Prologue – Part 01
The master glanced at the sword she’d handed him and frowned.
“You want this reforged? That’s asking for the impossible.”
The smithy. A dim, cramped workshop that reeked of burnt charcoal, reminiscent of something ancient than new. The high-pitched clanging of hammers filled the air. Near the furnace where the master sat, three apprentices hammered away at a glowing piece of iron. One held the iron with tongs, guiding it under the smaller hammer, while the others took turns with sledgehammers. Their powerful blows scattered sparks across the floor, some landing near her feet as she watched from a distance.
The heat inside was stifling. Charcoal burned fiercely in the furnace, and in another corner, molten iron was being poured into molds. Within minutes of arriving, she felt sweat beading under her clothes.
The master was an old man, with white hair and deep wrinkles. Dressed in soot-stained work clothes, he was smoking a rolled cigarette. He ran his eyes and fingers over the sword, quickly appraising it before sighing heavily.
“It’s old, made post-war, basic continental design. It’s damaged all over, and even if you reforged it, the material’s already spent. It’s at the end of its life.”
The sword was a simple, double-edged blade with no embellishments. Its surface had a dull sheen to it, and it was chipped in several places, both signs of heavy use. As the master had pointed out, a thin crack ran across the tip.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” she asked, her voice tense. “It cracked during training.”
The master shook his head firmly. “No chance. If you really want to reuse this, you’d have to melt it down and start fresh. But that’s not what you want, is it?”
She nodded.
“Then you’re out of luck. And besides, we don’t do reforging here.”
He glanced toward the molding station. Iron poured into dozens of molds was billowing with steam.
“We’re a forge that specializes in molds. We produce swords to order, according to the customer’s specifications, then ship them out. It’s not just us—most forges in this city, and across the continent, operate the same way. Only the well-known workshops—those run by nobles or royalty—still forge swords one at a time. Used to be more of those around, but the war changed everything.”
She crossed her arms and let out a frustrated groan. This was a problem.
“Why not just get a new one? This sword’s seen a lot of use, but it’s nothing extraordinary. I doubt its performance is worth all this trouble.”
The master’s logic was sound, but she couldn’t bring herself to agree. This sword was special to her. If only there were something that could take its place.
She longed for a sword that felt as special as this one.
“You’re with the Knight Guard, aren’t you?” the master asked, sizing up her gear.
She wore black underlayers with spaulders, breastplate, boots, and a pendant—a light outfit but in compliance with the uniform regulations of the Independent Trade City’s Knight Guard.
“Knights are public servants, so you must be loaded. You can afford a pricey sword. There’s a fair next month—maybe you’ll find something there. Word on the street is an Infernal Blade will be up for sale.”
“Master, I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said softly, correcting him. “It’s a common misconception, but the city’s Knight Guards are different from typical knights. While knights in other places often come from noble backgrounds, ours are recruited from the general populace. And although it’s a public service role, salaries can vary widely. I, in particular, don’t have the luxury to choose just any weapon I want. An Infernal Blade will forever be out of my reach.”
“Oh, I see. So even though you’re a knight, you’re still essentially a regular citizen.”
“That’s right.”
“And yet you seem a bit different.” The master stroked his chin thoughtfully. “For a regular citizen, you carry yourself with a certain grace.”
She offered a slight smile. “The Campbell family used to be nobles. It’s just a relic from those times.”
But for now, the issue was the weapon.
At that moment, one of the apprentices burst into the workshop, looking flustered. He approached her rather than the master.
“Hey, you’re a Knight Guard, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“There’s some homeless guy causing a scene outside. It’s turning into quite a commotion.”
She frowned and glanced at the master, who handed the sword back to her with a knowing nod.
“You’re off duty today, aren’t you?”
“That’s not a valid reason,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me. Should the chance arise, I’ll see you again.”
She sheathed the sword and turned to leave, but as she trotted towards the exit, the master called after her.
“One last thing before you go.”
She looked back over her shoulder.
“This is the first time I’ve seen a female knight,” the man said, puffing on his cigarette. “Could you tell me your name?”
“I’m Cecily Campbell.” She put on a soft smile. “A Knight Guard from the Third District of the Independent Trade City.”
