Sword Saint Airaven.
A name that rang across the continent.
Before him, the last to comprehend [Sword Extremity] had been Link, the Hero three hundred years ago, the man who had once saved humanity yet also brought catastrophe to all races.
But Airaven had not been born with such heaven-defying strength.
In fact, until age twelve he was merely a farm boy who had never even held a sword hilt.
His father had never been particularly hardworking. Though Airaven helped in the fields from a young age, the family still scraped by.
Their ancestors had supposedly been nobles, but by the time it reached father and son, nothing remained except the empty surname “Slayne.”
Airaven’s father had been an adventurer in his youth. It was during those wandering days that he met Airaven’s mother.
Like most low-tier adventurers, however, talent had limited his future.
No matter how hard he tried, he never rose above Silver rank.
On one mission he lost his left leg permanently and couldn’t afford expensive limb-regeneration potions. In the end he returned to the countryside with his meager savings and became a farmer.
The man often complained to anyone who would listen that fate was unfair, that talent divided people into castes.
By the time Airaven was ten, those complaints had turned into drunken violence.
The intoxicated father frequently beat his wife and child. Young Airaven’s greatest wish then was to grow up quickly and protect his mother.
Then one day, his father suddenly changed.
He quit drinking and stopped raising a hand against his family.
Though he still frequently left home and neglected farm work, to young Airaven these days were already far better than before.
Until the night of his twelfth year.
When his father struck his mother unconscious with a candlestick and dragged her toward a crudely drawn ritual circle made of cheap materials, Airaven finally understood.
His father hadn’t improved; he had simply fallen into a deeper abyss.
Hand of Passage.
Unlike today, when the cult had nearly vanished and many commoners didn’t even know it existed, back then the name struck terror across the land. They operated openly in the kingdom; even some ducal nobles secretly knelt at its altars.
His father’s endless bitterness had finally attracted the cult’s attention.
The silver-tongued cultists easily recruited the broken man as a peripheral member, filling his empty heart with promises of glory in the afterlife.
To pursue the cult’s promised afterlife splendor and rise within the dark organization, this deluded father decided to sacrifice his own wife to the god of death as proof of his devotion.
Witnessing this, the boy realized that the only one who could save his mother now was himself.
Trembling, he drew his father’s treasured adventurer longsword and pointed it at the man he had once called father.
Though crippled and far past his prime, the man had still been Silver rank.
At first, Airaven’s sneak attack was easily parried; he was kicked away.
Yet the boy’s swordsmanship grew at a terrifying rate. From barely dodging his father’s axe, to blocking strikes head-on, to finally parrying and thrusting through his father’s throat—the entire process took mere minutes.
Airaven was exactly the kind of genius his father had spent a lifetime resenting.
After that, Airaven became an adventurer. His talent was extraordinary. As his strength grew, so did his earnings. But some wounds could not be healed by gold.
His father’s betrayal completely shattered his mother’s spirit. The poor woman withered away and died when Airaven was fifteen.
From then on, though the youth now possessed power, he had also lost the thing he most wanted to protect.
He left his painful hometown and poured his entire being into the sword.
He traveled the kingdom far and wide, taking every kind of job: hunting demon spies in the army, guarding merchant ships, even surviving terrifying shipwrecks.
A mermaid saved him.
Unlike others of her kind who would sing enchanting songs and drag sailors to their deaths, she guided him to a deserted island.
In the days that followed, he taught her Common; she brought him strange treasures from the deep. They became friends.
Unfortunately, when Airaven realized she wanted to keep him on that island forever as her companion, he found a passing ship and slipped away.
Yet fate was not done with them. Soon after, he discovered he had been cursed.
From then on, whenever he sailed, sea beasts followed and attacked. Once he realized it was his fault, the future Sword Saint resigned himself to staying on land.
Back on the continent, Airaven continued his pursuit of the sword.
He sought out renowned swordmasters across the land, sometimes humbly learning, sometimes crossing blades.
With each victory and defeat, the name “Dual-Blade Airaven” began to spread through taverns.
Until he once again encountered the cult that had shaped his destiny.
At its peak, the Hand of Passage was no longer content with scattered secret sacrifices. They now planned to offer an entire city’s population as tribute!
