Occasionally, a chill wind would blow down from the mountains, and soon the peaks would be dyed in reds and yellows.

  The wheat harvest was finished, and in the villages at the foot of the mountains everyone was busy preparing for the festival. They would give thanks to the gods for that year’s bounty.

  Through the midst of all this, a party of fully armed horsemen came galloping past.

  The man at the head wore black leather armor and a white cloak. If they had been regular army the cloak would have been red; white meant the Royal Guard.

  A wexira—a long vertical banner of silk hanging from a horizontal pole, the standard used in the Kingdom of Elisya—was being carried aloft. Embroidered on indigo cloth with silver thread was the royal crest: a winged lion.

  The Royal Guard used banners stitched with gold thread, so this party was most likely a force serving one of the royal princes or a branch family.

  It was unusual for Royal Guards to come this far east. The villagers frowned, wondering what was happening, and followed the riders with their eyes.

  The horsemen passed straight through the village and headed deeper into the highland forest beyond.

  This area was called Londinia. Long ago the people known as the Rondo had built a small kingdom here. A century earlier it had been destroyed by the Kingdom of Elisya and turned into a province.

  The Rondo were skilled in metalworking and martial arts, but as a small tribe they could not stand against the armies of a great power. Time and again they had given Elisya a bloody nose, but in the end they were defeated.

  The royal family was slaughtered. The surviving Rondo, their numbers thinned by war, now lived quietly in the eastern mountains of the kingdom.

  To them, that banner was not a welcome sight.

  The party raised a cloud of dust as it plunged into the forest.

  Halfway up the highland forest was a small lake formed by a spring. The water was crystal-clear and beautiful; animals came to drink there often.

  At that moment a mother deer with her fawn had come down to the water. While the fawn drank, the mother kept watch, ears pricked.

  Then she spotted the noisy procession of horsemen.

  The lead rider saw the deer, drew his bow, and loosed an arrow aimed at the still-small fawn.

  The mother deer butted her fawn aside with her nose and stepped in front to shield it.

  Just as the arrow was about to strike, it was deflected in a strange direction and struck a tree with a dry thwack. Ripples spread quietly across the lake and faded.

  The mother and fawn fled in panic.

  Standing in the shadow of a nearby tree—so close that even the mother deer had not noticed—was someone watching the horsemen. Sharp eyes assessed their every movement.

  The commander at the front, furious at losing his quarry, spurred his horse straight toward the figure.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

  It was a girl.

  She looked about sixteen, a young Rondo woman with long black hair.

  “Shooting at a fawn? Is that something a grown man does? You have no right to ruin the bounty of the mountain.”

  Her words were perfectly reasonable, but the hot-blooded captain snarled at the young girl anyway.

  “Filthy Rondo scum!”

  The moment the words left his mouth, a calm man rebuked him.

  “That’s enough, Leonis. The lady is right.”

  With a bitter expression, the man called Leonis backed down.

  “Forgive our rudeness. These men are the Royal Guard of His Highness the Second Prince Clovis. I am their instructor, Aquinaes. We heard there is a man named Hadal living around here. Do you know him?”

  The girl fell silent for a moment, studying the man. He had neat, short flaxen hair and a slender build that did not look much like a soldier.

  “What do you want with my father?”

  “So you’re his daughter. Where is Hadal?”

  “He passed away last year. Illness.”

  “I see… what a shame.”

  “Isn’t that convenient?” Leonis cut in. “We don’t need to hire any Rondo. There are plenty of fine swordsmen elsewhere.”

  “Have you even read the military reports?” Aquinaes asked. “A century ago, five thousand of them repelled ten thousand of our troops—three times. Their martial arts and tactics are extraordinary.”

  “Even so, they no longer have the strength they once did. Attaching Rondo to His Highness’s guard would be a disgrace to the Royal Guard. His whims have gone too far.”

  Leonis was clearly displeased.

  Aquinaes sighed, looking exasperated.

  “Sorry to have bothered you. May he rest in peace.”

  “Thank you. …By the way, is war coming soon?”

  “There’s movement on the western front. A conscription order will likely be issued before long.”

  With that, the party wheeled around and rode back the way they had come.

  “Were you all right?”

  The moment they left, an elderly man stepped out from the thicket right behind her and patted the girl’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. But it looks like war is coming again.”

  “I see…”

  The man’s face darkened.

