Chapter 78.5: The Sword's Path [Eris POV]
The Holy Land of Swords rose from the mountain like a scar carved by giants.
I'd imagined something grand. Marble halls. Golden statues. The kind of place befitting warriors who'd earned titles that made kingdoms tremble.
Instead, I got stone. Weathered. Functional. Buildings that looked like they'd been beaten by wind and rain until only the essentials remained.
"This is it?" I asked Ghislaine, who walked beside me with that infuriating calm she always wore.
"Were you expecting luxury?"
"I was expecting... more."
"More what? Decoration?" Ghislaine's amber eyes studied the path ahead. "The Sword God doesn't care about appearances. If you can't kill with it, it's worthless."
The bluntness was familiar. Comforting, even. Ghislaine had always been honest in ways that nobles never were.
We'd been traveling for weeks since leaving Fittoa. Since I'd run from Rudeus with nothing but a note and cowardice.
I tried not to think about that. About the way he'd looked at me afterward, vulnerable and exhausted. About how I'd used him and then fled like a thief.
The guilt sat with me.
"Stop brooding," Ghislaine said without looking at me.
"I'm not—"
"You are. You've been doing it since we left." She paused at the base of the stone stairs leading up to the main compound. "Whatever you're running from, you'll have to face it eventually. Swords don't fix emotional problems."
"Then why are we here?"
"Because swords fix physical problems. And right now, you're too weak to protect what matters to you." She started climbing. "Fix that first. The rest comes later."
I followed her up the stairs, each step echoing against stone worn smooth by countless feet. How many warriors had climbed this path? How many had succeeded? How many had died trying?
At the top, a courtyard opened before us. Packed earth, training dummies, weapon racks. And in the center, a man who made Ghislaine look small.
Gal Farion. The Sword King I'd heard about in stories that always ended with someone dying messily.
He stood bare-chested despite the mountain cold, muscles like bundled cables beneath scarred skin. His eyes tracked us as we approached, measuring threat the way normal people measured distance.
"Ghislaine," he said, his voice rough as grinding stone. "Back so soon? Thought you'd spend more time playing teacher."
"I brought someone." Ghislaine gestured at me. "Eris Boreas Greyrat. She wants to train."
Those eyes shifted to me. I felt measured. Weighed. Found lacking.
"Boreas Greyrat?" His expression soured. "Another noble playing at warrior. We don't need more tourists, Ghislaine."
Anger moved through me. "I'm not—"
"You are." He turned away, dismissing me like I was furniture. "Go home, little noble. The Holy Land isn't for children who think swords are jewelry."
My fist moved before my brain caught up. I wasn't thinking about respect or consequences or the fact that this man could probably kill me accidentally while yawning.
I just knew I wasn't going to be dismissed. Not after everything. Not after crossing continents and facing death and losing everything that mattered.
My punch connected with his jaw.
The world went silent.
Gal Farion's head had moved maybe an inch. His expression shifted from bored to mildly interested.
Then he smiled.
"Better," he said. "At least you have fire." He touched his jaw where I'd hit him. "Terrible form. No weight transfer. Telegraphed the punch with your eyes. But you actually committed to violence instead of posturing."
He turned to face me fully. "One test. You pass, you can stay. You fail, Ghislaine carries you down the mountain."
"What test?"
"Survive."
The courtyard cleared as students formed a ring around us. I could see excitement in their eyes, the same look people got watching street performers or public executions.
Entertainment.
Ghislaine stood at the edge, arms crossed. Her expression gave nothing away, but I knew her well enough to read the tension in her shoulders.
She was worried. That didn't help my confidence.
Gal Farion drew a wooden practice sword from the nearby rack and tossed it to me. I caught it reflexively.
"Rules are simple," he said, selecting his own wooden blade. "You stay on your feet for one minute, you pass. You get knocked down, you fail."
One minute. I'd sparred with Ruijerd for years. Surely I could manage one minute against—
He moved.
No warning. No preparatory stance. One moment he stood ten paces away, the next his sword was screaming toward my head.
CLANG
I blocked on pure instinct, wood meeting wood with a crack that rattled my teeth. The impact sent shockwaves up my arms.
Before I recovered, he was already attacking again. Different angle. Different speed. Different everything.
I blocked. Barely. Felt my feet slide backward from the force.
"Fifteen seconds," he announced, his breathing unchanged while mine was already coming in gasps.
This wasn't a test. It was execution with a timer.
I tried to counter, to do anything besides defend desperately. My sword found only air as he sidestepped with minimal motion, his own blade already coming around to punish my overextension.
I twisted, felt wood crack against my ribs.
CRACK
Pain exploded through my side but I stayed on my feet.
"Thirty seconds."
How was it only thirty seconds? It felt like hours. My arms burned. My lungs screamed. Every impact left new bruises across my body.
But Ruijerd's training hadn't been gentle either. I'd learned to move through pain, to keep functioning when my body insisted it was done.
