Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Sword Bearer and the One of Radiance

As the enforcer of doctrine and the purifier of heresy, the Swordbearer’s martial prowess rivals, and in some respects even surpasses, that of Hemtica’s de facto rulers. That distinction lies in their abilities.

Unlike the Luminaries, whose powers are rooted in their bloodline, the Swordbearers derive their strength from a mysterious substance implanted within their bodies, known as “stigmata.” Its origins and workings remain unknown, but through the Church’s transcendent technological mastery, this enigmatic material bestows upon its host three to five times the physical capability of an ordinary person, along with a gift of power beyond mortal comprehension.

Were that all, the ruling Luminaries would not be so wary. Luminaries, too, possess extraordinary abilities, their physical strength outstripping that of a Swordbearer bearing a single stigmata by two or three times. Moreover, their innate talents are more potent and easier to control. Save for rare exceptions like Amy, whose powers have no practical use in direct combat, most Luminaries, when pitted against a one-stigmata Swordbearer, hold an overwhelming advantage.

Yet the very term “one-stigmata” points to a deeper truth.

Each implantation leaves a distinct mark upon the body, hence the name “one-stigmata.” Where there is one, there may be two, three, four, even five—though bearing more than three, a Swordbearer is elevated to the rank of Grand Swordbearer, a pinnacle of strength so rare that even within the Church’s headquarters they are few.

Thus, Swordbearers are simply categorized as one-stigmata or two-stigmata.

Before Amy stood a young woman, her great cross-shaped sword leveled at his throat—a Swordbearer of the second rank, twice baptized. Though her physical prowess remained slightly inferior to a Luminary’s, and her ability to wield her powers at will was still limited, she possessed a terrifying trait: the stigmata’s powers were cumulative.

Two stigmata did not merely double her might; she could command two distinct supernatural abilities at once. Everyone knew that, under certain circumstances, one plus one could not simply equal two. Multiple abilities meant more flexible tactics and vulnerabilities harder to discern. The true terror of a two-stigmata Swordbearer lay in their capacity to wield two entirely different powers simultaneously—wind and fire, or perhaps long-range vision and lethal precision.

Faced with such a foe, even the most seasoned Luminaries would hesitate.

Let alone the Grand Swordbearers—the apex of the Church’s might. Even in Hemtica, where only a sliver of their strength was visible, the Church’s depths were unfathomable.

Amy narrowed his eyes, then calmly regarded the woman who held his fate in her hands. She was young, perhaps only three or four years his senior, and not tall—half a head shorter than he. She wielded a cross-shaped sword nearly as tall as herself, its sacred silver gleaming. Her golden hair, freed from its band, cascaded down her back. Her features were exquisite, her emerald eyes as pure as jade, and her expression as cold and unruffled as a frozen lake.

A true beauty.

With his life hanging by a thread, the young Luminary still found a moment to marvel. It was not resignation, nor was he dazzled by her looks. He had already discerned her identity: a two-stigmata Swordbearer, her precise powers unknown but surely linked to strength and wind, capable of overwhelming him in combat. Such a Swordbearer would not appear without cause, especially with a Grand Swordbearer fallen and the cultists’ movements uncertain. Her presence in the lower district could mean only one thing: to investigate the Dark Council’s artificial demon project, and, if possible, to purge it.

“If you seek Amy Ulysses, that’s me.”

Yet Amy felt no relief at surviving. It was not merely the lethal blade at his throat, nor the battered house nearby. The real reason was this: the Swordbearer he had counted on to draw the attention of the lower district’s factions had appeared in his own home—and mistaken him for an ally.

Which meant—

A bitter smile tugged at Amy’s lips.

Checkmate.

He had hoped the apple that tumbled unexpectedly onto the board would disrupt the tangled game. Instead, it had turned the situation into a muddle, rolling right next to its instigator. Far from staying above the fray, he found himself thrust once again into the heart of every conflict, forced to cross the river first.

“You—” The Swordbearer was not satisfied with his answer. Her emerald gaze remained unmoved, her great sword trembling slightly as she drew a thin, shocking line of blood across his neck. Her voice was cold, tinged with disdain. “Too weak.”

Too weak.

Amy could not refute it.

Compared to other Luminaries, he truly was weak—so weak he could not bear the glory in his veins, nor shoulder his brotherly duty. He had often wondered: if it were he, not Yulia, who lost health and light and was confined to a wheelchair for life, might things have been better? After all, his sister possessed a talent so rare it shone even among the children of glory.

By contrast, his own death-omen, a card to be played in desperation, seemed a trivial appendage.

But fate offers no “what if.” Such thoughts were only proof of cowardice. Born as the elder brother, he must shoulder that responsibility, whether his path led through storm or gale, whether he faced Galsworthy, ruler of Hemtica, or the scheming dark wizard Alfred. He had to stand tall, confront them, and sweep them into history’s dustbin.

It sounded arrogant, didn’t it? How could one who could not best a two-stigmata Swordbearer hope to overthrow the Luminary house that had ruled Hemtica for nearly three centuries, renowned as the strongest? How could he slay the Dark Lords, who stood atop the world, their power alone threatening the city’s very existence?

Impossible?

What a joke. If he himself believed it impossible, how could he ever make it happen?

Some things can only be known by trying. If one life wasn’t enough, then two; if two failed, then three!

No one in this world has the right to gamble with his life, no one!

The young Luminary, more aware than anyone of the terror of death because of his ability, least of all wished to die. Yet he would never shrink before death, nor let fear dictate his actions. He knew clearly: death was simply that, and in life, some things mattered more than life itself.

“Yes, I am still too weak.”

He raised his head, his eyes dark as the night meeting the Swordbearer’s gaze without flinching—though her sacred silver sword could end him at any moment, his expression remained unshaken, his voice calm and frighteningly rational.

Yes, he was weak—so weak he could not protect himself, let alone those he loved.

But that did not mean he could not grow stronger.

Though his death-omen ability was useless in direct combat, in battles among the extraordinary, where knowing an enemy’s power could swing the odds, this unremarkable ability, if used well, could reverse the whole game in an instant. What he lacked was the strength to seize those chances and create miracles—he had yet to gain the combat power befitting his gift.

Even with his uncanny battle instincts, he could not change the fact he’d learned only rudimentary swordplay, and with the Ulysses family's decline and loss of bloodline tempering techniques, he had no way to refine his lineage or further unlock his potential.

Thus, he could still become stronger—he had room to grow, to master his fate and protect his last kin.

But it would take time.

He would have to—create time.

First, eliminate the Dark Council’s cancer, then clear his own name and handle the ticking bomb that was Giant Paul. If all went smoothly, the suffocating whirlpools in the lower district would dissipate, and he could regain some semblance of peace.

Of course, that was not the ideal solution.

What method could be better than pushing the Swordbearer forward, drawing the factions’ attention, and hiding in the shadows to hone his sword and power in comfort?

Yet that best plan now seemed impossible.

Glancing regretfully at the blade at his throat, Amy let out a low sigh.

Perhaps it was this sigh that drew the Swordbearer’s attention. She lowered her eyes, dangerous light flickering in her emerald gaze.

“How will you prove it?”

If he failed to satisfy her, she would, without doubt, swing her sword.

—Take life. Bring death.