Chapter 9 …
Clang—
“Greetings to the Head of the House!”
The sound of swords echoed through the Bronze Castle. It was loud enough to tear through the quiet of the sunset.
Even the usually solemn Bronze Castle seemed to cast a shadow that paved the way under Kairon’s feet.
Kairon passed by, acknowledging with a slight nod each time he was greeted.
Thud. Thud.
“Kairon.”
Each step Kairon took made Ikael’s body tense.
Finally, as Kairon passed in front of him, Ikael remained still. He didn’t bow or salute in return.
Kairon glanced briefly at him with his eyes before continuing on, acting as if Ikael didn’t even exist.
So he doesn’t even care to look at those in the shadows, Ikael thought.
A sickly child born into a swordsmanship family would be nothing more than a shadow, an insignificant being.
“Thank you, my children, for protecting the Bronze Castle.”
Kairon left the words short and concise, intending to go inside.
But then—
Clang—
Clatter, clatter.
The sound of a dropped sword rang out loudly, as if a crack had formed in the very space itself.
Kairon slowly turned.
The one fumbling with the sword was none other than…
“Isthor.”
The child of the Rekrit family.
“W-well… Father! It’s because Ikael purposely hit me from the side—”
Ikael hit him?
Kairon simply tilted his head once and tried to enter. He had no interest in childish quarrels.
But then he noticed something.
The gleaming sword, Crescent, shimmered in the sunset—and it was held in the hands of his youngest son, Ikael.
“Ikael. Why do you have that?”
Kairon’s usually expressionless face twitched slightly.
The Rekrit children could only possess what Kairon allowed. Ikael had never been permitted to wield a sword.
Receiving no answer, Kairon stepped toward them.
With each step, it felt as though a dark aura descended, chilling the air, dimming even the sunset.
“Isthor, answer me. Surely you weren’t robbed of the sword?”
“Ugh…”
Isthor stammered and remained silent. The oppressive dark aura weighed down on his breath.
What to do…
Isthor understood just how humiliating it was to lose a Rekrit sword. A symbol of the family, one of only six magical swords in the world—he was supposed to announce this before everyone assembled.
“Father… that is… that is—”
Isthor faltered. Kairon’s emotionless gaze pressed against him like chains wrapping tightly around his body.
At that moment, Ikael interrupted.
“I borrowed it.”
“What?”
“I borrowed it from Isthor.”
Borrowing a Rekrit sword—clearly a lie.
Kairon hated insubordination first, lies second. Ikael was committing both simultaneously.
Kairon’s gaze shifted to Ikael.
“The Rekrit sword can only be wielded by those I permit. Don’t you know that?”
“I do.”
The slightly defiant tone made Kairon’s eyebrows twitch. A chilling aura, as if to extinguish the sun itself, brushed against his skin.
Hah.
It had been a long time since he felt such a dark aura, yet Ikael continued as if unfazed.
“But what I borrowed isn’t the sword itself. It’s the right to hold it.”
“The right?”
“Yes. Isn’t it a sword that only Rekrit is allowed to wield? I wanted to stand properly at your inspection with a sword in hand. So I borrowed that right.”
Kairon slowly looked at his youngest son.
“Then what of Isthor’s honor?”
“His honor… he will reclaim it himself, I’m sure. If he is truly a child of Rekrit, he will do so.”
A faint smile appeared on Kairon’s face.
“Ikael.”
“Yes.”
Shing—
Kairon drew his sword from his waist, its blade cutting a streak of sunset.
The knights, who had been as still as stone, finally moved their eyes.
Kairon rarely drew his sword. After conquering the demon realm, humans were mere insects before him.
Yet he drew it now because a situation had arisen where he couldn’t leave punishment to anyone else—when it involved his own children.
Thud—thud—
Kairon approached Ikael with his sword drawn.
“If there’s something you want but someone refuses to give it to you, what will you do?”
Spin—
He pointed the sword hilt toward Ikael.
“Will you take it?”
In Kairon’s eyes, Ikael sensed a strange interest, like a test.
He’s testing me.
Ikael understood immediately. Kairon already knew everything that had happened between the brothers—the sword being taken, and the natural way Ikael lied about it.
Even seeing Isthor trembling and Ikael standing confidently made it clear.
I expected this.
If Ikael had been afraid to face Kairon, he wouldn’t have brought Crescent in the first place.
He intended to declare it his own in front of all. To boldly become a child of Rekrit with the sword. It was the first step to eventually return the sword to its rightful wielder.
“Answer me, Ikael. What will you do?”
“Take it? That’s absurd.”
“Then?”
“If they resist, I’ll beg to borrow it.”
Hah.
Kairon chuckled internally. Of course. This is the sickly Ikael.
To use it merely to borrow a thing, the Rekrit name is far too prestigious. If it were a mere merchant’s sword, that would be different.
