Amy of the Lower District

Amy carefully wiped the antique short sword in her hand. The blade was so short—barely fifty centimeters long—that it was impossible to perform even the most basic blocks from swordsmanship; it was also terribly old, its red and black surface riddled with rust, so only when the sunlight occasionally slipped through the forest canopy could the faint glint of steel be glimpsed along its edge. If weapons had age, had generations, then this would be the venerable grandfather among them.

But for weapons, there was no such thing as growing stronger with age.

Weapons of less than heirloom quality would gradually become brittle under the assault of time, sometimes shattering at the slightest impact during battle. Even the heirlooms crafted by ancient masters often fell far short of those made by modern artisans—new forging techniques, new materials: the art of metallurgy and weapon-making was ever-advancing, with superior arms always destined to replace the old relics.

Yet this short sword was different.

Bloodshadow, as the sword was called, was an ancestral heirloom of the Ulysses family—a blade tempered by the sacred fire.

The fire of tempering was no ordinary household flame, but the very spark of civilization itself. Heirloom weapons represented the pinnacle of human craftsmanship; while there might be room for minor advances in metallurgy or forging, genuine breakthroughs required something more: the Fireseed. Fireseed was the origin of civilization, the embodiment of order. A weapon tempered by Fireseed was untouched by time, immune to the taint of chaos—a true sacred relic of order.

But such treasures were rare beyond measure.

So rare, in fact, that fewer existed than there were Fireseeds in human possession—true treasures in every sense.

Yet that was all. Other than being a little sharper, it possessed no special qualities—at least, that was Amy’s opinion.

Her name was Amy Ulysses. The given name Amy, aside from being slightly feminine, was unremarkable. The family name, however, was a privilege reserved for the Glorified—those whose ancestors had brought honor, whose blood was noble by birth. Even though their fortunes had faded, and their former power was lost, theirs remained a lineage that once produced a Chosen One, a family that carried the great blood of the Ancients.

No matter how far they fell, their lives remained dignified.

But that was only the general rule.

The Ulysses family’s circumstances were unique. Their decline began long ago, and in recent years, they had even offended the lord of Herumtika. In the age of city-states, the city lord was always chosen from the most powerful Glorified families, and even with the council as a check, their influence was immense.

Thus, after the disappearance of his parents, Amy wisely sold off the family property and moved to the lower districts to make a living—or at least, that was the phrase. With the proceeds from those sales, he was still quite wealthy. But life in the lawless "slum" meant frequent encounters with less-than-friendly types.

That was no simple matter—the bruises all over his body bore witness.

Those were the handiwork of Giant Paul.

Giant Paul was a fearsome lieutenant under the emperor of the lower districts, Michelangelo. He stood nearly two and a half meters tall, with muscles so thick they threatened to split his clothes, and a face so broad and brutish it resembled a gorilla walking upright—truly the embodiment of menace.

Yet for all his muscle, his wits were lacking—a fact that vexed Amy greatly. Paul was the very definition of someone who could only see short-term gain, and the term “short-sighted” might as well have been coined for him. He never used that brawny head to consider that even a cornered rabbit will bite—let alone a person. The way he collected protection money was a death sentence; it drove people to desperation. Better to gamble on the mercy of the upper districts than to commit slow suicide in the squalor below.

But, fortunately, that was now someone else’s problem.

After all, the dead do not speak.

Amy stood, dusted himself off, carefully stowed the short sword in his sleeve, and glanced up at the sky, where clouds hung so thick they seemed to blot out the day. With a wry tone, he muttered, “Let’s hope our emperor this time picks someone with a bit more sense… not too much, though. If he’s too clever, it’s me who’ll be in trouble.”

If possible, he’d rather not provoke the emperor of the lower districts.

Michelangelo’s power rivaled many of the Glorified. The lower districts, though so named, covered a far broader area than the upper, and their population was vastly larger. City-states still bore the marks of ancient times, when people clustered around Fireseed, but swelling populations had forced cities to be divided by two walls: the upper city, the lower city, and the Mists.

