47 — Chapter 47

“Mm…”

A faint groan slipped from the lips of a boy who still could not hide his youthful features. He lay sprawled on the ground, his body smeared with filth. Most of what clung to him was blood, making his appearance almost grotesque.

He groaned again, his face twisting as if in pain. His jaw clenched tight, grinding his teeth together to endure the agony.

“Ugh…!”

Through his clenched teeth, another groan escaped—different from the first, sharper, more desperate. But just as suddenly, the pained sound stopped, vanishing as if it had never been there at all. Even the boy’s face, contorted beyond recognition, relaxed back to its original, eerily peaceful state.

For a long while, he remained like that, motionless. Then, at last, a small twitch of movement stirred his body. Beside him, a tall, one-armed man let out a low laugh. His gray eyes studied the fallen boy intently.

The man was Dumaine—around one-seventy-five centimeters tall, black-haired, his right arm gone from the shoulder down, his remaining left arm thick and powerful. He stood quietly, listening to the voice that echoed in his mind, his unsettling gray eyes scanning over the boy’s battered form.

[That reaction just now came from the boy’s spirit struggling against the destructive energy I forced into him.]

It was the Sword of Ruin, Pahshaz, speaking into his mind. But Dumaine cared little for explanations. What he wanted was simple—he wished to toy with the boy called Nardi who lay helpless before him.

What Dumaine did not realize, however, was the cost of wielding Pahshaz. Anyone who borrowed its power found the instinct for destruction—buried deep in all living things—slowly awakened. So slowly, in fact, they never noticed. Until one day they lost themselves, becoming destroyers who knew only ruin.

Every human or monster who had ever formed a contract with the Sword of Ruin had met the same fate. Pahshaz itself was a weapon accidentally dropped into the Human Realm by the gods. To counter its mistake, the Creator had sent down a holy blade of its own—Elishaz, the Sacred Sword.

Elishaz was the only weapon in the Human Realm capable of standing against Pahshaz. Yet no one knew where it was, or even that it still existed. Not even Pahshaz itself.

“Heh… kukuk. Wake up already.”

As the boy stirred faintly on the grassy ground, Dumaine chuckled under his breath, muttering the words almost as habit. When the boy had first fainted, Dumaine had tried to rouse him by force, but the voice in his head had stopped him, leaving him with no choice but to wait. By his count, it had been over ten hours since Nardi had collapsed.

“Mm…”

Another groan came from the boy, and slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes opened.

His irises gleamed gray—cold, lifeless, and chilling, much like Dumaine’s own. At that moment, the voice of Pahshaz echoed in Dumaine’s head again.

[Look directly into the boy’s eyes, and call his name.]

Following the command, Dumaine locked eyes with the vacant stare before him. He remembered the name the boy had given before fainting, and spoke.

“Nardi.”

At the sound, the boy’s lips parted. His voice came out clumsy, broken.

“Na…r…di…”

All of Nardi’s memories had been wiped away. The destructive energy of Pahshaz had consumed his spirit completely, erasing every trace of his past.

“Heh… kukuku.”

Dumaine chuckled as he watched the boy—Nardi—repeat his own name in that dull, vacant tone. Then he spoke.

“Stand up.”

The boy obeyed without a word. Rising too quickly from the ground, he swayed, unable to steady himself. His eyes still held no focus, staring at nothing, gray irises lending him an even more chilling air. Combined with the blood that stained his body, the sight was ghastly.

“Sit.”

Nardi sat down on the ground immediately.

Those seized by the destructive energy all shared the same traits: they felt no emotion, no pain. They became living mannequins, nothing more.

Watching how obediently the boy followed orders, Dumaine let out a low laugh and began moving toward the village, still slick with blood.

Only hours ago, crows had been feasting on the corpses littering the streets. Now there were only flies, buzzing in circles. Soon, they would lay their eggs, and their larvae would hatch inside the corpses, crawl out, and scatter as new flies.

The reason Dumaine returned to this slaughtered village was simple—his new puppet Nardi needed a weapon.

He remembered passing a blacksmith’s shop while cutting down the villagers earlier. Retracing his steps, Dumaine found it and stepped inside.

As expected from a rural village, the display was filled mostly with farming tools. Still, weapons caught his eye in the cluttered, dusty shop: a bastard sword, a longsword, and a pair of shortswords. A few spears too, their shafts of wood with iron diamond-shaped tips. Nothing fancy—just swords and spears.

Considering Nardi’s build, Dumaine selected two shortswords. Each had a blade about thirty centimeters long and a handle around fifteen, long enough for a solid grip. Double-edged, with a blade width of five centimeters, they were simple but serviceable.

“Kukuku… good. Very good.”

Satisfied after testing the weight in his hands, Dumaine left the smithy. He had no idea how long the blades would last, but if Nardi could channel destructive energy properly, protecting the steel as he fought, they would endure for some time.

When he returned to where the boy sat waiting, Dumaine tossed the shortswords before him. The blades landed in the grass, flashing brilliantly as they caught the sunlight.

“Take them in both hands and stand.”

Nardi picked up the weapons and rose smoothly, no longer staggering as before. Dumaine watched him hold the swords stiffly at his sides, then stepped closer, adjusting the boy’s grip, shifting the position of his feet, widening his stance, correcting the line of his gaze.

Once the stance looked proper, Dumaine spoke again. His voice was firm and direct this time, without the eerie laughter. Pahshaz’s voice had warned him—if his commands were not delivered clearly, the puppet would not follow them.

“From now on, whenever you hold the shortswords, take this stance.”

Nardi’s stance had his feet spread shoulder-width apart, right foot pulled back to form a diagonal lower body, while his torso faced forward. His left hand was raised near his chest as if to guard, shortsword angled upward toward the sky. His right hand hung lower, blade reversed and angled back, held in a backhand grip.

“Drop them and sit.”

Nardi released the swords, letting them fall to the ground, and sat down.

Dumaine’s voice, when he gave orders, was always different—firm, sharp, stripped of the eerie laughter.

“Pick them up and stand.”

Nardi obeyed, grasping the blades in both hands and rising. His stance matched perfectly with what Dumaine had taught him earlier. Every detail was precise. And yet, Dumaine frowned. Something was missing.

It was too slow. When Nardi picked up the swords, the movement was weak, sluggish. Dumaine had decided—if this boy was to be his puppet, he would make him strong. Not as strong as himself, perhaps, but strong enough to kill with ease, to slaughter leisurely as he did.

At first, he thought it didn’t matter; puppets could be made as many times as he wished. But after creating Nardi, he realized how draining the process truly was. So he would make this one count.

“From now on, move faster. Repeat it again and again, and keep raising the speed.”

As he spoke, Dumaine thought to himself:

Kukuku… I’ll make you strong in no time at all. Strong beyond belief. Kukuku! Very strong indeed… kuckuckuck.

Nardi continued repeating the motion—grasping the swords, standing, fixing the stance. Each time, his pace grew quicker. After more than twenty repetitions, his expression remained blank, unchanged, showing no sign of strain.

To truly make him strong, Dumaine would need to teach much more: how to wield the destructive energy within his body, how to swing the blades, how to kill the fastest way possible. There was much to teach.

But at least Nardi never forgot once he learned. That made the task far easier.

“And from now on, answer with words.”

“Yes.”

The reply came immediately, even as Nardi continued repeating the stance, blades in hand. His breath, however, had grown heavier. The change had started around the sixtieth repetition. Now, after seventy cycles, his chest rose and fell with ragged rhythm.