"The second sword is called Cicada's Cry. When executed, it alternates between illusion and reality, making it impossible to discern the truth. Its essence lies in transforming falsehood into truth, and truth into falsehood, at will. Remember this—true combat is not about how many boulders your fist can shatter, nor how deep a crater your footstep can carve. It is about whose sword strikes truer, pierces deeper, and deceives better. No matter how powerful your opponent may be, if your blade can find its mark before theirs, then the victory is yours."
These words carved themselves into his memory—they were the laws of survival, the one domain he truly excelled in and understood deeply.
"The third sword—Summer Storm. A torrent of strikes like a tempest, overwhelming many with the force of one."
"The fourth—Affection. If you cannot slay your foe, then entangle them until they are rendered helpless."
"The fifth sword—Falling Leaf. A killing blow, delicate as a drifting leaf severed by the wind. Even the fiercest storm cannot cleave a leaf descending with perfect freedom—that is the soul of this technique. And with that, the art of the Six Swords is complete."
The girl's fingertips danced before his eyes with dazzling speed. For the first time in his life, the idiot was exposed to the true essence of battle, and its depth enthralled him. Yet everything before him felt too complex—an overwhelming enigma for someone who had lived like a rat in the sewers. The path of the strong… it was far too distant, so remote it didn't even exist in his wildest dreams.
The Six Swords demonstration concluded. The girl drew her hand back into her cloak and smiled as she stepped in front of him.
"You're still young. All of this is much too intricate for you. Even someone at the level of Bone Rank couldn't master this in a single night. But I don't have the luxury of time to spend ten years or more by your side, teaching you slowly. So, from now on, you'll have to rely on your own perseverance to learn and grow."
As soon as she finished speaking, the girl raised her finger once more. A soft blue glow shimmered from her fingertip. Before the idiot could react, she pressed it gently against his forehead.
In that instant, the world spun. A torrent of something surged through the girl's finger and into his mind. If one had to describe it—it felt like a raid. These things poured into his consciousness without consent, without regard for his will, rampaging straight into the depths of his memory…
It lasted a full fifteen minutes before the girl withdrew her finger. The idiot collapsed, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for breath. His thoughts were in chaos. He found himself unable to think, to sort through the storm of sensations. Images—disjointed, fragmented—flashed through his mind, throwing his consciousness into disarray.
"Ugh… ugh…"
Clutching the infant in his arms, he struggled to his feet, holding his head. The baby girl seemed to sense something as well and began crying uncontrollably. Only after a long while did he slump against the rocky wall, completely spent, his eyes dull and unfocused.
"It'll feel rough at first," the girl said, standing above him, hands clasped behind her back. "But it will pass soon enough."
"I've sealed the essence and methods of the Six Swords into a place within your mind—a place we call the Casket. Give it some time. Once the interference subsides, it will lie dormant, having no effect on your daily thoughts."
"However, whenever you desire it, the essence of the Six Swords will emerge from the Casket bit by bit, revealing what you need. Use this knowledge. Learn. Train."
As the girl spoke, the tempest in his mind began to settle. He exhaled slowly. The swirling images and storm of words finally faded. After soothing the wailing infant into silence, he tentatively closed his eyes and began to probe the Casket, just as the girl had described.
...
...
...
Thought led him into a vast, formless sea of darkness. Then suddenly, he was surrounded by endless black curtains. Sensing danger, he tried to open his eyes—when suddenly, symbols and images appeared on the curtains.
A small clay figure stood there, holding a thin twig. It didn't move. The idiot stared at it for a long time, unsure of what it was doing. Just as he grew impatient and was about to open his eyes, the little figure thrust the twig forward once, then returned to stillness.
The strike was lightning-fast—too swift to catch. But the second time, it was slower. The third, slower still. Slow enough that the idiot could observe every detail—the posture, the movement, the grip, even the rise and fall of its breath.
A cascade of text accompanied the figure. Presumably, these were explanations of the sword techniques. But the idiot couldn't read. He could only rely on the visuals, which made his training far more arduous.
More clay figures appeared in succession. Though it was called the Six Swords, each technique branched into countless variations. The annotations grew more complex, the flood of information making his head swim. Still, he forced himself to study each form, etching them into memory before gently returning them into the Casket.
He opened his eyes. The baby in his arms whimpered softly, her green eyes brimming with tears. Was she afraid? Or… worried?
A child barely half a year old—could she even feel worry?
The idiot snorted faintly. Still, he adjusted her position into something more comfortable, cradling her with a gentleness that contradicted the cold edge in his eyes. The girl's sobs slowly subsided, and with a few soft murmurs, she fell asleep once more.
He let out a long breath and raised his head. The girl stood nearby, rummaging through the bag on the giant wolf's back. Soon, she retrieved a pair of scissors and a sewing kit.
"You look like you have a question," she said, without even glancing at him.
Leaning comfortably against the wolf's belly, her hands—delicate as sculpted jade—lifted the hem of her cloak. She studied it for a moment, then snipped off a piece of fabric.
The idiot stared, uncertain of her intentions. After a pause, he asked quietly, "You said Six Swords. But… there were only five."
A smile curved beneath her hood. With rose-colored fingernails, she picked up the cloth and began stitching with slow precision.
"There are indeed only five that I could show you. Because the sixth…"
She paused, the needle clenched between her lips, and shaped the fabric carefully with her scissors. When a rough form began to take shape, she removed the needle and resumed sewing as she spoke—
"I once witnessed the full transmission of this sword art. Before the destruction of the last era, it had passed through more than fifty hands. As for now, if anyone else still bears the legacy, their numbers may well rival the stars in the sky or the sands of a thousand rivers."
"But—"
"Of those fifty, aside from the founder and the very first successor, not a single one truly mastered the sixth sword. Only those two ever grasped the complete form of the Six Swords."
"The power of the sixth sword defies description. If the first five are like rivers in flood, then the final sword is a tidal wave crashing down from the heavens. In all the accounts I know, it has only appeared twice in this world. I cannot teach you the move, but I can impart its intent—its sword spirit. May you, in your journey ahead, come to understand it for yourself."
With a quiet snap, she bit off the thread. The needle passed through the other side.
"One of those two times," she said, "the first successor used it to slay his master—the very founder of the Six Swords."
The moment her words fell, she raised her hand. As the idiot listened intently, a filament of light, like a drawn thread, shot from her fingertip and struck the center of his brow.
"And the other time..."
The darkness in his mind was instantly swept away, replaced by a blinding brilliance—a brilliance composed of countless blades.
"...he used it to defeat me."
Her hand, still holding the needle, slowly lifted. Calmly, she bit through the final thread. But on the other side, the idiot could no longer endure. Overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of light within his mind, he did not even manage a groan before collapsing into unconsciousness.