Sacred Sword’s Sheath (Sacrifice) – Part 02
Several katanas forged by his father remained in the workshop, always within reach for inspection. Above all, as his son, he had witnessed his father’s remarkable achievements with his eyes for years. He knew well that his own swords were no match for his father’s. They might amaze the nations of the continent, or surpass the works of the Militant Nation’s sacred swordsmiths, but his father still outshone him. No matter how much he altered the blade’s structure or increased the number of folds in the forging process, his father’s pure skill as a blacksmith was in a class of its own. Yet even then, his father’s masterwork never reached the level of a Sacred Sword.
“Hannibal,” Hugo said, furrowing his brows. “Be more mindful of your words. You’re always overly critical of Luke’s work. The quality of this katana has significantly improved compared to his previous ones. That’s a fact deserving proper recognition. The technical exchange with the Militant Nation wasn’t a waste.”
Hannibal shrugged, offering no rebuttal.
“I wanted an objective opinion,” Luke said. “I don’t mind harsh critiques.”
Not that you’re any less harsh yourself, Luke thought bitterly. Conversations with Hugo always felt like sitting on a bed of nails.
Hugo, naturally affable, usually addressed others with respectful titles or polite language. But with Luke, he skipped such courtesies. Luke knew why.
Hugo didn’t recognize his skill. He didn’t see him as worthy of respect yet.
It started that day.
Luke believed this small change began on that day three years ago, when he caused the death of his father and childhood friend.
Luke bore no resentment. How could he? No matter what anyone said, he knew the truth: their deaths were his fault. It was a mistake he could never atone for. He didn’t expect forgiveness, and didn’t want it. He would carry this burden to his grave.
“Well?” Hannibal prodded, snapping Luke from his thoughts. “You’re not one to report progress without reason. You didn’t come here just to show us a mediocre katana, did you? There’s something else, right?”
“Glad we can cut to the chase,” Luke said, nodding. “I want to see the first Housman’s records. All of them.”
Hugo and Hannibal exchanged startled glances.
Everyone in the Independent Trade City knew of the first Housman, the visionary who built its foundations and repurposed Demon Pacts into Prayer Pacts. A historian of continental lore, his research was legendary, preserved as one of the city’s greatest treasures.
Hugo, though sharing the Housman name as mayor, had no blood relation to him. The first Housman, it was said, had been so consumed by research that he left no descendants.
“As the old goat said, I haven’t reached my father’s level yet,” Luke admitted.
“Well, that’s understandable,” Hugo replied. “Basil spent decades honing his craft, far more years than you’ve had. Bridging that gap in three years is—”
“I’ll bridge it,” Luke interrupted. He would, at any cost. “I have to forge the Sacred Sword that my father couldn’t. But the fact remains that I’m running out of time.”
Valbanill was expected to revive next summer. And alongside it was his private struggle: his soul withering away with each Infernal Blade he conjured. Hannibal and the others were unaware of this.
Neither the continent nor Luke himself had much time left.
“I may not be at my father’s level yet,” Luke continued, “but I think I’ve gotten closer to understanding the fundamentals of a Sacred Sword. Just a little further, one more step—that’s all I need. There’s something my father and I never grasped. I need that clue. The first Housman’s records reportedly cover everything: the continent’s origins, Aetheria, even Valbanill’s biology. I want to examine them from a blacksmith’s perspective.”
There were no guarantees the records would hold the answer. Luke had ideas of his own but couldn’t dismiss the possibility they might lead nowhere.
But Luke had decided to stop sitting idly by. He wouldn’t forge mindlessly anymore. Instead, he chose to try every option that came to mind.
“About time you got to work,” Hannibal said with a deep sigh. “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for this, you stupid brat?”
“My bad, you old fart.”
“Indeed, you’ve kept us waiting for a good while,” Hugo said. “And now you’ve finally decided to get serious, Master Blacksmith.”
