Sword Devouring Swordmaster-Chapter 1 : Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Prologue. Swordmaster
Ever since I was a child, there was a story my father used to tell.
“Arhan, our Karavan family, though we live now in this tiny backwater estate, wasn’t always like this.”
Whenever he told that story my father always looked joyful. Even at his middle age his eyes shone bright like a young man’s. His voice sounded excited like a boy’s.
“Two hundred years ago, the Karavan family was a great house that defended this kingdom. The king favored them most; they were righteous wardens everyone revered.”
When he said that, my father always showed me the large portrait hanging in the mansion. The portrait was of an old man—so aged his hair had turned white—yet his gaze flashed sharp like a lion’s, full of dignity. Beside that portrait there hung an impressive sword.
“In those days the Karavans produced Swordmasters for generations. So everyone feared the Karavans, and at the same time respected them. Karavan were invincible guardians who could protect the kingdom from any foe, and righteous watchers who punished the wicked.”
“…….”
“Of course, that was all just tales of the past. It’s been over a hundred years since the Karavan family last produced a Swordmaster…….”
My father looked at the sword hanging next to the portrait with a distant expression.
The Karavan family’s treasure. The sword is said to have been used by Liam Karavan, the founder of the Karavan house, its greatest head, and known as the most powerful Swordmaster in history.
From what my father had told me, that sword must have been made at least five hundred years ago, yet it was still excessively sharp. Its gleam of cutting intent looked as if it could slice anything at that very moment.
When I looked at that sword I did not feel awe at how sharp it remained after centuries; I felt suspicion. How could it remain rust-free and still be so keen after such a long time? Common sense said iron items shouldn’t be able to do that.
After doubting, I came to a conclusion.
All the stories my father told were fabricated lies. It was common for fallen noble families like ours. They invented tales to boost pride in their house and to keep aristocratic dignity from fading—fabricating a glorious past that never happened to show that, though fallen, they were still noble and exalted.
It was like how figures from ancient history were absurdly exaggerated or deified. Yet for some reason my father sincerely believed in the Karavan family’s fanciful past.
“You, who will inherit the house, must remember this glorious era. Always be proud to be a member of the Karavan family, and remember that steel blood runs through you. Then someday you will reclaim that glory. Yes, someday……”
Those were words brimming with pride. I could not bring myself to tell my father the truth.
A blade a few hundred years old could not logically remain rust-free and razor-sharp. The old man in the portrait did not resemble my father at all. Our family treasure was fake, and that portrait was clearly an anonymous painter’s fanciful imagining of a great swordsman. No matter how much I searched history books I could not find the Karavan name, nor any record of a Swordmaster called “Liam”……
My objections stayed inside my mouth. Instead of saying those things, I forced a smile and answered.
“Yes, I will.”
The reason was simple. My father, utterly taken in by lies made by our ancestors, looked so happy. His smile was more boylike than mine; his eyes sparkled dazzlingly. I did not want to steal that joy from him.
Sometimes telling the tales of the Karavan family’s glorious days was my father’s only pleasure. It was obvious all those stories were made up—but what did it matter? If my father was happy, whether the Karavan history was true or an outright lie did not matter at all.
My father called this place a tiny backwater, but I liked this village. I would not trade the small, ordinary days and the happiness I felt here for anything.
I liked my father who told the Karavan tales as pure old stories, my gentle mother, the clumsy but kind cook, and the slow but unfailing steward.
Sometimes the routine bored me, but I was still happy. I wanted to live lazily and simply: meet a decent woman in this estate, form a family, someday inherit the headship, and grow old happily. I wished that life would continue forever.
But life never went as one wished.
When I was fifteen, everything changed.
A Swordmaster visited our estate.
***
“This estate must be erased.”
The Swordmaster who had come to our village—an estate without attractions or local specialties—spoke oddly. He said the estate had to be erased. The villagers were bewildered by that incomprehensible phrase, but the Swordmaster refused to answer any questions. He only repeated the same words. After answering like that about three times he spoke again.
“I only do as I am commanded.”
