Twenty-eight years ago.

The court's situation teetered on the brink of collapse, with the Great Nobles already in complete disarray thanks to the King's blood tax and the Secret Department's reign of terror.

Indebted tenants, surviving family members of innocent men killed to take credit for their work, and wandering refugees from wars that tore the nobility's households apart—these tragic remnants under the rule of Old Aran Country blended together, sparking frequent uprisings both large and small within the nation.

The Royal Court's grip on Aran Country was like a wild horse breaking free from its reins.

Only Zote himself could march forth, violently suppressing all who would not obey.

Only the heavens knew how long this state of affairs could last.

Old Aran.

Duke Soterlan's territory (now Cast Province)

Devouring flames scorched the ashen sky that sprinkled down fine snow, the carbonized dust of ruined walls soared into the clouds along with tears and blood, all hurled by the heatwave.

Inside the castle hall.

Following Zote's orders.

Marcus had finished cleaning out every direct descendant of Duke Soterlan, including the swaddled babes.

Wiping the sword clean of blood with his robe, the iron blade, sharp and deadly, reflected his visage in the flames below.

But he was blind, he saw nothing.

"Sir, there are still some civilian resistance forces in the city that haven't been eradicated. Lord Zote wants you to suppress them."

The subordinate reported to Marcus.

Yet Marcus did not immediately execute the command.

"Would you take a look for me? Look at this sword."

He had been with the Secret Department for over a decade, and through years of slaughter, he had forgotten what he looked like.

"Excuse me?"

The subordinate didn't understand his meaning.

"What does it look like on here?"

Marcus asked him to come close and describe it in detail.

The subordinate looked at the reflection on the sword, the metallic jawline marked with scars and the murky eyes burned by strong acid, making it hard to describe—Marcus must have wanted to know if there were any injuries on his own face.

"Everything's in order, sir, all normal."

The subordinate officer ordered others to burn the bodies, to prevent an outbreak of the plague. The population of Aran had dwindled to the point where it could no longer be considered a complete nation.

"Oh."

Marcus touched his own face, but no matter what, he couldn't recall it.

According to the subordinate's description.

There were still civilian resistance forces in the city, but in fact, it was an iron forge, and the master of the forge was a retired adventurer.

He no longer hesitated, left the stronghold, but moved slowly.

He felt that everything was about to end.

This premonition was strong; he had already found the way out for the day of reckoning that was to come.

Walking through the town.

Blood soaked his soles, the burns under his feet had yet to scab over, and each step stirred up sticky crimson ripples.

Upon arriving at the scene, Marcus found that the so-called smithy was sizable, with a staff of over a hundred people and walls constructed around it, the forge sufficiently equipped for full armament.

At the entrance, a few members of the Secret Department lay injured but not dead, all wounds minor.

It seemed the people inside did not wish to fight but simply to prevent their intrusion.

Zote's order was to suppress this place.

Marcus had no choice but to draw his sword and enter the forge alone. Within the courtyard, chains hung with blades glittered with a strong light even on a cloudy day.

None in the household resistance was a match for Marcus, even clad in Iron Armor Leg Guards; wherever his force field-edged sword went, they were disarmed at the knees, falling to the ground, bleeding profusely.

He had to keep killing. Arcane power bolstered him, his legs moved with wind-like speed, swift as a flying shuttle.

The owner of the place made an appearance.

It was a straight-bladed greatsword forged from fine steel of the Ancient Divine Continent, a material not found on the Western Continent, its forging technique long lost—a rare and powerful weapon.

The man seemed to see through Marcus's peculiar shifts in the force field.

Sword and blade clashing, sparks flew like a waterfall, their metallic sound reverberating to the core.

The man, arms cross-barred, actually blocked a strike from Marcus.

Causing him to frown deeply.

"Who are you?"

No nameless nobody could reach this level.

"I once was an adventurer. Spare my life, and I am willing to serve the Royal Court with loyalty. I meant no offense, and if it's money you want, take it."

Henrik said as much, for he must take responsibility for the lives of everyone in the forge and for his family.

"According to the laws, Aran Country of today does not tolerate private forging of weapons. This is a capital crime."

Instructions were to be carried out without deviation, to suppress meant they must be completely incapable of resistance.

Marcus's concentration surged in his hands, wooden stakes swelled madly, the force of the wind coiled around them, spiraling columns of fiery power wrapped around them, intended to slaughter everyone in the place.

Henrik, once a Hall-level adventurer with the Absolute Blade, could only continue to defy.

Ashes danced, blades howled, and shadows leaped.

The fine steel from the Ancient Divine Continent sliced through everything. Henrik headed straight for the source, his blade agile, the cascading flames extinguished one by one, heading straight for the blind Demon Swordsman to engage him in close quarters.

Henrik didn't expect the Demon Swordsman to be such a master of swordsmanship himself, the parries and slashes extremely cunning, almost wicked.

But it wasn't enough to defeat him.

It was unclear who was faster; both just knew they wanted to be quicker than the other, the clanging of metal incessant, their blades causing the hanging weapons to shimmer like rippling light on water.

The members of the Secret Department were stunned; it had been years since anyone could fight Marcus, in his prime, to such an extent.

Inside the house, Henrik's wife crouched in the corner, clutching her child's head tightly, fearing he might see the moment Henrik was beheaded, seeing the member of the Secret Department who could match her husband blow for blow, despair took root.

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