Chapter 3….
Molting (3)
After finishing the scuffle with Derts’ gang.
Leaving the territory behind, Yuri entered a sparsely traveled forest path nearby.
After confirming that no one was around, he suddenly bent forward.
Cough—
He hurriedly covered his mouth as a violent cough burst out.
Red blood seeped through his pale fingers.
It was an alarming amount—serious at a glance.
But Yuri simply wiped the blood from his lips as if it were nothing.
“Ah… that damn pig bastard.”
Cursing Derts with irritated eyes, Yuri collapsed to the ground as a splitting headache tore through his skull.
“Ghk!”
In extreme pain, he quickly pulled out a pouch from his coat.
From the leather pouch, he took out a bundle of medicinal herbs, chewed them rapidly, and swallowed.
He breathed roughly, waiting for the medicine to take effect.
“Huff… huff…”
Despite the herbs’ strong analgesic properties, the headache did not subside easily.
The sticky sensation of blood in his palm twisted his expression even further.
‘Damn it!’
The “Black Calamity” that wiped out the Pauli family and hunted down all those connected to them.
The terrifying monster that had appeared suddenly and taken countless lives disappeared without a trace at some point.
Some claimed it had been slain.
Others insisted it had moved on elsewhere.
But the truth was different.
‘This is why I tried not to use it.’
Eight years ago, when his mind had snapped and he rampaged like a mad beast—
It wasn’t a subjugation force that stopped Yuri, the one feared as the Black Calamity.
It was himself.
More precisely, it was his ruined body.
‘Just dipping my toes in was enough to make it this bad…’
He first became aware of the “curse” around the age of eight.
Near the end of his bloody revenge, he suddenly coughed up blood and fainted.
When the same thing happened repeatedly afterward, Yuri realized.
‘The power I thought came without a price… was actually a curse eating away at my lifespan.’
Yuri’s body was like a bomb with a lit fuse.
Even if he did nothing, the burning fuse continued to shorten.
And the more he used his power, the faster it burned.
‘How much of my fuse is left…?’
When the fuse burned completely and the bomb finally exploded—
Would he simply die?
Or would the black monster devour him instead?
Either way, that would be the end of the human known as Yuri Holland.
‘I need to find a way to remove the curse.’
The fury and killing intent that once burned fiercely eight years ago had cooled into a survival instinct.
Yuri wandered the world like a stray dog, suppressing his power—his curse—as much as possible while searching for a way to control it.
But nowhere did he discover the identity of the “black monster,” nor even the cause of his deteriorating body.
As time passed, his desire to live became obsession.
He was only fifteen.
He knew he was living on borrowed time, but he didn’t know when that time would end.
He might live ten more years.
Or he might never wake up tomorrow morning.
That uncertain future weighed heavily on him.
Each day was precious—and painful.
Weary of such a life, he had stayed in the Irons Territory for half a year to rest.
But—
“…I suppose it’s about time I leave.”
Yuri felt it was time to depart once more.
If he stayed longer, he might grow comfortable.
“Whew…”
As the headache somewhat eased, Yuri stood and walked toward the hideout he had built.
And in the darkness—
Rustle—
A pair of eyes watching his back as he entered the forest blinked once—
Then vanished.
* * *
The next morning.
Yuri was inside the Irons Territory.
He blinked at the unmistakable bustle in the air.
‘Quite the crowd.’
From the castle gate leading into the territory to the town square—
People lined the wide main road in dense rows.
There was only one reason they had gathered.
To see the ones they had been waiting three months for.
It was also why Yuri had come into town.
‘The Black Sword Troops.’
There was no one on the continent who did not know the name of the Black Sword Troops.
The Sword Lord’s personal guard.
The strongest martial force on land.
Guardians of the Cradle.
Yet despite their illustrious titles, seeing them even once in a lifetime was rare.
Even Yuri, who had wandered the continent for years, had never seen them.
‘Even if I leave Irons afterward, I should at least see them now.’
Who knew when he’d have another chance?
Just then—
Rumble—
The distant gate of the territory slowly began to rise.
Murmurs erupted.
“They’re here!”
“Did they arrive?”
Boom—
The gate fully opened.
Beyond it stood five figures.
Black uniforms adorned with golden embroidery.
Black cloaks draped over their shoulders.
True to their name, five Black Sword Troops rode brown horses into the territory.
Clack—clack—
“Waaaah!”
“The Black Sword Troops!”
“Guardians of the Cradle!”
Cheers erupted as they passed.
Yuri watched them carefully.
The first thing he noticed was their blade-like aura.
