Chapter 02
“First rank, prepare to fire!”
Perhaps it was because we had nothing—nothing at all—that humanity’s fate could only be described as tragic.
“Damn, those Uruk bastards just keep coming, don’t they?”
“Boss, is lunch going to be Uruk pork belly again today?”
“Shut up and focus. Wait for it, wait for it… now! Fire! First rank, reload! Second and third ranks, fire!”
We were not like the Dwarves, blessed with unparalleled craftsmanship.
Nor were we like fairies, who could command miracles at will.
And certainly, we were nothing like dragons, beings of overwhelming might.
“This is bad—the left flank’s about to collapse!”
“An ambush? What the hell is the reserve doing?”
“You idiots. Do you think the reserve even needs to move?”
When humanity stood on the brink of extinction, the gods are said to have sent down five heroes to bear that burden.
Heroes that history would come to call Champions.
But perhaps it was some kind of cruel joke—because since the age of the gods, not a single true Champion has ever appeared. Not one.
“…So the reserve didn’t move to the left flank because…”
And so humanity began creating its own Champions.
Their official title: Pseudo-Hero, also known as FakeWarrior.
Warriors who wielded false holy swords, bearing the weight of humanity’s destiny—its strongest soldiers.
“…because Lady Camilla is there herself, huh?”
A flash of crimson steel tore through the battlefield.
Heads of the Uruk, who had been tearing through the left flank with savage weapons, soared dozens at a time into the air.
“I am Camilla Alter Aradamantel.”
Her blade took the form of a long, curved sword.
Forged not from any metal of this world, its gleaming, silver edge radiated an ominous light. It was not just a sword—it was a weapon of slaughter, a blade worthy of the title Holy Sword.
Holy Swords were weapons granted only to true Champions. And this one—this blade—was none other than Aradamantel, the ultimate Holy Sword in its purest form.
Which meant that the woman wielding it could only be one thing:
Humanity’s strongest soldier. A FakeWarrior.
“I will kill you all.”
Her cry of invocation awakened the Holy Sword.
Within the scarlet banquet it unleashed, the blood of Uruk flowed like a river, drenching the earth in crimson.
Childhood
Prelude to Summer (1)
“Ugh, Lady Camilla. Look at this mess again! See for yourself—they’ve sliced up humans again.”
“They’ve practically elevated the art of butchering humans into something divine.”
“Divine, my ass.”
The battles with the Uruk race were grueling in the moment, but the aftermath was downright nauseating.
Villages trampled by Uruks turned into slaughterhouses, stinking of blood.
The monstrous wolves they rode, the Blashwurfs, always seemed to relish human flesh.
“You’ve seen this a hundred times. Why the fuss? Huh? You looking to get smacked or something?”
The woman berating her soldiers as she gazed down at the piles of rotting corpses was strangely calm.
A towering figure with a lean, lethal build.
Under the short, snow-white hair, her golden dragon-like eyes gleamed with a mystical light.
White hair and dragon eyes—signatures of body modification, the most famous traits of the Feyquarrior.
The world called her Camilla Alter Aradamantell.
The title meant: Camilla, the Proxy of the Supreme Starblade Aradamantell.
“What do we do?”
“What do you mean what do we do? You planning to identify every smashed-in face? Gather what’s worth salvaging and burn the rest. Plague will spread.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave the order and was about to turn away when a loud commotion erupted near the village entrance.
“What now?”
Camilla frowned, and two mercenaries darted off toward the source of the noise, soon returning with someone in tow.
“He barged into the village and went berserk. The kid’s insane.”
A boy with pitch-black hair and crimson eyes.
His thin frame dangled helplessly in the grip of a burly mercenary, like he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Let go! Give it back! I said give it back!”
Camilla stared at that face intently—though for a reason different from the others.
Where have I seen him before? Why does he look so damn familiar?
Mercenaries, scattered in squads to handle cleanup, began gathering around, sensing some entertainment.
“That mark on his cheek… Isn’t that the Valcrush Clan emblem?”
“Meaning he’s in league with the Uruk?”
“Doubt it. No sane kid would get that tattoo. Captain would know though…”
Camilla sat on a shattered paving stone of the ruined hall, expressionless, eyes fixed on the boy.
Two towering figures flanked her.
To her left stood Eltoram—the mercenary captain—a beastman with a body as massive as an Uruk, covered head to toe in fur, his head that of a white bear.
