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In the end, I had no choice but to go along with the old man.

Why?

Simple — because Number Six yielded.

I wanted to ask, “What about my own will?” but it seemed the matter had been elevated to something elves as a whole couldn’t refuse, and Number Six bowed her head.

“I’ve been swinging a sword for, what, three hundred and fifty years now? Somewhere along the way they started calling me ‘Sword Saint.’ I was wildly popular back then.”

As we walked to the designated open field, the old man talked.

I wasn’t interested in an old man’s yarns, but if he’d lived over 350 years, he must have fought in the war with the Empire.

I figured tales from that time might be worth hearing.

“‘Both hands full of flowers’? Hah, I had bouquets. Back then you could squeeze a chest or stroke a rump and they’d just squeal — no slaps flying. It was the perfect era.”

But no matter how long I waited, all I heard was his bragging.

And since it was mostly lechery, listening made me envious… no, outrageous.

“Still, in the end I never advanced beyond relying on this thing… no, that was the conclusion I reached. However much I swung a blade, I realized I’d grow far stronger by leaning on its power.”

Even so, when I kept listening, he shifted to hard-luck stories.

He ignored my hope for “Anything about the Empire yet?” and we neared what looked like the chosen clearing.

Tapping the nasty-looking sword still in its scabbard, the old man glanced back at me.

“Then an anomaly showed up that this wouldn’t work on. The ‘Nightmare.’”

“And? Are you going to tell me what that is?”

Since I was walking with baggage, I wrote in my memo as we moved and showed it to him.

Perhaps because my letters got wobbly, it took him a moment, then he answered happily.

“Oh, this is what they call a ‘Spirit Sword.’ In other lands they say ‘Holy Sword’… but this is the original. Nowadays the clergy use them like props and it’s pitiful… but in my hands it’s a different beast.”

I hadn’t thought it was just a magic sword; apparently it was something else entirely.

I’d never seen or heard the term “Spirit Sword.”

I had heard of holy swords; maybe once they passed into human hands, their treatment changed over time.

The problem was, I knew nothing of its power.

It was undoubtedly some magical thing.

Frankly, I could no longer hide my wariness toward a sword that radiated such abnormal pressure.

“So, I have to confirm whether this works on you. I’m venerated as a guardian of the elves, you see? If I don’t check, it causes problems.”

The logic I understood.

Being dragged into it wasn’t fun, but the elder was trying to fulfill his duty properly.

As a former Imperial soldier, if he invoked duty, brushing him off felt wrong.

Accepting why Number Six had to yield, I decided to treat this as earning another favor.

“Here should do, eh?”

The elder turned toward me and, in the same motion, yanked the Spirit Sword free and tossed the scabbard away.

I set my bundle down by Number Six and stepped forward to close the distance.

(Ugh… maybe I rushed this…)

As I approached, the Spirit Sword began to glow.

Small lights drifted around its wielder, and a dazzling old man appeared.

The problem was that the pressure I’d been feeling swelled even more.

“Then here I come.”

I braced — maybe I should assume Emperor-class — and in that instant the old man vanished.

I knew at once it was high-speed movement, and the slash released in that split-second of opening targeted my neck with perfect precision.

Because I had taken a stance that lowered my head position, an upward cut could now reach.

He went for that, but I caught his position from the sound of his feet braking out of the dash and barely dodged.

Of course I didn’t stop at just dodging.

I arched back hard and, backflipping away, whipped a tail strike.

I slammed it into the old man’s exposed side — but the “direct hit” felt like smacking a feather duvet.

(Barrier magic!)

I couldn’t think of anything else on the spot — and it was probably right.

The Spirit Sword came at me again as I landed.

He was skilled at aerial control; I parried the onrushing blade with a fist and was about to counter — when he fired magic.

He released one hand from the swing, and before my counter could land, compressed air smashed into my face.

My upper body snapped back, my arm cut empty air — and the Spirit Sword crashed in.

I used the recoil, letting my body keep arcing back, and drove a kick into the sword-swinging elder.

Again that muffled “foomph” sensation.

A nasty defensive spell — but it couldn’t fully kill the kick’s force, and Elder Schvard was blasted far to my right.

Not that he went flying for free; a thin red line opened on my right arm and bled.

Since I had the chance, I tried something I’d wanted to do.

I bellowed “Gah!” for show and flexed my right arm.

Feigning that my monstrous regeneration had clamped the blood off with muscle, I wiped a thumb through it and licked it.

Blood had already stopped from the cut, and I crooked a finger — “come on, then” — but the old man was already charging me.

“Dammit, read the room!” I cursed inwardly, and threw a shot as he leapt into my range — but the instant my hand brushed him, his figure blinked out.

(Afterimage!?)

No, just plain magic.

You could fool the eyes, but not hearing or smell.

His approach — an illusion or light refraction — was neat, but I had his position.

I wasn’t about to fight in his range out of kindness; I fixed him squarely ahead, took one step back with a grin — and an explosion went off at the tip of my nose.

In other words, he blasted my snout with explosive magic.

The boom jammed my auditory tracking; for a moment flame stole sight and smell.

In that instant he closed in, and the Spirit Sword emerged from the fire.

(I knew that was coming.)

The Spirit Sword’s pressure was overwhelming.

Once you got used to it, you couldn’t help but tell where it was coming from.

So I pinpointed it, grabbed for the arm beyond the flames, and tried to end it.

But another explosion.

He forced a course correction; I grabbed air.

Staggering but landing on his feet, Elder Schvard lowered his blade.

“Enough. That’s enough.”

With a wave, the old man went to fetch the discarded scabbard.

His tidy exit made me suspicious, but he sheathed the sword with a “I’ve done what I needed to” and left.

I’d just started to get into it, so it felt incomplete — but I had a rough read on the elves’ top combat power.

(Threat level: below Emperor. The Spirit Sword is dangerous, but if it doesn’t hit, it’s nothing. And the wielder’s an old body… skilled, but age drags him down.)

If we’d kept going, he would definitely have bottomed out in stamina.

He probably stopped to avoid that — I should call it crafty.

I couldn’t completely read his true strength — but that went both ways.

I never once attacked first.

He couldn’t have measured my combat power like this.

(Still, that Spirit Sword…)

A weapon that not only cut me but might even slice me clean through.

Maybe it was what caused that “tank cut in half” I saw on the news.

Number Six hurried over and checked my wound, but there was no trace of it, and no burns from the fire either.

I just wrote “That was pretty fun” on a scrap and showed it, and the men standing behind her gave dry laughs.

Honestly, despite the mortal danger, I’d enjoyed it.

It was a little scary how well I was adapting to this body — but for now, I’d think about how to have this debt paid back.