SOTBW - 12

Late evening.

The knights of Romsoa gathered in the captain’s office. It was a meeting to share information before heading out. Najane stood hesitantly at the very back of the room. A few knights cast glances her way—looks of disapproval mixed with curiosity.

She forced herself to maintain a calm expression, staring straight ahead. She refused to act like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, intimidated by the rowdy men.

Maximón, surveying his favored knights one by one, eventually fixed his gaze on Najane. Though she stood awkwardly behind the larger knights, her eyes were as calm as ever. She seemed fully aware of the fact that they would soon be facing the Serith in battle.

He had wondered if she might try to run, but her composed demeanor—almost like that of a veteran—caught his attention. He hadn’t forgotten Taylor’s warnings. However, regardless of what Taylor said, Maximón was determined to use Najane in the end. Whether Najane suffered or not wasn’t something Maximón intended to concern himself with.

From the distant square, the sound of bells heralded the coming night.

Maximón glanced at the map of the fortress walls hanging on the wall and began his briefing.

“There’s been a report from the scouts. Around a hundred blue cocoons, believed to belong to Serith units, have been found on the slopes of Timberus Mountain. There are likely even more scattered throughout the forest. The Holy Church has also predicted that over two hundred Serith beasts will attack the fortress tonight. It’s going to be a fierce battle. Make sure you’re fully prepared before heading out.”

At his words, the previously casual and laid-back knights grew serious. Najane swallowed hard. The reality of fighting the Serith in the field was beginning to sink in.

Maximón started assigning orders to the knights.

“Jacob and Belshua, you’ll join me on the front lines. Daniel, you’ll hold the middle field with Ashton. Christopher, you’ll protect the walls with the archers. Joshua, since your arm injury hasn’t healed, stay behind the walls with the reserves and assist the priests with the wounded. Colin and Isaac, focus on clearing the field of Serith cocoons with the young soldiers. The rest of you will defend your usual posts. And Najane.”

The moment Maximón called her name, everyone in the room turned to look at her. Najane endured their blatant stares and fixed her gaze on Maximón.

“Your first task is to deal with any Serith beasts the soldiers miss. Can you do it?”

“Of course.”

Najane replied calmly, as if the task were nothing. Maximón smiled faintly at her confident answer.

“Good. That’s all the orders. Any questions?”

“Which knight order is guarding the third wall tonight?”

Belshua asked.

Maximón glanced at a sheet of paper before responding in a tone of dissatisfaction.

“Unfortunately, it’s the Amberon Knights.”

“Ah, great… we’re doomed tonight. Damn it.”

Grumbling voices erupted throughout the room. Najane looked confused, but Daniel, who was standing nearby, explained the situation.

“The Amberons are the weakest of the eight knight orders. If they don’t pull their weight, we’ll have to deal with more Serith, which means we’re basically dead tonight.”

“I see…”

The news dampened Najane’s spirits as well. The knights, lamenting that the neighboring wall was being guarded by the Amberon Knights, began to leave the captain’s office one by one. They all had tasks to attend to.

The knights would prepare their armor, ensure their weapons were in perfect condition, and check on the soldiers who would be fighting alongside them. Before nightfall, the Romsoa Knights would always inspect the fourth wall—the one they were assigned to defend—for any cracks or weaknesses. Only after that was everything truly ready.

As Najane watched the knights leave like the ebbing tide, she glanced at Maximón. Was she supposed to head to the field and simply wait for nightfall? But just as she thought this, Maximón grabbed his cloak and gestured to her with a flick of his finger as he stepped across the threshold.

“Follow me.”

Maximón led her to an abandoned room at the end of the corridor. Najane, who had worked as a maid in Romsoa, was familiar with the place.

It was a room even the head maid, Didina, couldn’t open without permission.

Rumor had it that Maximón kept his secrets hidden there. Others speculated that the room was filled with forbidden books capable of casting ancient magic. Of course, no one knew the truth. The only key to the room was in Maximón’s possession, and no one but him had ever entered.

Maximón pulled a rusty key from his pocket and unlocked the old door. The room was pitch dark, like midnight.

When he drew back the heavy curtains, a bright orange sunset poured through the windows, illuminating the room so brilliantly it almost hurt Najane’s eyes.

Contrary to the unsettling rumors that swirled around the room, it was filled entirely with books. Many were written in languages Najane had never seen before, but they weren’t forbidden texts—just old ones. The kind that obsessive book collectors might own a copy or two of.

Najane ran a finger across the thick layer of dust on one of the books. The smooth leather cover, worn shiny from use, bore the name Aron Noctis, one of the Astrun.

It was a book that chronicled Aron’s efforts to seal the Serith from the moment they first appeared. There were also detailed anatomical drawings of Serith bodies, battle records from Noctis Fortress, songs and legends about the Serith, and even children’s books telling ancient stories.

Najane blinked rapidly at the unexpected sight. She recalled the people who envied Maximón, claiming he had become the knight captain so easily thanks to his natural strength and the prestige of House Elgort.

What a baffling man. He lacked both a sense of duty to protect others and any real resolve. So why had he studied the Serith so extensively?

As she watched Maximón rummage through the mountain of items piled in a corner, searching for something, Najane began to quietly look around the room.

There was nothing particularly extraordinary about it, so why had Maximón forbidden anyone from entering? She considered trying to figure it out but quickly gave up. Understanding Maximón was impossible. He was selfish, unpredictable, and utterly inscrutable.

Growing tired of waiting, Najane dropped her gaze—only to notice something beneath the slightly lifted edge of the carpet. The floorboards seemed oddly misaligned, almost like a hatch designed to be pulled open.