Eltoram spoke.
“So, the brat raised hell for no reason?”
“No, not exactly… He kept demanding to see Lady Camilla. We thought he was spewing nonsense, ignored him, and then he went wild.”
Eltoram’s beastly eyes narrowed, and he strode up to the boy. The infamous beastman himself.
A cursed being, neither child of the Abyss nor of the Light.
Beastmen were scorned and driven to the ends of the earth across the continent—but not on the battlefield.
Here, they were the ultimate warriors.
Countless battles.
Unyielding vitality and ferocity.
Even setting aside their savage aggression, their raw strength and frame made them the only ones who could meet Uruks head-on.
“And who the hell are you to demand Camilla?”
“I want to learn swordsmanship.”
“Swordsmanship? What for?”
“They said swordsmanship is the art of killing with a blade… If I’m gonna kill those Uruks, I need to know how!”
A strange silence followed.
Then Eltoram threw back his head and roared with laughter, clutching his stomach.
The mercenaries joined in, bending over with mirth.
“If the Uruks heard this, they’d piss themselves.”
“While screaming ‘Uruk Slayer!’”
“Hope he brought diapers. If not, I can lend him mine—though he might’ve already soiled himself once!”
Hahahahahahahaha!
The laughter died when Eltoram suddenly stopped, leaning down until his massive face filled the boy’s view, their eyes locking.
“Don’t get cocky, brat.”
“…”
“You think Lady Camilla’s here to babysit your tantrums? This is a battlefield. There’s no room for snot-nosed brats.”
His voice dripped with killing intent, yet the boy didn’t flinch—didn’t even look away.
No fear.
Because fear was gone.
Blunted, shattered, trampled into dust—the emotions of his childhood.
What kind of kid is this?
Even Eltoram was thrown off.
Any other brat would’ve pissed himself and bolted at a mere scowl from a common beastman, let alone him.
Yet this one didn’t back down an inch.
“What’s with that mark? Who branded you like that?”
“You’re not gonna teach me swordsmanship anyway. And I’m not telling. I’ll just find someone else. So give it back.”
“Give what back?”
“Ah, that’d be this, Captain.”
The mercenary holding the boy grinned sheepishly and made a coin gesture. He’d snatched something valuable, clearly.
“Pathetic… Do what you want.”
Eltoram waved him off and left, grumbling at nearby men for slacking.
The moment he was gone, the boy snapped his head up at his captor.
“Give it back.”
“What, this? Dangerous stuff like this belongs with grown-ups. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe.”
“I said it’s mine. Give it back!”
The boy lunged—but his frail body never stood a chance.
This wasn’t some half-baked conscript but an elite mercenary serving in the vanguard of the Feyquarrior Legion.
“Heh. Kid, I tried being nice—”
The mercenary shoved him down and raised a boot to kick—
“Stop.”
A calm, firm voice.
The young man in a snow-white robe who’d been standing at Camilla’s right spoke at last.
“What did you take?”
His tone was gentle yet commanding, enough to make the mercenary hesitate.
“N-Nothing serious…”
“Nothing serious?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. If it’s nothing, return it. Or are we any better than Uruks if we steal from others?”
Grumbling, the mercenary dug into his belt.
Meanwhile, the white-robed man knelt to the boy’s eye level.
“Sorry about that. He didn’t mean harm.”
A young man with neatly tied pale-blue hair and striking blue eyes.
“Understand, will you? Battle frenzy lingers. Blood… sometimes turns men into beasts.”
A silver wolf-head brooch clasped his robe—the honor reserved only for top graduates of the Empire’s three great magical academies.
“My name’s Johann Wolf Frost. Just call me Wolf.”
“…”
“I’m a mage—though nothing worth bragging about. Will you tell me your name now?”
Composed humility, almost elegant.
The middle name Wolf—a title granted only to the most exceptional of graduates.
And he wasn’t just anyone. He was one of the Empire’s leading scholars, a 5-Star Archmage—an Arquizard.
“…Kaisen.”
Wolf rolled the name on his tongue, then smiled warmly.
“Kaisen! Fine name. Draconic, isn’t it? Means ‘bond,’ right? Who gave it to you?”
“Mom.”
“She must’ve been a wise woman. What was she like?”
The boy bit his lip hard.
“Dead. Uruks killed her.”