I adjusted my stance, stopped trying to block everything perfectly. Instead, I started deflecting, letting his strikes slide off my blade at angles rather than meeting them head-on.
"Better," Gal said, and his attacks intensified.
Bastard was playing with me. Had been this entire time.
"Forty-five seconds."
My vision was narrowing, world shrinking to just his sword and my increasingly desperate defenses. But I could see the pattern now. He wasn't varying his attacks randomly. He was testing me. Probing for specific weaknesses in my technique.
Which meant I could predict him. Not perfectly. Not even well. But enough to not die.
His blade came high, and I knew, knew with the certainty that came from Ruijerd's brutal lessons, that the real attack would go low.
I dropped my guard and swept my practice sword down, catching his strike before it could cave in my knee.
Surprise flickered across his face. Genuine surprise.
Then time was up.
"One minute," he announced, stepping back.
I collapsed.
Not dramatically. Just... my legs stopped working and I found myself sitting hard on the packed earth, gasping like I'd been underwater.
Everything hurt. Everything.
"She passed," Gal told Ghislaine, who'd moved closer with an expression that might have been pride if you squinted.
"She's stubborn," Ghislaine replied.
"Stubborn I can work with." He looked down at me, that predator's gaze somehow less hostile now. "What's your name again?"
"Eris," I managed between gasps. "Eris Boreas Greyrat."
"Drop the Boreas Greyrat part while you're here. Nobility means nothing at the Holy Land. You're just Eris." He extended a hand. "Welcome to hell. Training starts tomorrow at dawn."
I took his hand, let him pull me upright. My ribs protested the movement.
"What if I'd failed?" I asked.
"You didn't."
"But what if I had?"
"Then you'd have gone home and found some other path. Not everyone is meant for the sword." He headed toward the main building. "Rest today. Tomorrow, we'll see if you're serious about this or just running from something you'd rather not face."
The words landed harder than any of his strikes had.
The room they gave me was small. Spartan. A bed, a trunk, a window looking out over the mountains.
I sat on that bed, feeling every bruise Gal had given me, and stared at my hands.
Strong hands. Callused from years of training. Capable of killing, capable of protecting.
But were they strong enough?
I'd left Rudeus because I wasn't his equal. Because standing beside him meant being dead weight he'd carry out of misplaced loyalty.
The thought of him still hurt.
I wondered what he was doing now. Was he searching for his mother? Probably. Rudeus always put others first, even when it destroyed him to do it.
Was he thinking about me? Did he hate me for running?
"Stop it," I told myself. "You made your choice."
But choices didn't stop feelings. Didn't make the guilt vanish. Didn't erase the memory of his face when he woke up alone.
A knock interrupted my spiral.
"It's open," I called.
Ghislaine entered, carrying what looked like medical supplies. "Thought you might need this." She set the bundle on the trunk. "Healing salve. Apply it before bed."
"Thanks."
She didn't leave. Just stood there, studying me with those amber eyes that always saw too much.
"You want to talk about it?" she asked finally.
"About what?"
"Whatever made you run across a continent to the Holy Land instead of staying with someone you clearly care about."
I looked away. "I told you. I need to get stronger."
"You could get stronger anywhere. Ruijerd would have continued training you. Claude would have helped. Hell, even I would have stayed in Fittoa if you'd asked." Ghislaine sat on the trunk. "So why here? Why now? Why alone?"
The words came out before I could stop them. "Because I'm not good enough."
Silence.
"For what?" Ghislaine asked.
"For him. For Rudeus." I clenched my fists. "He's brilliant. Powerful. Capable of things I'll never understand. And I'm just... I can swing a sword. That's it. That's all I have."
"And you think getting stronger will change that?"
"It has to." The desperation in my voice embarrassed me. "If I'm strong enough, at least I won't be a burden. At least I'll have something to offer besides being another problem he has to solve."
Ghislaine was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentler than I'd ever heard it.
"When I first met Paul, I was stronger than him. Faster. Better trained. I could have killed him in seconds if we'd fought seriously."
I looked up, surprised.
"But Paul had things I didn't," she continued. "He could talk to people. Make them laugh. Inspire loyalty in ways I never could. He saw solutions I'd never consider." She met my eyes. "Strength isn't just about who can swing a sword hardest."
"But—"
"I know. You want to be strong because you think it's all you have. But Eris..." She leaned forward. "Real strength is more than technique. It's knowing when to fight and when to walk away. When to stand firm and when to bend. It's about becoming someone worth following, not just someone who can kill efficiently."
The words landed. True in ways I didn't want to acknowledge.
"The Holy Land will make you a better warrior," Ghislaine said, standing. "But it won't fix whatever you're running from. Remember that."
She left me alone with thoughts that hurt worse than bruises.
I lay down eventually, applied the salve to the worst of the damage, and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow would bring training. Pain. Growth purchased with sweat and blood.
But Ghislaine's words echoed in the darkness. It won't fix whatever you're running from.
Maybe not. But at least I'd be strong enough to face it when I stopped running.
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