But Ikael’s next words defied expectation:
“I will plead until they give it to me. First, I will grasp the wrist holding it, then the neck, then even their life. That is my way.”
“Ikael, what power do you have?”
“I am a child of Rekrit.”
A child of Rekrit.
Kairon neither confirmed nor denied.
A brief silence followed.
The youngest son, once always in the shadows, now stood directly before the head of the house. All eyes were on him.
“Ikael, you are mistaken about one thing.”
“Yes?”
“What you spoke of isn’t negotiation or persuasion. It’s war. Like the war I just returned from.”
Ikael raised his head slowly. An expression appeared on Kairon’s face that Ikael had never seen before.
It was no longer the face that looked at moss in the shadows, but the face of a father looking at a child of Rekrit.
The chilling pressure on his skin had lifted.
“You borrowed honor, you say. Yes, if you want it, you must take it. But only when you can bear its weight. Ambition without strength will kill you.”
Isthor tilted his head in confusion, but Ikael understood completely.
“Do you understand, my son?”
“Yes, Father.”
Ikael nodded once.
“Now, let’s go inside.”
The attendant knight’s voice finally drew Kairon’s gaze away.
The knight dared not rush him.
Kairon had stood too long in front of Ikael—the same Ikael he had ignored. All eyes had already turned toward them.
“Right, let’s go.”
Kairon thought it unwise to focus too much on his youngest son.
He ascended the steps, followed by the knights.
“Ah, return Isthor’s sword, Ikael. That sword does not suit you.”
That means…
Ikael thought it might be a failure, but then:
“I will write a letter to the smith of the volcano. Have him forge a sword perfectly suited for you.”
The eyes of Ikael and Isthor widened.
There are many legendary swords in the world. Some were cursed, some infused with magical stones, but none compared to the Rekrit sword.
The Rekrit sword, forged only for Kairon’s children, carried a special significance.
The strongest sword a human can wield.
It was called so not just because it was a famous sword.
The materials came from the blood of the Demon King.
When Kairon fought the Demon King beyond the gate of the demon realm, he wielded six swords. These were reforged by a master smith into the Rekrit swords.
The world called a sword stained with the Demon King’s blood a “demon sword.”
“But Father intends to give the Rekrit sword to Ikael?”
The Rekrit siblings could hardly believe it. The brief conversation between Ikael and Kairon lingered in their minds.
And now, Ikael would even receive a Rekrit sword—something unimaginable before. The sickly youngest son.
“Ikael… I remember that one.”
“I thought he died from his illness.”
“He must have been seen by chance.”
Each sibling added their thoughts.
“Strange… six demon swords are supposed to exist.”
The numbers didn’t match. Six swords with the Demon King’s blood, six children to inherit them.
There should be no more Rekrit swords.
Could something be hidden?
The siblings’ expressions darkened.
They could forgive Ikael catching the father’s eye, and even obtaining the sword—after all, they already possessed theirs. But something unknown to them? That could not be ignored.
Would the new wind, Ikael, remain a breeze or grow into a storm?
Meanwhile, Isthor was locked in his room, venting his fury.
The Crescent sword, which he had so desperately sought, was now back in Ikael’s hands.
Yet his anger only deepened.
Crash!
“Arghhh!”
He threw anything within reach.
A maid cautiously approached.
“Isthor, calm yourself! Haven’t you already recovered the sword?”
Recovered it?
Far from it. It was as if he had lost it entirely. He had officially been defeated by Ikael—in front of Father Kairon no less.
Even lazy, incompetent Isthor could understand this.
Ikael… he dares flaunt himself before Father…
Clench!
Isthor clenched his fists. He wanted to rush out and tear Ikael apart, but it was impossible—and that only fueled his frustration.
Still, Isthor held onto one hope.
“Ikael will soon go to the Bakuba Volcano to obtain the demon sword.”
He laughed, a dangerous glint in his eyes. The maids stepped back in fear. Isthor’s smile always meant trouble.
The Bakuba Volcano, where the master smith resides, cannot be described as anything less than hell on earth.
Obtaining the Rekrit sword meant ascending the volcano. Isthor himself had almost died multiple times amid monsters and molten lava.
“Yes… Father must have a plan. He wants to send sickly, useless Ikael to the volcano to die!”
Thinking this, Isthor’s face lit up.
“This brat should know his place. Serves him right for acting recklessly!”
He hoped his guess was correct. But as always, Kairon’s intentions were unknowable.
The next day, Kairon issued a command to Ikael:
“You are to go to the Bakuba Volcano.”
“Yes.”
Ikael had expected this.
Finally, the Bakuba Volcano.
The so-called hell on earth. Returning from there would mark his true rebirth as a child of Rekrit.
Ikael completed all preparations, receiving his share of the materials for the new demon sword.
The seventh demon sword.
But upon seeing the hidden identity of the seventh sword, Ikael was taken aback.
