world.

"I... thank you."

He had prepared himself for this.

Kyle bowed his head.

'Black Sword...'

Even in the medal ceremony, the Black Sword epithet had been spoken aloud.

Now Kyle was, without any way around it, the Black Sword Kyle Alastor, and the Black Sword Kyle Alastor, recipient of the Red Star Medal.

"Presenting the medal during the party itself would make for a finer picture, but I have affairs of state that prevent me from attending. I hope you will accept this without feeling slighted."

Kyle felt genuine relief at the Emperor's smiling words.

Getting the medal here, right now, was far preferable.

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