After that, the Swordmaster ceased to be human and became a disaster incarnate. He was an embodied death that ordinary people could not resist. Like the storms or floods I had seen in my childhood sweeping away fields, the Swordmaster swept the villagers away. I watched clearly from the hilltop what the Swordmaster did.
It was no different from harvest time in autumn. Like swinging a sickle to reap grain, every time the Swordmaster swung his sword it cut down villagers who had lived with their own circumstances. Heads fell and rolled, and red blood dyed the village. No one could stop it.
“Arhan, you must run!”
The Swordmaster advanced from the village entrance to our mansion. He walked as if taking a stroll. Wherever those steps had passed there were no living humans left. My mother grabbed my hand and dragged me back.
But no matter how hard we ran there was no way to escape the Swordmaster’s pursuit. The Swordmaster—walking with composed steps and not running—eventually found us who had fled. He said,
“I will come again in a month. Until then, take everyone from here and leave. If you want to live.”
That day more than half the village died. Fortunately my family survived.
But our life could never be the same again. Never. After that day my father went mad.
***
My mother, my father, and the surviving villagers offered various theories about how that horror had happened. Some said it was the aftereffect of the war between the kingdom and the empire, some said the newly ascended king had been doing insane things, and others said the Swordmasters were using force to consolidate their authority.
None of those explanations could account for why my daily life had been ruined. Could such pathetic reasons justify such a monstrous act?
My father’s fury was far stronger than mine. A man who had been fairly robust wasted away until his bones showed. Our once happy mansion was filled with a horribly oppressive silence because of my father, who had become a broken shell.
After discovering a book in his study my father read only that book on repeat. He would finish it, close it, then open it again to the first page and read it again. He skipped meals, he did not go outside; his whole day was spent reading that book.
How many times had that repeated? My father had gone mad.
He lost his mind as if his head had emptied, and began uttering bizarre, mismatched words.
“I will take action myself and correct this world full of sin and wrongdoings! I am a great knight who passed down the blood of Karavan; I will judge you!”
My father stopped reading books. I could see the book’s title on the table: 「The Knight of La Mancha」.
My father, who read a chivalric novel by some anonymous author, began to identify himself with the novel’s hero. He could no longer tell fiction from reality—a madman.
“I am a great knight who hunted the evil dragon, an iron-blooded guardian who defends the kingdom! I cannot tolerate injustice. I will judge the sinful Swordmaster who comes soon. I am the righteous watcher who inherits Karavan blood!”
My father wore an old helm like a trainee knight’s and declared it a golden helm bestowed by the king. He called his rusted armor the mithril armor given by the patron deity, and the old dull wooden training sword he held proclaimed a blade that had cut dragon scales.
“I will not retreat! I will personally judge my unjust enemies!”
His eyes burned as if to swallow the sun. For a brief moment my father looked like the invincible knight from those tales. Even as the villagers forcefully tried to stop him, he refused to leave the estate.
Then one late night my mother said to me,
“Arhan, you must run away. Leave this place and preserve your life. Go anywhere.”
“Mother, come with me.”
“That cannot be.”
I had never seen my mother with such sorrowful eyes.
“I must stay by your father’s side. I cannot leave him to die alone. But I cannot watch you die too. So—so go.”
She squeezed my hand hard as if to crush it and spoke.
“Promise me one thing before you leave.”
“…….”
“Whatever happens, do not dream of revenge. Promise me you will never do that.”
“…….”
“Swear you will not take up a sword until you die, and that you will never return here.”
Her voice was chilling.
“You must keep that. Everything your father spoke was lies. The talk of steel blood or the blood of great heroes—all invented. You are an ordinary person. Your father was ordinary, and you are ordinary……”
I answered to my mother’s sobbing voice.
“Yes. I swear.”
My mother was relieved by my answer. That late night I left the village in a carriage. I left a day before the Swordmaster had declared he would return.
***
I rode a carriage to the nearby town and spent the money I had saved on a crossbow and bolts.
I bought enough other weapons to kill a human. I bought things like pepper for cooking and poisons favored by hunters. I never intended to abandon my family from the start. I planned to get what we could not find in our village and return to stand together.
