Beyond the eastern forest, the horizon was a burning orange. Perhaps it was proof that the battle between Theo and Laevateinn was reaching the next stage. Flames would sometimes rise above the clouds, while the forest itself was filled with an oppressive heat.

White Tower Master Orta sat idly on a stump in front of a cabin in a clearing as he watched the scene.

His lips, revealed under the white mask, suddenly parted. “In the last war, the empire lost two master swordsmen. The 3rd and the 6th, they were tough opponents.”

Though his emotionless voice didn’t betray it, Orta really meant it. If he looked back on the time he had encountered the 3rd Sword, he would get goosebumps. That man’s sword had reaped the lives of dozens of senior magicians. Nor would he forget the 6th Sword’s swordsmanship. The scars from his sword had never faded. It was the reason Orta had started using his mask.

Orta unconsciously reached up to feel the mask and smiled bitterly. “It’s been fifteen years, huh? Time flies.”

Even after magicians and swordsmen reached the master level, their lifespan only...