Through their overwhelming power and strength of numbers, the monsters under the Demon Lord’s command began conquering the human nations. I was six at the time. There was a huge clash with the Demon Lord’s army in the south, and our country ended up deploying its army, too. But despite His Majesty’s decree, my father refused to take to the field himself, and instead, my uncle led the charge. This was to prevent potential danger to the current head of the house—so the reasoning went.

You couldn’t fault my uncle’s bravery. He came to the Kingdom of Malika’s aid and fought off the Demon Lord’s army. Sadly, though, he was too late to prevent Malika’s fall. Maybe the country could have been saved if my father had acted promptly and gone to the battlefield. It was truly a great pity.

On the other hand, I came to respect my uncle, who differed from his fellow nobles by fighting on the front lines himself. Since he had no son of his own, he doted on me as if I were his biological child.

He had one daughter, who was a year younger than me, and we learned swordplay together as if we were siblings. She really took after my uncle with her muscles; if she’d been a boy, she might have surpassed me as a swordsman. I had our rivalry to thank for sharpening my skills.

As time passed, a heavy gloom came over the country. Although we’d repelled one attack, the Demon Lord’s influence was steadily growing. People thought it was only a matter of time before his sinister hand reached our nation.

That was precisely why my strength was needed. I’ll save my country with the power of my sword, I thought as I became absorbed in my studies. One day, my uncle told me that I had surpassed him. I was still in my teens when people started calling me the Sword Saint.

But before I knew it, I’d drifted away from the people around me. Nobody was serious about saving the kingdom. Everyone was hoping to stick it out without actually fighting. The higher a person’s social status, the more inclined they were to think that way.

I couldn’t stand this idiocy. The nobility were supposed to lead the fray and fight for the kingdom and its people.

My idea was to become the Hero, save the world, ascend to the throne, and reform the system of nobility. I didn’t doubt for a second that I would become the Hero. I was convinced, in fact, that I was the only one who could do it.

But at the same time, a part of me always hoped that there was someone else out there with my ideals—someone who would put their life on the line for the sake of the people.

***

I joined Falm Academy when I turned fifteen. An institute for training Heroes, it permitted entry only to elite nobles. A faint anticipation bubbled in me at the thought that I would meet fellow Hero aspirants here.

Instead, I found Ares—a commoner who refused to know his place.

The commoners were supposed to be protected by the nobility. Otherwise, the nobility would lose their reason for being. Although the Hero could technically be someone of any station, we nobles would be nothing but leeches to the country if the Hero did not come from our ranks.

“You’re not qualified to be the Hero.”

Those words were out of my mouth before I knew it.

Qualifications? Who needed them? Anyone could become the Hero. But I just couldn’t stand the thought of the nobility becoming shams of themselves.

“Even so, I have to become the Hero,” Ares replied, looking me straight in the eyes.

Resolve brimmed in his gaze. He was so unlike the other noble boys who joined the academy along with us, laughing without a care in the world.

My hand flew to my sword. Everyone around me instantly stopped me, as if they were united by the same breath.

Why did they stop me? I wondered why they felt no sense of urgency. If a commoner saved the upper classes, it would invalidate their purpose entirely. Didn’t they know that?

I could tell that this boy genuinely aspired to become the Hero. I’d never seen anyone else like him. I’d asked so many promising-looking people before whether they were trying to become the Hero, and they always gave the same answer.

“Isn’t it guaranteed to be you, Leon?” they’d say, batting their lashes at me.

Why would they suck up to me? The Hero was not guaranteed to be any particular person. Anyone with the determination to save the world could have aspired to it. But what if the nobility and knighthood didn’t have their eyes on that goal? They were supposed to fight to protect the citizens, dammit.

I was going to be the Hero, of course. I was going to save the world. I was going to become king and bring happiness to the people. But I couldn’t walk that path alone. I needed to hone myself by competing against many people with the same goal. Were they telling me to do it by myself? To walk the wilderness alone? Why did they have no drive, no ambition? How was I supposed to reckon with the fact that the only person who showed up in the wilderness was a commoner of all people?

