The Sword Demon's Single Strike

"…Try elsewhere."

Even so, Merea did not lay a hand.

A few of the merchant's lines had, no doubt, run against Merea's grain — but to blow up on that alone, Merea was not so infant.

To begin with — if he could not control his temper on a thing like this, he would not last.

— And — compared to the emotional volley with that one, this is still…

For an instant, in Merea's head, 〈Serius Brad Mūzeg〉's face flickered.

The exchange on the field with the grey-haired man — Merea had not forgotten.

Failing emotional control here, that strong-willed man would, eventually, exploit the gap. The fight with that man was, also, not over.

— Forgery is forgery.

The merchant's false-tale on Sword Demon was, for Merea, unbearable — but Sword Demon's life, mystery-laden as it was, becoming, good or bad, story-fodder, was a thing Merea had predicted.

The actual record is thin; in a sense, can't be helped.

*— In time, by the right method, I'll spread the true tale.

Even so — at some point, surely, I will see to it that no such false tale spreads.

A line of resolve surfaced internally; Merea, finally, settled his anger.

He gently pushed the merchant's body aside and made to walk on.

The Demon Lords behind, pent breath finally let out.

In the breath, a relief tinge mixed.

But —

"Th-, then! — The mistress there —"

The merchant was, thick.

He, without missing a beat, put his foot on a different, un-stand-onable mine.

The instant Merea declined, on a scrambling register, the merchant pivoted the push at Elma.

Following Merea forward, Elma had been about to step on; the merchant clung to her.

The Demon-God's step forward —

— stopped.

---

The merchant's eye worked in fragments.

That Elma carried a sword concealed under the cloak — the working-eye had clocked.

By that, to compare his sword against, on a clinging approach to Elma, without permission, he flicked the cloak aside —

"Look! Compared to the mistress's sword, this is —"

— and on a briefly visible 〈real Demonic Sword Krishra〉, on a nose-laugh, presented his sword.

Demonic Sword Krishra was a frighteningly clean blade.

In a different dimension entirely from a sword whose only flashy point is its trim.

Specialised, single-mindedly, in cutting, the sword had no waste.

Once drawn, the blade-line itself was captivating; but inside the scabbard, it was not flashy.

So — the merchant misread.

And the merchant's worst mistake — in front of Elma, and above all in front of Merea, sneering at her demonic sword.

"…"

Merea, on the merchant's voice landing, stopped his foot — and, not turning, kept silence.

That he did not turn at once made the comrades' heart-rate spike.

Merea knows by what path Elma's demonic sword was made.

And — what Elma carries about the demonic sword, also.

The Sword Emperor's demonic sword was forged by the first Sword Emperor — Elma's ancestor, the founder of the Eluiza house — to become a hero for those who could not fight.

Merea knew the Dark War Era's specifics only thinly, but in that time they had tried to be heroes for someone — easily inferred from Elma's stories.

The 〈Thirty-Eight Heavenly Sword Brigade〉's history also still stands.

They lived that age in earnest, walking what they believed was the right road.

Whatever the result, their thoughts layer up in the demonic sword.

And — Elma carries pride in their pride.

While carrying responsibility for having produced a 〈Seven Imperial Weapon〉, Elma does not hate her ancestors' line.

She, also, day by day, contests with the Demon Lord tag in her search for being a hero for someone.

The demonic sword is, for her, an irreplaceable presence — a vessel of all those threads.

"How much."

"Eh?"

Merea, behind the merchant's back, finally turned and asked.

The merchant, on a startled snap-back —

"T-, ten silver, sir!"

— answered glad.

"Right. — Shaw."

"Have it on me."

"Off my pocket-money, please."

"This round — on the house."

"Owe you."

Cutting the brief talk with Shaw, Merea, slowly, took a step toward the merchant.

The merchant, fidget-fidget, still glad.

Merea, then, addressed Riina, who'd been by Salman's side waiting for the matter to close.

"Riina — that wood-stick you picked up outside earlier — give it to me."

"Eh—"

Riina had a small wood-stick in hand and was scratching the stone floor with it. Less twig, more thin branch — too slim for a cane.

"Later — I'll buy you a candy."

"Yours!"

On Merea's offer, Riina, glad, tossed the branch.

Merea caught it, and as if checking the thickness, ran his palm down the surface.

A motion almost like checking a sword-blade.

"This is, just a wood-stick — but —"

— Merea, addressing the merchant who was tilting his head at the action-sequence, said it.

"Y-, yes."

To the abrupt line, the merchant returned a vacant sound.

"Hand-tap and it'd snap, more or less."

"S-so it would, yes."

