Chapter 10

On that day, a woman clad in a worn robe was climbing the Lindholm Spirit Mountain.

"Such a steep mountain,"

The woman looked up at the summit of the spirit mountain and muttered resentfully.

"To say that I should die just because I am a descendant of the Demon King, that's quite a tyranny. And to demand that I hand over the magic sword that has been passed down in my family? ...I must say, I am impressed by your lack of restraint."

The woman was a descendant of the family known as the Demon King.

"But... I'm in a tight spot. Climbing the spirit mountain, all I find is an infestation of unknown spirits, and there's nothing of value here."

If only there were a legendary holy sword at the summit. A sword that could save the world with just one stroke, such a dreamlike holy sword.

"---What a fool I am. The only thing in my hands is a magic sword. A straightforward, specialized weapon for cutting, a sword that devours life..."

The woman was clinging to an impossible fantasy, a lingering thought in her mind.

She was in such a desperate situation that she clung to it.

◆◆◆

She had been a mere mercenary in a certain city-state.

A country to the east of Lindholm Spirit Mountain.

In the current world, where the color of war is strong, there is a demand for mercenaries.

And it seemed that her body also craved battle.

A considerable amount of time had passed since the family name and the title of the Demon King had fallen into decline.

The title of the Demon King, "Sword Emperor," had faded from people's memories.

However, the magic sword that gave rise to that title still existed in the world.

The Magic Sword Krisula.

In the past, in pursuit of a sword that could cut well, countless ancestors sacrificed their lives, and as a result, this magic sword was born.

Wielding this magic sword, the ancestors, who once boasted of their formidable martial prowess, led a formidable mercenary group called the "Thirty-Eight Heavenly Sword Brigade."

Thirty-eight people, thirty-eight swords.

The name came from the ritual of raising the swords to the sky in unison before setting out to battle.

However, the leader of this mercenary group began to be called a Demon King one day.

As a Demon King with the title of "Emperor," the family was brought back to the world.

---Being a mercenary turned out to be a curse.

It started when they faced their former allies as enemies on the battlefield for the second time.

Mercenaries lend their strength for money. That's the nature of their job.

Some might mock them for being addicted to battle.

But in an age of war, for countries without their own armies, mercenaries who provide fighting power for money are valuable.

Therefore, mercenaries must be honest about money.

So, the opposition was inevitable.

But,

---The side that hired them first called them traitors when they appeared as enemies this time.

The ancestors, who boasted of their superior violence, were recognized as a Demon King because of that power.

In the current era, the title of Demon King is attached to someone for various contrived reasons, but in the case of her ancestors, it was a decisive reason.

---Should I resent it, or not?

I can understand the feeling, but the label of Demon King that was attached in that era is affecting me now.

In fact, at first, I tried to live a normal life by giving up the sword.

But the magic sword kept coming back to me no matter how many times I let it go.

Perhaps it's because the blood of the creator of the magic sword flows in my veins.

After a while of struggling with the magic sword, the blood of the mercenary family began to stir.

It was as if it was predetermined, and I was invited to battle.

---No, in the end, I made that choice myself.

I tried various jobs, such as serving, cooking, and being a maid, but none of them worked out.

Eventually, I ran out of money.

At that point, I was blinded by the good pay of the mercenary business and threw myself into battle.

My body leaped as if it had been waiting for it.

I got the money, but in return, I couldn't leave the battlefield.

I was drowning in the heat of battle.

This can't go on.

I don't know why I thought that.

Even while thinking it, the magic sword wouldn't leave my hand.

I even started to have grand thoughts of slitting my own throat with the magic sword and dying.

It was at that moment, during a battle I was participating in as a mercenary, that the magic sword was seen.

That was the turning point.

I began to be pursued by those who sought the magic sword.

Because I was pursued, I fled.

They dug up the "Sword Emperor" blood in me and used it as a pretext to attack me. ---Die, because you're a Demon King.

---What is a Demon King?

I can understand being hated by those I've cut down as a mercenary.

But, to my surprise, those who sought the magic sword were the ones who were my allies at the time.

---I don't like this kind of battle.

Even if I am to drown in battle, I want to be a mercenary.

At the very least, I want to wield my sword for someone.

I can't be a beautiful hero anymore.

I know that.

I can't be like the ancestors who aimed to be a "hero" for those without power.

---I am now a Demon King.

I was labeled with a sticker that can't be easily peeled off.

I realized that my impulses were the same as those of my ancestors after being pursued as a Demon King.

It was too late.

I was pursued, I fled, and my mind became a mess.

I don't know what to do.

What should I live by?

Dying is one thing, but I'm a little... scared.

◆◆◆

"Almost at the summit."

So far, she had cut down several beasts and several spirits.

Since the magic sword was specialized in cutting, it seemed that it could even cut spirits.

It might not be able to cut heroes, but low-ranking animal spirits and weak spirits were scattered with a single stroke.

I felt bad, but they were attacking, so there was no choice.

Thus, the woman reached the summit of Lindholm Spirit Mountain.

There was a man there.

A man with beautiful snow-white hair and an otherworldly appearance.

◆◆◆

The man was shaping something with a strange white flame, cutting a large stone.

The shaped object was a long, rectangular, rugged form, with characters carved into its surface.

---A name?

He then planted it in the ground, standing it up like a tombstone.

"..."

The woman took a step forward while observing the man at the summit.

A crunching sound was heard, but the man did not turn around.

---A puppet? A ghost?

"Sorry, I'm a bit busy right now, so if you have something to ask, please wait."

The man said without turning around.

The woman's breath caught in her throat at the sound of his voice.

She almost let out a gasp of surprise.

"Are you... human?"

"Yes."

"Is that...?"

"These are the graves of the people who raised me."

After this simple exchange, the woman was convinced that the man was human.

Building graves for someone.

Then he must be human.

She had a strange sense of certainty.

◆◆◆

Strangely, the man's work continued day and night.

It never seemed to end.

How many graves was he making?

The woman planted her magic sword in the ground and watched the man, her robe fluttering in the wind.

The man was cutting the stone with a white, glowing flame wrapped around his index finger, working with intense focus.

"How many graves are you making?"

The woman finally couldn't stand it and asked the man.

"A hundred."

"Hun, a hundred...?"

I can't help but let out a feminine voice in such situations.

I was straightforwardly surprised by the number.

"..."

The woman looked at the man's back.

And finally,

"Would you like some help? I climbed Lindholm Spirit Mountain, but I have nothing to do."

She said.

It was half a lie and half the truth.

"Really? That's great. Could you help me? Just set the stones in order."

But when she heard the man's cheerful voice, it all became the truth.

"Alright."

The woman took off her robe and wrapped it around the hilt of the magic sword planted in the ground.

She was a bit underdressed under the robe, so the mountain wind felt cold, but she would warm up once she started moving.

"---Ah."

"Hm?"

Suddenly, the man stopped his work and finally turned to look at her.

He had red eyes that glowed with a strange light.

"My name is Merea. Merea Mea."

"I'm Elma Eliza. We seem to be about the same age, so you can call me Elma."

"I can be called Merea too. ---Nice to meet you, Elma."

"Ah."

He didn't ask anything else.

If he asked too much, it might break this strange, carefree space, so she decided to work silently until all the tombstones were completed.

---Even though I'm in a tight spot, it's not bad to do something mindlessly.

It might be an escape from reality.

But Elma truly felt that way.

She was beginning to enjoy this strange situation.