I swing my sword in the empty training hall.

No—perhaps “swinging” isn’t the right word.
It might be better to say I am in the process of swinging.
Because my sword—no, my hand—was frozen midair, unmoving.

To be exact, the purpose of this training was to make a single swing as slowly as possible.
At first, it was difficult even to maintain a single motion for a quarter of an hour.
But now, I could do it for a full hour.

And the enlightenment I gained through this training was—

..

…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I didn’t know the purpose of this training, or what realization I was supposed to find.
I was just doing it, without any real thought.
If there was a reason, it was only because I once saw my benefactor, the old man of Sichuan, practicing it from afar.

Of course, calling him my benefactor was one-sided.
I’d never even properly spoken to him.
There were hundreds of low-level warriors like me in the Murim Alliance.
This was after our numbers had already been thinned by the war against the Demonic Cult—there used to be far more.

I didn’t know what I was doing, why, or how.
I was only following in the steps of someone stronger, believing that if they did it, it must hold meaning.
Even knowing full well that such foolish training was unlikely to help me.

But I had no choice.

The only martial arts I knew were the Eight Courtly Swords and the internal art Courtly Method.
Judging by their ridiculous names, it was clear these weren’t the secret arts passed down by prestigious clans.
They were crude martial arts created to train the Alliance’s common soldiers.

The Courtly Method was more efficient than the low-grade Three Element Technique even street brats could learn,
but I could hardly call it excellent.
Still, I had no complaints.
Someone like me had no chance of acquiring anything better.

If I had any complaints, it would be with the Eight Courtly Swords I was practicing.
As the name suggested, this sword art consisted of eight simple forms—
so simple that it was questionable whether it even deserved to be called a martial art.

The eight forms were as follows:

A downward slash. An upward slash.
A diagonal cut from left to right downward, and one from right to left upward.
Then the same from right downward and left upward.
Finally, horizontal cuts from left to right, and right to left.

Just eight directions of sword swings.
Each form didn’t even have a name—
the instructor simply called them First Form, Second Form, and so on.
Thrusts weren’t even taught, since beginners were prone to exposing openings or missing their targets.

I couldn’t even argue.
Most of us learning this were orphans—trash no one would miss if we died tomorrow.
Even if we learned worthless sword forms, who would care?

They said that if one of us ever showed talent, they might be scouted elsewhere—
but in all the years I’d lived in the Alliance, I’d never once seen that happen.
The truly talented were taken long before they ever got here.
Otherwise—

“..Still doing that again?”

“Yerin…”

I heard a familiar voice behind me, but I didn’t turn.
I couldn’t stop the motion.
To complete this single swing, I needed another quarter of an hour of effort.

She was one of the few exceptions I knew—
a woman with dazzling talent who rejected the invitations of noble families
and chose to live freely in the Alliance as a minor officer.
Yerin.

Like me, she was an orphan.
And yet, she carried an elegance more fitting of a noble’s disciple.
She was my age, beautiful, and had already reached the realm of Transcendence at such a young age.
Her name could’ve easily shaken the martial world—
but she had no title, and few even knew her.

Rumor had it that rejecting the noble clans’ invitations had offended their pride,
and they’d conspired to suppress her fame.
There was no way to confirm it,
but it sounded reasonable enough to believe.

“That…”

“If you’re going to say it’s meaningless, don’t bother.”

“Alright.”

I cut her off before she could say more.
I’d heard that same line hundreds of times.
And honestly, I half-agreed.
But even so, I didn’t know any other way to train.

I kept doing it only because I believed that if someone stronger did it, it must mean something.
If I could grasp even a fragment of that meaning, maybe something inside me would change.

Yerin was my age.
That was all.
Even so, she treated a pathetic, ugly man like me as a friend.
And that was enough.
I never hoped for anything beyond that—I knew my place.

For someone like me—an orphan with a wretched face—
to marry and pass on his bloodline would be a sin.
To curse a child with my looks and poverty?
No, that kind of inheritance was better never given.

So I’d never once been interested in women.

To a genius who reached Transcendence so young,
someone like me must’ve seemed utterly pitiful.
She had walked the path I was still crawling on—
and I wasn’t even crawling straight, just circling in the same place.

And maybe, even after decades, I’d still never find the right path.

Years ago, when she’d just reached Transcendence,
I’d asked her what my sword’s future would be.
She only shook her head and refused to answer.
She told me,
A sword taught by another can never be your own.

Of course, back then, I was young and hot-headed.
I couldn’t accept such vague words—
especially from someone whose talent I secretly envied.
We ended up fighting bitterly over it.
Though we made up later,
it became one of those things we silently agreed never to mention again.

Even now, I sometimes recalled that day.
Or rather, her words.
A sword taught by another can never be your own.
For some reason, I was beginning to understand them.
Not just intellectually, but through experience—
beginning to grasp their meaning in the way of martial arts.

As I kept my eyes fixed on the tip of my motionless sword,
Yerin spoke again.

“Tomorrow, go to the Demonic Cult.”

At those words, the sword slipped from my weakening grip and clattered to the floor.
I turned to her blankly.
Her face was calm as ever—expressionless.
Unreadable.

Beautiful.
Even after years, she was breathtakingly beautiful.
Was this what they meant by beauty that could topple nations?
She was my age, yet felt like someone from another world.

“That means…”

“The final battle. Either the cult leader dies, or we do.”

“…”

I clenched my teeth.
Rumor had it the cult leader possessed strength worthy of being called the greatest under heaven.
And such a man had started this war to seize the martial world.

Countless lives had already been lost.
The only reason I was still alive in the Alliance—
was simple.
I was too weak to be useful.

At the start of the war, they’d sent everyone, even second-rate warriors like me, to the front.
But as time went on, the fighting shifted to elite strike units led by top experts.
Even hundreds of people like me couldn’t hold a candle to one Yerin.
And that was true for both the Alliance and the Demonic Cult.

The fact that I’d survived was sheer luck.
Now I was little more than a handyman, doing odd jobs and training whenever I had free time.

I didn’t even know the cult leader’s face,
yet anger welled up—both at him and at myself.
My only friend was walking into death,
and I could neither stop her nor stand beside her.
Because I was weak.
Pathetically weak.

So I said nothing.
And Yerin, giving a small nod, turned and walked away.

I stared blankly at her retreating back before picking up my fallen sword.

I had to train.

“..I’m back.”

“Ha… haha.”

Yerin returned alive.
Her body was wrapped in bandages,
but at least she hadn’t lost any limbs.
That was enough to call it “fine.”

Many who went with her were also wounded—
some had even lost arms or legs.
Yet none of their faces showed despair, pain, or anger.

Instead, they radiated joy—pure, triumphant joy.

The reason was obvious.
All around, people were shouting the same words over and over.

“The cult leader has fallen!”

“We’ve won!”

The cult leader was dead.

The Murim Alliance had won.

The war was over.