I could hear them sneering at the commoner when he spoke of becoming a Hero. Don’t laugh, I thought. What right did they have to scorn him when they were unwilling to do it themselves?

Falm Academy was supposed to be a training facility for Heroes. Anyone who enrolled here was meant to be an aspiring Hero. Yet they kept their eyes off the goal and even had the audacity to laugh at someone who did want to be a Hero.

Ares did not so much as flinch when I laid a hand on my sword. He was the real deal. But I couldn’t just come out and admit that.

Because I was a noble and he was a commoner.

***

Class began, and when the teacher announced that we would be doing mock sword battles, Ares challenged me to a bout.

My classmates tried to stop him, saying, “The nerve of a commoner to challenge Leon to a fight,” but I accepted the invitation.

My reasoning was simple. If not for Ares, I wouldn’t have had anyone else to spar with. I couldn’t say whether the others were being deferential, or if it was because they were reluctant to match up against someone out of their league, but regardless, nobody threw the gauntlet at me. Fighting a teacher was my only other option.

And so the battle began. Ares held his sword directly in front of himself, the tip slanting up toward my eyes. His grip was too strong, and the sloppiness was evident in his form. The class burst out laughing when they saw it.

I suspected that he had never received formal training. He was similar to an adventurer or mercenary with practical experience. I could tell that his skills were nothing to write home about at this point.

I used a single-handed grip, not bothering with any kind of stance. By relaxing my body, I could keep my movements nice and light, promptly responding to my opponent’s moves.

With a “Hyaah!” Ares took a step forward, swinging his sword.

He used big movements for his lead-in, and there was plenty of distance between us. I didn’t even need to use my sword to block him. With the slightest possible movement, I dodged his attack by a razor-thin margin, then tapped Ares’s head lightly with my sword.

“That’s one hit. Can you go on?” I said to him.

“Of course!”

Ares jumped back and immediately readjusted his stance. This time, he came at me in earnest. When he entered my range, I made as if to slice upward from a low position. This was a feint. Ares fell for it, taking up an exaggerated defensive stance. Seeing my opening, I put my second hand on my sword and struck Ares’s shoulder from above instead.

Thwack. A dull sensation traveled through my arm. We were using blunt, wooden swords, but I imagined it had to sting for my opponent.

“Urk!”

With a cry of anguish, Ares fell to his knees.

“Ooooh!”

The crowd gushed in admiration. My technique had been simple, but the onlookers knew it took a lot of training and skill to move seamlessly.

“Can you still go on?” I asked Ares, who was grimacing as he pressed his left hand against his right shoulder.

There was hardly a pause before he replied, “I can.”

That was fine by me. It would make good practice for the people in the priest class.

Having learned from the previous two rounds, Ares tried very hard to keep his movements to a minimum. Once more, he entered my range, but this time, it was Ares who took the initiative. His motions were sluggish because of the damage he had already taken—I didn’t even have to do anything.

So when Ares tried to swing his sword, I struck him in the chest, where he was wide-open. With a grunt as if all the air had escaped his lungs, Ares fell to the ground.

It was over. I might have broken his arm, but that wasn’t too big of a problem when there were a bunch of people around wanting to test out their healing magic.

“Hurry up and drop out already,” I said to him.

Ares looked back at me. His eyes showed no sign of disheartenment.

Ares challenged me to mock battles after that, too.

To be perfectly frank, he was the weakest in our class, what with his self-taught form and tendency to move more than he needed to. But I did sense a certain intensity from him that I didn’t get from the other students. Maybe it was because he had real combat experience.

I never knew what move he was going to pull. In a sword fight, he would throw kicks or even toss away his weapon and attempt to grab me. The students criticized him for pulling tricks. “Vulgar cur,” they would call him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had the determination to do whatever it took to win.

But guts alone didn’t win fights. The difference in our sword abilities was too vast for him to surpass.

Whenever he came at me, I beat him to a pulp.