Luke was caught off guard. Hugo was regarding him with a bright smile. Even Hannibal, despite his sharp tongue, allowed a faint smirk to creep across his face. They both seemed relieved.
They had been waiting. The meaning of those words slipped deep into Luke’s mind and sank in, and the realization struck his chest like a sharp pain.
These people had been waiting all along. They had patiently bided their time, waiting for him to regain his resolve, for him to move past the events of three years ago. They didn’t abandon him. Instead, they had determined it was best for him.
It was only now that he understood that he had kept them waiting for three entire years.
I’ve been nothing but a self-absorbed brat.
Yet they had endured. They somehow held onto their faith despite everything.
And now, at last, the moment had come. So much time had been wasted. Three whole years. Less than a year remained. Could he make up for lost time? Could he work hard enough to compensate for the time he had squandered? Would he make it in time?
I will. I have to.
He would give his all, stake his life on it. This was the responsibility Luke Ainsworth bore.
“Please,” Luke said, bowing his head. There was no hesitation. This was what he needed to do. “Help me out.”
He heard the sharp intake of breath from the two men in front of him.
“We have no reason to refuse,” Hugo said after a moment. “We have been waiting for this moment for a very long time.”
Luke raised his head to see Hugo nodding with a warm gaze. They mayor glanced toward the older man beside him.
“We’ll show you the First’s records,” Hannibal said after a long thought. “But be warned. There’s a mountain of material. Going through it all won’t be easy, so prepare yourself.”
Luke nodded firmly. The two men exchanged another glance before turning back to him.
“But before we hand over the records,” Hannibal began, “there’s something you need to know.”
“You’ll find it in the documents soon enough,” Hugo said. “So we might as well tell you now.”
“If you’d stayed a wuss, we’d have told you to give you motivation. But waiting until the last moment was the right choice.”
Their words flowed seamlessly, as if they had rehearsed the lines.
Luke frowned. He sensed something almost like an excuse in the way they spoke, their hurried manner betraying a hesitation.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
The two men froze, falling silent at the same moment. Luke’s suspicion deepened.
“Just tell me. Is there really something that would make you hesitate now?”
Hugo tried to speak, but Hannibal raised a hand to cut him off.
“I’ll explain.”
“Are you sure about this?” Hugo asked cautiously.
“Yes. It’s best if I’m the one to do it.”
“Very well. Please, go ahead.”
The relaxed atmosphere from earlier dissolved completely. In its place hung a heavy tension, pressing down on the room. Luke stood rooted to the spot, trying to make sense of the shift.
Hannibal eyed Luke grimly. “I’m going to tell you about the Sacred Sword’s Sheath.”
“Sheath?” Luke echoed, bewildered.
Every katana was a one-of-a-kind creation, forged by hand. Unlike mass production by casting, which became mainstream in response to the huge demand of the Proxy Pact War, blacksmiths painstakingly forged each katana individually. Likewise, the scabbard that accompanied it was equally unique. It was said that the Sacred Sword, too, was paired with a scabbard that matched its distinguished nature.
The Sacred Sword was renowned not only for its unparalleled ability to ward off misfortune but also for its excessive sharpness. To contain such lethal power—and protect it from the forces of evil—a special container existed: the Sacred Sword’s Sheath.
“But that’s just…” Luke trailed off.
Though rumored to exist, its whereabouts were a mystery. The Sacred Sword itself was currently sealing Valbanill, so it was easy to guess where it was exactly, but not the sheath. It was believed to be made from the same magnolia wood as Luke’s katanas, but everything else—the specific materials, the lacquer, the craftsman’s identity—was entirely unknown.
Luke frowned, turning the information over in his mind. Why bring this up now?
“The sheath you’re thinking of,” Hannibal said, “isn’t the same as the Sacred Sword’s Sheath we’re referring to.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a code.” Hannibal’s tone was deliberately matter-of-fact. “The term Sacred Sword’s Sheath refers to something else entirely.”
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