"And — your — no — sir's — sword from the said-to-be-used-by-〈Sword Demon Shin Mu〉 line — is, you say, celebrated."

"Shin…?"

"Ah — fine — if you don't know, fine. No need."

The merchant tilted again; Merea, on a cool gaze, looked at the sword in his hand.

"Surely — the cutting-edge is sharp. Sturdy."

"Yes — on that, without question."

"Right."

Merea, on a flat face, nodded.

After the nod, slowly, motion.

He raised the branch held in his hand to the heavens.

Like — bringing a sword to the upper-stance.

"Using 〈Sword Demon Shin Mu〉's craft is, for me, rare. That craft is, even now, deep, and bringing the feel down to me takes labour and time — so I rarely use it. — Mind, against that level of dullness, it'll work."

"Eh?"

"Hold. Don't move."

To the about-to-strike-down motion, the merchant, startled, tried to step back.

But Merea, on words, froze him.

A quiet voice, but a sharp one.

And —

Pin — like a tightening string.

For an instant, the air strained.

In the gap of the bustle, a frightening sword-aura came off Merea's body and ran the street.

In the next —

"—"

At a speed the eye could not catch, the raised branch came down.

Like a single rain-drop falling straight from sky, quietly, smoothly, it fell to ground.

The sword-flash that vertically halved the heaven-and-earth —

"Ah —"

— had, on the merchant's presented fake demonic sword, halved the blade in two.

Just a wood-stick swinging.

But the moment it was swung by Merea, it was, more than any famed sword, sharp.

The merchant, with unbelieving eyes, looked at the sword in his hand.

Mouth open — agape.

"Letting you in on it. The real 〈Sword Demon〉 did not pick a sword. So — a celebrated sword used by the Sword Demon does not exist."

To the merchant, Merea said it.

"The Sword Demon treated anything as a sword. What he pursued was the phenomenon of cutting itself. If anything, he avoided relying on a good sword at the start. — Post-death, he seemed to come round to it, mind."

As if releasing the held anger in one stroke, Merea laid the words down.

"And — one more. The Sword Demon did not massacre innocents. He did, certainly, look for those who could be cut — but he never raised hand on those off the way of fighting."

The point Merea could not overlook lay there.

"The reason he was called 〈Sword Demon〉 was not that he massacred innocents and vice stood out. In passing, while pursuing the road of the sword, he killed a wicked-era Demon Lord at the time. ……Yes — Shin Mu was, certainly, mad on the sword. On top of that — that he could take down a Demon Lord on the side as a passing thing, the anomaly of it, plus no other public achievement — earned him the Demon-class title."

Merea, in his head, ran the 〈Sword Demon〉-name-debate he'd had with Salman recently and the stories of contemporary Heroic Spirits.

"If the contemporary title-system had decided rank only on power-order, regardless of feat-size, he might have been called 〈Sword God〉, by some readings. The man himself — didn't care, he'd said."

Sword Demon Shin Mu had little interest in worldly matters.

"…Probably Shin Mu would, on hearing the kind of false tale you just told, not care and let it pass. Even told to his face — perhaps he'd let it slide. — But."

In Merea's eyes, a firm light.

The anger, just settling, was boiling again at the bottom of his stomach.

"Even if the Sword Demon would forgive — I will not."

As Sword Demon had his pride, Merea has his.

After Merea said that, the halved fake demonic sword fell from the merchant's hand.

It bounced on the stone floor with a clear-light sound.

But Merea, on the fallen sword, did not even glance.

"I'll pay properly. But don't ever use that pitch in front of me again. Elsewhere — fine. That is your freedom."

Cutting the line, Merea took a step toward the merchant.

The merchant, on the forward, body-jolt; his agape shifted into a faint dread.

Merea took another step, finally reaching arm-length.

And, gently setting a hand on the merchant's shoulder, said —

"Ah — but, if indirectly the pitch reaches my ear —"

A whisper gentle to the ear, on a bewitching tone, the demon-god murmured.

"— I'll come back to buy more product."

So saying, finally, Merea turned on his heel.

The merchant, eyes hollow, frozen in place.

Past the standing-statue merchant, the other Demon Lords slipped through.

Last past him was Shaw, who took the merchant's hand and pressed the pay-coins into it — on a bewitching small smile, he said —

"From next time — pick your marks better. Pushing on anyone-and-everyone is not the answer. And — if you want to play clean-shaped, put real effort into the feet too. Shoes — worn, yes? — Your inner greed surfaces on your feet."

Shaw, last, added on a fellow-merchant's wishing your trade prospers, and followed his comrades.

Left in the street, the merchant — Ralbas — stood, vacant, watching their backs.

Until the clown Caesar arrived, he stayed that way.