Just then, Maximón retrieved something from amidst the clutter he had been searching through. Startled, Najane quickly straightened her posture. What he held was a sword—a white scabbard adorned with gold.

Maximón tossed it to Najane casually. She caught it instinctively, her hands trembling slightly. The sword was incredibly light. Even compared to the slim, lightweight blade she carried on her belt, this sacred sword felt weightless, as if the scabbard held nothing at all.

She stared at Maximón in confusion. Instead of explaining, he drew the sword from its sheath. As the blade slid out, it shimmered with a radiant white light, almost translucent in its brilliance. The glow lingered on the blade for a moment before gradually fading.

Najane, her eyes wide with childlike wonder, gazed at the sword as though it were a treasure she had just discovered. Engraved on the blade was a name. At first, she thought it might be Maximón’s, but the letters were completely different.

“…Gwyneth Spello,” Najane murmured, reading the name aloud.

It was a name she had heard somewhere before. As she repeated it in her mind, her eyes widened with realization, and she looked up at Maximón.

Gwyneth Spello, the holy mage of the Kingdom of Bastronia. That name was renowned even in the Kingdom of Elgort. While most holy mages, upon returning from death, used their powers to heal and became healers, Gwyneth was unique in her ability to wield fire.

The flames that bloomed from Gwyneth’s hands were extraordinary. Any metal that endured her fire could be forged into a sacred sword capable of cutting through the Serith’s armored forms with ease. However, such resilient metals were rare, making swords bearing Gwyneth’s name equally scarce.

It was said that three of these swords had been gifted to the Empire of Astien for diplomatic purposes, while the remaining seven remained in the Kingdom of Bastronia.

Najane looked back and forth between Maximón and the sacred sword, unsure of what to say.

This was a genuine sacred sword. Nothing like the crude blades inscribed with blessings that were handed out to knights. And yet Maximón had stored such a priceless weapon among filthy odds and ends.

What on earth was this man thinking?

Just as Najane was about to suggest that the sacred sword deserved better care, Maximón sheathed it again and casually handed it to her.

“Take it. It’ll serve you better than the one on your belt.”

“…What?”

Momentarily unable to process his words, Najane asked with innocent confusion. Maximón, drawing the curtains closed once more, repeated himself.

“That’s yours now.”

“…But this is… a sacred sword. Created by His Excellency the Archbishop…”

“Exactly. It’s a real sacred sword, made by the Archbishop himself.”

“Are you really giving this to me?”

“I can’t use it anyway. I only kept it here because I didn’t know what else to do with it. Don’t think too much about it—just use it.”

Najane glanced at the sword hanging from Maximón’s belt. It was an ordinary weapon, nothing special. But such a standard blade couldn’t possibly cut through the Serith’s armored bodies.

Could it be that Maximón had been fighting the Serith with that mundane sword all this time?

It was all so incomprehensible. Abandoning a sacred sword forged by Gwyneth and using a cheap, mass-produced blade to fight the Serith? He was a man shrouded in mystery.

As Najane stared into Maximón’s deep olive-green eyes, she hugged the sacred sword tightly to her chest.

Of course, Najane had no reason to refuse the sword. As Maximón yanked the final curtain closed with a sharp pull, he glanced at the quietly excited Najane. The sacred sword faintly glowed from within its sheath, as if it had already acknowledged her as its new owner.

It was a special phenomenon that no ordinary person’s eyes could ever perceive. Were sacred swords always this responsive to individuals?

Maximón’s eyes narrowed briefly, but he quickly returned his expression to its usual neutrality. This was because Najane turned to him, bowing her head in gratitude.

“I will treat the sword you’ve bestowed upon me with utmost care. Thank you very much.”

Though the messy room was dimly lit by the sunset filtering in from the hallway, Najane’s radiant expression stood out clearly. Maximón, watching her face framed by the backlight, averted his gaze.

For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her childlike joy. Even Maximón didn’t know why. So, he deliberately adopted a colder tone than usual as he spoke.

“There’s no need to thank me. From now on, your job is to fight for me with everything you’ve got.”

“…Understood,” Najane replied, a little sheepishly. She glanced down at the floor, flustered by Maximón’s impersonal words.

Maximón reached out and lifted her chin, tilting her face upward. Startled, her eyes grew wide.

“When you respond, look me in the eye.”

“O-Oh, right. I’m sorry.”

Najane apologized instinctively. Maximón stared at her for a moment before turning his back to her. Afraid of being left alone in the dusty room, Najane hurried after him.

“You should stop by the dining hall and grab a light meal,” Maximón advised as he slid a key into the lock on the door. “You’ll be completely drained if you’re fighting until sunrise. If you don’t go soon, there won’t be any food left. Go on.”

Hearing his warning, Najane dashed off toward the dining hall, worried she’d end up heading into battle on an empty stomach.

Maximón watched her retreating figure until she disappeared down the corridor. Then, slowly, he unclenched his right hand, which had been tightly balled into a fist. Removing his leather glove revealed his palm, discolored and marred as though it had been scorched by fire.

The moment he had gripped the sacred sword, his hand had suffered damage that resembled the decay of a rotting corpse. But the grotesque wounds had healed almost instantly, as if they had never been there at all.

Maximón stared at his calloused palm in silence before slipping the glove back on. The night was fast approaching.

Once again, he would prove his humanity tonight.

In a world overrun by the Serith, it was a small blessing. As long as he continued fighting those monsters, Maximón Elgort could exist as a human being.

He didn’t know if others would share the same sentiment if they discovered his secret. But at the very least, Maximón believed it to be true—alone.