As the morning sun rose, it revealed a battlefield strewn with the bodies of both humans and Calami alike.
The wounded sat slumped against trees—
some missing arms, others missing legs—
their soft groans of agony blending with the hurried footsteps of mages
who rushed to heal those still clinging to life.
Ryn stood there, staring at the scene with a heavy heart.
Bathed in the warm light of dawn,
he felt an unnatural chill creep through his body.
He remained motionless,
while chaos raged within his chest.
If only I were stronger…
A voice whispered inside his mind.
Suddenly, a firm, steady hand patted his back.
Richard stood beside him, gazing at the same battlefield.
Then he noticed the tears streaming down Ryn's cheeks—
tears Ryn himself had not even realized were falling.
"This is the war between us and them,"
Richard said quietly.
"Both sides struggle in their own way.
Those who win survive.
Those who lose… die."
He paused, then added,
"Don't blame yourself."
Ryn remained silent.
His mind was empty.
No words came.
No thoughts formed.
The images before him overlapped in his vision,
and his heart refused to accept them—
not yet.
Several days passed.
Richard and Ryn remained in the city of Brindelburg,
keeping watch for any new Calami incursions.
But only the usual local Calami appeared.
There was no sign of the eight-legged, fur-covered monstrosity.
Richard ordered a Divine to compile a report on the new Black Agate Calami Spider
and send it directly to the Central Council.
Once the soldiers and Archs in the region fully understood
how to deal with the creature,
the two of them departed Brindelburg
and resumed their original mission.
The journey continued for several more days.
They encountered and eliminated Calami as they always had,
yet the atmosphere was quieter than ever.
One evening, as they rested by the campfire,
Ryn sat in silence, his expression still weighed down by sorrow.
The recent battle continued to haunt him.
"Stop overthinking it,"
Richard said gently.
"War is always like this.
There's injury. There's death.
That's just how it is.
A world where no one dies at all—
that's nothing more than an ideal."
Ryn said nothing.
He understood the words.
But he could not rid himself of the feelings crushing his heart.
Because what he had witnessed
was not merely injury or death.
It was loss.
Parents who had lost their children.
Orphans left to face the world alone.
Pain that no healing spell could ever mend.
If it were possible…
He never wanted such a tragedy to happen again.
Richard said nothing more.
He simply sat there,
allowing Ryn to remain with his thoughts—
to learn, in his own way,
how to face what war leaves behind…
Alone.
Ryn remained silent for a while longer before finally letting out a slow breath.
"Master… about the sword…"
Richard, who had been leaning against a tree, fell quiet for a moment—as if weighing his words.
Then he adjusted his posture, turned toward Ryn, and offered a faint smile.
"I thought you'd already forgotten about that."
Ryn shook his head slightly.
"I didn't forget. I just… wasn't ready to ask."
Richard reached out and gave Ryn's shoulder a light pat.
"Well, I did promise. If we made it out alive, I'd tell you."
He shifted into a more comfortable position.
"Truth is, I don't know much either. I'll tell you only what I know."
He pointed toward the sword resting beside Ryn.
"That blade… I don't know who forged it, or how long ago."
"But as far as I know, it's had three owners before you.
And every time its wielder died, the sword vanished without a trace."
He paused before continuing.
"And from what I've heard, the blade is renamed by each owner.
That's why it has no fixed name…
Or maybe it does—but I wouldn't know."
Richard fell silent again, as if searching his memory.
"There is one thing, though."
He hesitated, then spoke slowly.
"The last man who wielded it named it…"
Another pause.
"Excalibur."
"A sword said to cut through anything.
Even a dragon's scales."
"So the stories claim."
Ryn listened carefully before lifting his sword and studying it in his hands.
"If that's true…"
He began to speak, then stopped—remembering the words both Richard and Aurelia had once said.
'The sword chooses its wielder.'
He looked up at Richard.
"Master… when you said 'the sword chooses the person'—
what did you mean by that?"
Richard fell silent, his gaze fixed on Ryn with a quiet, concerned intensity.
"Just as I said,"
he replied.
"Some weapons possess a will of their own. They choose their masters for themselves.
But not every blade is like that."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Even if you think you simply found it lying among the wreckage and decided to wield it…"
"In truth, it was the sword that led you to it."
Ryn's eyes widened in shock.
"Then… why would it choose me?
I'm nothing but a trainee soldier."
Richard let out a weary sigh.
"How would I know?"
"When you first brought it back, I was just as surprised to see it in your hands."
Still troubled, Ryn pressed on.
"Then how do you know it's Excalibur?"
Richard's expression tightened, the severity on his face becoming unmistakable.
"Because I've seen it."
"I've seen the sword… and the last one who ever named it, before it ended up in your hands."
Ryn glanced at the blade lying beside him, then turned to Richard.
"Then who was the last owner?"
Richard fell silent for a brief moment before answering in an even, restrained voice.
"King Arthur."
The moment the words left his mouth, he quickly cut the conversation short.
"Forget it. Since you've got yourself a fine sword, you'd better learn to use it well."
Richard lay down, turning his back to Ryn—and did not look back again.
Leaving Ryn alone with his doubts.
Doubts about the sword in his hands…
and about himself—
The one who had been chosen by the blade.