And when their eyes swept over the crowd—
A faint cold sweat trickled down his back.
‘Those bastards…’
Did the cheering crowd realize how they were being looked at?
Probably only he noticed.
‘They’re not looking at people as people.’
The Black Sword Troops looked at the crowd the way one might look at a slightly large stone on the roadside.
An obstacle.
Something that could be removed anytime, if necessary.
‘Disgusting eyes.’
Their gaze stirred memories from eight years ago, and Yuri’s expression hardened.
* * *
In a neatly maintained training ground—
A boy swung a greatsword with both hands, drenched in sweat.
Dark blond hair. Green eyes.
Sharp features. A cold impression.
The handsome boy trained with complete focus.
Whoom—
The longsword came down vertically with heavy force.
Though too heavy for an ordinary person to even lift, it traced the exact same path with perfect precision.
‘Erase thought. Focus only on the tip of the blade.’
The blond boy—Gunter.
He stared at the blade tip with astonishing concentration.
As his awareness converged on the sword, its edge grew sharper.
Then suddenly—
—!
The sound of air splitting vanished.
Though the speed was unchanged.
When the sound completely disappeared—
“Hup!”
He exhaled sharply.
Slice—
A faint cutting sound.
Half a second later—
Fwaaaaaaang!
A violent gust exploded outward from where Gunter stood.
His hair whipped in the wind.
“Whew…”
Only then did he stop.
“Finished?”
A deep voice called from behind.
Gunter turned.
“Yes, Father.”
Standing there was Lord Ashraf of Irons.
The training ground was reserved for the lord’s direct family.
Ashraf spoke.
“How is your condition?”
“Good.”
Though father and son, their atmosphere was rigid—like lord and vassal.
After a silence, Ashraf spoke at length.
“You will pass the Proof of the Cradle without difficulty. But that only means standing at the starting line. I expect more than that.”
He continued.
“The Cradle is a miniature of world power now. The heirs of powerful families all gather there.”
His eyes gleamed.
“Rise to its summit, Gunter Irons.”
“I will.”
No hesitation.
At that moment—
Cheers erupted outside.
“It seems the supporting actors have taken the stage.”
“Let us go.”
* * *
In the central square, soldiers formed a human wall.
The Black Sword Troops dismounted.
Drums thundered.
Ashraf and Gunter entered.
“Thank you for coming such a long way.”
The Black Sword Troops did not reply.
Finally, one stepped forward.
“Recommender, Ashraf Irons of the 29th Cradle cohort. Submit the Dragon Plaque.”
A golden plaque engraved with a dragon was presented.
It was both admission certificate and diploma of the Cradle.
And a one-time recommendation.
“Candidate, step forward.”
Gunter stepped ahead.
“I, Gunter Irons, seek to take the trial.”
The Black Sword Troop announced:
“The qualification test begins.”
Gunter raised his sword in salute.
One Black Sword Troop stepped forward—the youngest-looking among them.
He drew a single-edged blade.
“The test will be decided in a single exchange. Attack when ready.”
One strike.
Gunter inhaled.
His clan’s Mana Body Art awakened.
Mana ignited like kindling.
“Breath is the wind that fuels mana’s fire.”
His body surged.
Boom!
He launched forward like an explosion.
Three white lightning arcs shaped like griffin claws shot toward the Black Sword Troop’s neck.
The crowd gasped.
Three claws—at fifteen years old.
Perfect.
Then—
A flash curved like a serpent between the claws.
Clang!
Gunter was blasted back.
He slid three meters on his knees.
His sword—
Snapped cleanly in two.
“…?!”
Shock trembled in his eyes.
So easily?
The Black Sword Troops sheathed their blades.
“Above standard.”
“Highest standard.”
“Above.”
“Highest.”
“Highest.”
Final verdict:
“Overall rating: Highest. Pass.”
A platinum Dragon Plaque engraved with “50” was thrown to him.
He was now of the 50th Cradle cohort.
Silence.
Then—
Thunderous cheers.
Ashraf stood beside him.
“You faced only the lowest-ranking member. And yet your sword broke.”
“…My apologies.”
“Train harder.”
“Yes, Father.”
Yet inwardly, Ashraf was pleased.
When he entered the Cradle, he was rated “High.”
His son received “Highest.”
He smiled faintly.
“We prepared a banquet in your honor.”
But the leader replied flatly:
“Our mission is complete. Matters regarding island entry will be explained later.”
They turned to leave.
Only ten minutes had passed.
No one dared stop them.
Then—
From within the crowd, a rough voice rang out:
“Since you’ve come all this way… finish one more task before you go.”