The words spilled out, and Wolf’s eyes softened with grief.
“The same Uruk clan that left that brand on your cheek?”
Kaisen dropped his gaze, silence heavy around the camp.
Even hardened mercenaries cast pitying glances—his skeletal frame telling a month-long tale of scavenging through the ruins of the southern plains.
“Here.”
The mercenary handed over what he’d taken.
A short sword.
Kaisen’s keepsake—his mother’s lifelong treasure. The reason he’d fought so desperately to get it back.
“Wait.”
It happened in a blink.
No—when? How?
One heartbeat she was sitting far away, and the next, Camilla was gripping the mercenary’s wrist in an iron clamp.
“L-Lady Camilla?!”
The grip was crushing. The mercenary groaned, dropping the sword, which Camilla snatched mid-air.
“You… Where did you get this?”
She turned her gaze on the boy, sharp enough to cut steel.
“Camilla, what are you doing? What’s this about?”
Even Wolf sounded uneasy as Camilla’s harsh tone drew frowns.
“Answer me! Where’d you steal it? Cat got your tongue? Want me to cut your ears open?”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t!”
“Then where did you get it? Speak!”
Camilla caught the tremor in his voice, the redness in his eyes—a shard of truth.
“It’s Mom’s keepsake… It’s all I have left of her! So give it back!”
Everything froze.
Not because of the boy’s shout—
—but because of the killing aura erupting from Camilla, staining the air blood-red.
“Your mother’s…?”
Camilla seized his chin, tilting his face side to side, scrutinizing every feature.
No way…
Her heart thundered wildly.
She couldn’t accept what her eyes screamed as truth.
Up close… he’s the spitting image…
The moment she admitted it, her mind went blank, as if struck by a massive hammer.
How? Master died in the final battle of the Black Summer…
“It’s over for him now.”
The mercenaries, ignorant of her turmoil, shook their heads.
“Kid mouthed off to Lady Camilla. Poor bastard.”
“She doesn’t care if you’re old or young—true equal-opportunity brutality…”
Only Wolf, her friend of twenty years, sensed the shift. He grabbed her wrist.
“Enough! He’s an orphan. Show some mercy. Let him go.”
Camilla blinked, then released Kaisen. Wolf patted his back as he gasped for air.
“You want me to teach you to cut down Uruks? For revenge?”
“Yeah…!”
“Yeah? Then make me fall for you.”
Everyone fell silent.
Kaisen, Wolf, even the mercenaries stared, stunned.
“Why are you gaping, brat? Answer me! Make me want to teach you—prove you’re worth it.”
Mercenaries exchanged dumbfounded looks. Wolf was just as shocked.
“L-Lady Camilla?”
“Did you just say what I think you said?”
“Camilla, you—what—?”
Who was Camilla?
The one who’d cursed and kicked out every genius who begged to be her disciple.
And more importantly—
“Camilla, you can’t take a male apprentice. Only women can become Feyquarriors.”
Becoming her apprentice meant being a successor—a candidate for the Sacred Blade.
It was a sacred bond, not a casual teacher-student tie.
“Who said I’m taking him as a disciple? I’m just checking if he’s got any spine.”
“How do I make you fall for it?”
Kaisen’s defiant reply made the camp erupt with cheers.
Camilla spat on the ground.
Then, with a snort, she snatched a longsword from a nearby mercenary and tossed it at him.
“Grab it.”
“…?”
“I hate loudmouths most. If you’re serious about learning swordsmanship, come at me—ready to die.”
Kaisen blinked, and Camilla provocatively twirled the short sword—his mother’s sword—in her hand.
“If you land a single hit—hell, even a scratch—I’ll give this back and teach you. Deal?”
“…!”
“But if I win, this is mine. What’s a keepsake to a dead kid, anyway? Back out now, and I’ll let you walk away with your sword.”
The mercenaries shook their heads, laughing.
“Lady, just say you don’t want to teach him.”
“Kid, take the sword and leave while you can.”
But Kaisen read the room fast.
Camilla never did this. It was a rare chance—a door cracked open for a heartbeat.
So his next words might have come instinctively:
“Promise.”
Jaws dropped. Even Camilla twitched a brow.
All eyes locked on him.
Wolf doubted his own eyes as Kaisen seized the sword buried in the dirt and leveled it at Camilla.
“When I win, you teach me how to wield a blade.”