An elven delegation passing through happened to be caught up in the crisis.
Before a blood-soaked altar, Airaven saved Galadriel Dusksong from a death priest’s grasp.
The two fought side by side and ultimately foiled the apocalyptic plot.
The incident shocked the kingdom’s leadership into fully purging the cult.
Airaven earned the elves’ friendship, permission to enter the Elven Forest, and even personal sword instruction from the Elven King.
There he learned many things. Aside from swordsmanship, his favorite [Moon Step] also came from the King’s teachings.
In moonlit elven courtyards, one could often see the youth sparring with the King’s daughter.
But good times did not last. When the same possessive light Airaven had once seen in the mermaid’s eyes began to shine in Galadriel’s, he found an excuse and left the forest before it could affect his sword speed.
For years after, he roamed the kingdom’s towns and cities, relentlessly hunting the cult.
Until one rainy night in an abandoned monastery, he personally beheaded the cult’s high priest.
In that life-or-death duel, he finally fused everything he had learned. His sword cut through dark magic and grasped the legendary [Sword Extremity].
That year, Airaven was only 27. Temple tier.
As the cult faded, the title “Sword Saint” rang across the land.
When traces of the cult finally vanished, Airaven took in dozens of orphans who had lost parents to the cult.
Most eventually became craftsmen or scholars. Only a few with sword talent trained under him.
Yet blades have no eyes. In the end, only Fifteen remained.
…
His body pierced by countless blood-crystal spears, the wind of the fall howling in his ears.
In his final moments, a lifetime of memories flashed before Airaven.
“What a pity…” the fading Sword Saint thought. “If I had just twenty percent more strength, that claw would have taken the blood Emperor’s head.”
But a human body had limits. Even the lycanthropy potion was merely an enhanced berserk drug.
In this last instant, Airaven inexplicably recalled his father’s old complaints.
This world truly was unfair.
But at least he had done all he could.
As consciousness sank into endless darkness, a strange sensation came.
Like waves washing over him, gradually dissolving something heavy from his being. His whole self grew light as a feather.
So this is death?
Not bad.
…
“Finally! Another new member for the mushroom race! The Lord said Number Fourteen has extraordinary potential. Perfect timing—Number Four got promoted, and my team needs talent like this!”
“What do you mean your team? Did you ask Fourteen what it wants?”
“Number Two, what are you implying?”
“What am I implying? Our squad clearly contributed the most last campaign. If anyone gets Fourteen, it should be us!”
“What contribution? That thing smashed down and everything died anyway. What difference does it make?”
“At least it proves my command is superior and I’m more fit to lead the mushroom race!”
A bunch of noisy voices drilled into his head.
Telepathy?
I’m not dead?
Who’s arguing with telepathy…
Airaven felt something thick and heavy covering him. A blanket?
He pushed with a little force and broke out of the mycelial cocoon.
Then he saw a crowd of… Puchis?!
The Puchis that had been fighting instantly stopped and swarmed over excitedly.
“Look! It’s out! It’s out!”
“Finally! We’ve been waiting half the day!”
Number One and Number Two crowded closest. “Welcome to the mushroom race family, Number Fourteen! From now on you’re our little brother!”
Airaven stared blankly at the mushroom monsters, then lowered his cap to feel his two short legs and four tentacles.
What the hell?
Do people turn into Puchis when they die???
(End of Chapter)
Author’s Note
The Human-Demon War arc is over. Volume 2 officially ends here.
Volume 3 will be Hero vs. Demon King.
In Volume 3, the Puchis will officially step into the spotlight. Of course, the main body (Lin Jun) will continue hiding as always; without a vest, Lin Jun has no sense of security.
The book is currently about halfway to two-thirds complete. The exact word count for the rest is still unclear.
There will be a Volume 4, but as the finale volume, it probably won’t be very long.
Honestly, when I first started writing this book, I never expected it to get popular, so the apocalyptic world-building wasn’t designed to be huge.
There will be new maps later, but they’ll be small ones, mainly to fill in various lore and settings. It won’t turn into a long-winded “new map every arc” story.
Tomorrow I’m taking a day off. Regular updates resume on Monday.
(End of chapter)