The upper districts were home to the city’s elites, living safe and comfortable lives under the protection of Fireseed, while the lower districts were the domain of artisans, mercenaries, farmers—the petty citizenry, and the place with the worst law and order. As for the Mists, that was the true danger zone: shrouded in nameless fog year-round, rumors abounded of monsters lurking within.

It was said that Michelangelo owed his reign as emperor of the lower districts to the help of those monsters.

Of course, that was impossible to confirm.

Just hearsay.

Still, there was a wealth of implication in such rumors—monsters were the claws of chaos, enemies of all living things, haunting the perpetual mists. Sometimes, they broke free of the Fireseed’s sway to wreak bloody havoc in the lower city.

If those rumors were true, then the intervention of the Order was inevitable.

The Order had no name—its name was simply the Order. It was humanity’s sword and shield, the guardian of civilization and order, and in this dark age, it was the only organization with unified administration across multiple city-states. Even the city councilors and the lords themselves held a degree of apprehension toward the Swordbearers of the Order.

To bear the sword was to bear the oath.

Swordbearers stood as judges, beyond the reach of secular authority.

Yet the Order seldom meddled in worldly politics; it seemed uninterested in the affairs of the world. Only relics of the Ancients or incursions of chaos could draw its attention.

To consort with monsters was a grave crime.

Since the fall of the Evernight Wall and the end of the age of kings, humanity had lost any hope of standing against the blind, mad things of chaos, forced to cower under the protection of the Fireseed, defending themselves against the omnipresent darkness behind city walls.

There were rumors the Order was preparing to reclaim the Evernight Wall and end the age of darkness, but rumors were just that. If the tide of chaos were so easily halted, the once-glorious age of kings would not have been swept away in a single night. That age was the pinnacle of human civilization, the era of great expeditions into the domains of chaos, refusing to be penned behind the Evernight Wall.

Compared to that, the present age was nothing but ignorance and decline.

From barren lands, no highland flower can bloom; no matter how legendary the Order, its strength could not be built on air, but must rest on a solid foundation. Isolated city-states, cut off like islands, could never nurture a truly mighty civilization. The Order’s power, however superhuman, must have a limit—a threshold that could not be crossed.

Perhaps that limit was beyond imagination, but it could not rival the age of kings.

So, it was just a rumor—no more credible than Michelangelo’s supposed pact with monsters.

But the rumor of consorting with monsters… when considered carefully, something was amiss. Regardless of whether it was true, even if Michelangelo had dealings with those abominations in the Mists, who would dare risk the emperor’s wrath by spreading such a dangerous tale, unless some other power was fanning the flames from behind the scenes?

It seemed trouble was brewing in the lower city.

This realization dawned belatedly on Amy. He was unfamiliar with the lower districts, knowing only the emperor, Michelangelo, and his handful of local enforcers; the rest were a mystery. But just because he’d never heard of them didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Just as the sun’s brilliance hides the lesser lights, so too did Michelangelo’s might eclipse all others.

But even the sun must set.

And now, it seemed, that time had come.

“It seems I’ve gotten myself mixed up in something extraordinary,” the boy finally admitted, resting his hand against his brow as he grasped the gravity of the situation.

But what was done was done, and regret was useless. What mattered now was to devise an explanation—a story that could keep him perfectly hidden.

“Honestly… how did I lose control at such a delicate moment? I really am the unluckiest soul alive.”

Amy heaved a deep sigh. No matter how he looked at it, to have offended the most powerful man in the lower districts his very first day here did not bode well for the future. If things went poorly, bloodshed was all too possible. The title of Glorified sounded impressive, but behind all glory lay real power. An empty reputation might earn a little respect, but when core interests were at stake, words meant nothing—only fists and blades mattered.

Worse still, Amy possessed neither. Among the hungry wolves circling, he was more helpless than any rabbit.

“Honestly…” He seemed to want to say more, but his words were abruptly cut off.

—Knock. Knock. Knock.—

The ring on the door was rapped gently, like the chime of a death knell.