Sunlight blinded Cecily momentarily as she stepped out of the workshop. She needed time for her eyes to adjust from going from a dim space to the bright outdoors.
Shops lined both sides of the street, creating a long, narrow corridor. The workshop she had visited was at the far end of this shopping district. Most of the other stores dealt in small goods and everyday items.
In the independent trade city of Housman, Third District, Central Avenue was a bustling shopping street known for its variety of goods.
But at that moment, the usual flow of people had ground to a halt. The street was filled not with lively conversations, but murmurs and a growing crowd.
“What’s happening?”
“I can’t see a thing. What’s going on?”
“I think someone’s causing a scene.”
Amid the fragmented conversations, a woman’s scream rose from the back of the crowd, followed by a man’s angry shouts and rising chaos.
From above the sea of people, Cecily spotted the silhouette of an axe being raised.
“This is bad.”
She took off, her boots pounding against the cobblestones. Her tall, well-built figure moved with the swiftness of the wind, her straight hair bouncing on her shoulders with each stride. Her red eyes were focused ahead, and her lips were drawn into a tight line.
“Move aside!” she shouted, and the stunned crowd parted, creating a path.
Female knights were uncommon in the city, and the breastplate accentuated her somewhat ample chest, drawing curious glances, but Cecily ignored them and dashed straight ahead.
“I’m with the Knight Guards!” Bursting out from the crowd, Cecily saw a man wildly swinging an axe in the space created by the gawking onlookers. “What are you do—”
An overpowering stench hit her. The man wore a tattered coat with frayed edges and filthy shoes. His unkempt hair, unshaven face, and bare feet marked him as a vagrant. The foul stench seemed to be a mix of alcohol and body odor. His advanced age was evident from his wrinkled skin.
He was yelling incoherently, brandishing the axe in his right hand while flailing his empty left hand to keep everyone at bay. The crowd retreated back.
Cecily gasped. His fingers were missing. His left hand was mangled, with the pinky, ring, and middle fingers all gone.
But before she could process it further, the man let out a primal roar, snapping her back to her senses. Tears streamed down his face as he lunged at her. Cecily instantly drew her sword, blocking the axe’s downward swing. She gritted her teeth against the tingling sensation in her arms.
Sword and axe grinded against each other, producing a grating, metallic screech. Despite the man’s apparent age, his strength was shocking. Slowly, he was pushing Cecily’s sword back. She locked eyes with him, refusing to lose ground.
But then she faltered. The man’s eyes were bloodshot. He growled like a feral animal, saliva dripping down to his throat as his rugged breaths fanned her face. Tears streamed endlessly from his eyes.
“Why… Why am I being persecuted? Why is there no salvation for me?”
His face was hideously twisted. His breath, his gaze, his tears, his stench—all of it sapped Cecily’s fighting spirit.
“Wh-What…?”
What kind of man was this?
A shiver ran through her. A mix of disgust and fear of the unknown dulled her strength, and much to her chagrin, she was reminded of something she had forgotten until now. This was her first real combat.
“Why?!”
Frustrated, the man pulled back and swung the axe again, hammering down with brute force. He wasn’t trying to cut her—he was trying to break her. A reckless attempt to crush his enemy, fueled by raw, mindless violence.
Cecily was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his assault. Meeting his gaze alone drained her strength. Her muscles stiffened, her legs froze. The techniques and footwork she had learned in training fled her mind. All she could do was block the wild swings. Sparks flew with each clash, and every impact was increasingly pinning her to the ground.
“Ugh…”
Get a grip, Cecily Campbell, she told herself. People are watching you!
Cecily brandished her sword with all her might. Without composure, she relied entirely on her arm strength. Her grip was shaky, and her strike was as awkward as an amateur’s. The man blocked the blow with the blade of his axe.
Clang!
“What…”
The impact felt off. Cecily failed to grasp immediately what had happened.
Frozen in place, Cecily heard a sharp sound behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the tip of a sword embedded in the ground. The upper half of her weapon’s blade was gone.
My sword… The Campbell family’s sword!
The momentary disbelief left her vulnerable. The man’s shadow fell on her, and she looked up too late.
The axe’s deadly edge closed in on her head, slicing through the air. Cecily, powerless, could only watch it fall.
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