Even if someone called himself a Swordmaster, he was still only a man. I did not want to run away alone.
After acquiring enough supplies I hitched a ride on a carriage heading back to the estate and ran as fast as I could through the nearby forest. The sun was rising and announcing the end of dawn.
When I arrived at the estate what remained were only red blood and horribly dead villagers. On the highest point of the estate—the top of our mansion—the flag bearing the Karavan family’s wolf emblem flew. My father’s head was stuck on that flag.
My father lay dead with his eyes wide open, and my mother lay in the yard as if peacefully asleep. My father’s helmet, armor, and sword were shattered like pieces of paper.
I saw the Swordmaster standing blankly among the corpses. The instant I saw him I fired the crossbow. The Swordmaster did not attempt to dodge or parry. The bolt I shot could not even scar his body and simply bounced off.
His gaze turned toward me. The moment our eyes met my body froze like ice. He spoke with a doll-like, emotionless face.
“You are not yet eighteen. Fortunately.”
“…….”
“I will spare you. Forget today and live your life. In a place like this village.”
He calmly wiped the blood from his sword and muttered. I did not know whose blood stained his blade.
“Curse your house. I did not expect the ‘Karavan’ to still exist on the continent.”
“…….”
“Hide your surname. And do not sire children.”
He looked at me coldly and said,
“If you inherit Karavan blood I will come for you again, wherever you are.”
It was a warning.
Pathetically, I could not even take plausible revenge on the Swordmaster who had destroyed everything I had. I became frozen at the mere moment our eyes met, and I could not move until he walked away at leisure. So pathetic. So utterly pathetic.
I had lost everything.
***
After the funeral I did nothing and wasted my time. Truly, I did nothing. Then I heard more about the Swordmaster who had taken everything from me. His name was Carlos, and he had become a great hero by great deeds in the war with the empire. Unlike the fanciful Karavan Swordmaster my father had babbled about, this one was for real.
A genius born once in a hundred years, the most powerful Swordmaster in history, a guardian who would protect the kingdom, a righteous watcher…… The man my father had described with boyish eyes existed in reality. Ironically, that great Swordmaster had taken from me everything I held dear. I crawled into the cold, empty mansion bedroom in the village where everyone had died.
Whenever I thought of him something boiled in my chest. Why was the man who ruined everything I had hailed as a hero? If gods worshipped by the kingdom’s religions existed, why did he not receive divine punishment? Instead of punishment, why did those who praised him only increase with time?
I could not understand it. Carlos became greater as time passed. No one in the world did not know Swordmaster Carlos. He was the Swordmaster among Swordmasters and by his great deeds became the continent’s foremost blade.
“Master, you must forget. It is the only way to live. Only then……”
The steward who had fled and returned told me to think it was a natural disaster. But I could not. How could I? I had seen with my own eyes what had happened. The memories still haunted me.
Hatred and desire for revenge deepened over time. I thought many times about killing him. I could not bear it. But it was practically impossible.
There was one reason.
“A Swordmaster can only be killed by another Swordmaster, Master.”
I had never even properly held a sword since I was born. I had no talent. I had bought a fencing manual with the little money I had and tried to train myself, but I lacked the sense to wield a blade or even to move my body well.
It was ironic. If I truly were the descendant of such a great house, why was I so insignificant?
Why did I tremble before the Swordmaster who had taken everything? Why……
After hard days I reached a decision. Was it right to live out a worthless life and grow old as he had said?
That might have been the wisest choice. But it was not a choice I could make.
The very fact of living in the same world as that man was unbearable. How could that demon still be praised and live on? Why was this world running so wrong? No matter how I thought about it, I could not accept it.
There were too many things I could not accept.
So my conclusion was clear. I would break the promise and oath I had last made to my mother.
I decided to become a Swordmaster.
From the moment I decided, a strange voice echoed in my head. Every time I looked at the large portrait hanging in the ruined mansion’s parlor, the voice rang in my ears. More precisely, it came from the long, sharp sword hanging beside that portrait—the Karavan family treasure that had not lost its edge after hundreds of years.
「Eat me.」