  “Is Aram still…?”

  “Mm… probably not.”

  “I see… Adis… could you make me a weapon?”

  The girl stared straight into the man’s eyes. Adis frowned.

  “You’re not thinking of going yourself, are you?”

  “Who else is there? The village needs every able-bodied man. We can’t afford to lose any more, and if something happens to Aram the secret ironworking techniques will die with him. I want to prevent that.”

  “But even if you don’t go…”

  The girl looked at Adis as if to say, Then who? He lowered his gaze.

  “It’s fine. I’ve properly inherited Father’s techniques. I won’t lose to any ordinary man. So please make me a suitable weapon.”

  Adis seemed to steel himself and met her eyes.

  “Understood. A spear all right?”

  The girl smiled and nodded.

  “Blade?”

  “Two shaku long, double-edged sasa-ho style with a wide base. Tang three shaku, shaft about five shaku.”

  (1 shaku ≈ 30.3 cm, 1 sun ≈ 3.03 cm, 1 bu ≈ 0.3 cm)

  “Got it. I’ll make it. I’ll have to refit the armor too—Hadal’s will be too big for you.”

  “Yeah, that one definitely won’t work.”

  She laughed.

  There was still a trace of childishness in that smile. Adis’s eyes grew moist with nostalgia.

  “Ah, but Sara… use that one. Hadal will protect you.”

  Sara nodded.

  When she returned home, she lit the hearth.

  The house without her foster father felt somehow empty. Even after a year she still hadn’t grown used to it.

  She took a wooden box from the storeroom and brought out Hadal’s armor.

  The thick hemp chest plate had thin metal scales—called “leaves”—shaped like oxalis leaves sewn on in overlapping layers. It looked like fish scales.

  The surface was blackened to prevent rust. Usually a wife would sew it by hand for her husband.

  Long tassets hung from the chest plate; over them went the belly and back plates and a belt, with a sword slung at the waist. There were also shoulder guards, gauntlets, and greaves.

  Sara removed each leaf one by one and collected them in a small box. She would refit them later.

  Rondo armor was made mainly of hemp and bamboo. Strips of bamboo smoked over the hearth fire were used for reinforcement, making the armor light.

  Swords used by neighboring countries were thick and heavy due to technical limitations; the steel was brittle and could not be made thin. The result was something closer to a blunt weapon with an edge.

  Their ancestors seemed to have thought that protecting the body was enough, and so they pursued lightness in armor. Seeking sturdiness only made it too heavy.

  On the other hand, they were obsessive about the strength and toughness of weapons. They forged steel and developed techniques that used single-edged curved blades for both offense and defense.

  The culmination of that martial art had been passed down to Sara by her foster father Hadal.

  She took down the two swords that hung carelessly on the wall.

  The hilts and scabbards were wrapped in red-black smoked bamboo (susutake) and coated with translucent lacquer, giving them a somehow austere, weathered beauty.

  Bamboo for scabbards had to be naturally curved to match the sword’s bend; such pieces were rare.

  To match grain and color, the same bamboo was used for both hilt and scabbard, creating a unified, tranquil atmosphere.

  But producing that color took roughly a century. The material was precious.

  When she drew the blades, blue-black iron appeared. Held to the light, the crystalline structure of the metal sparkled.

  Both blades were about the length from elbow to fingertips—short swords.

  Sara’s specialty was the kodachi style. She preferred handling short swords one-handed over longer tachi, and with two blades she could fight her foster father on equal terms.

  For the past dozen years or so, cold summers had continued and harvests had declined. Competition for land between countries had grown fierce.

  There had already been fighting earlier that year, and every time men were conscripted the number of working hands in the village shrank.

  They could not send many to war. Bandits were also increasing, and the village needed defenders.

  For that reason, those sent to fight were mostly men of the parental generation who already had heirs, or second and third sons.

  About a month later, at the end of October, a conscription order arrived from the governor who ruled the region.

  In response, the village chief gathered the men for a meeting.

  Those who would go to war assembled in the village square. Everyone was in battle gear; the square overflowed with a crowd of black-clad figures.

  A hundred men from this village were to depart.

  The chief lined them up in groups of ten and counted, but several were missing.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He frowned and let out a long sigh. They would have to find more who could go.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  It was the voice of a still-young woman.

  Sara appeared wearing the refitted armor, carrying a spear and a longbow with its string removed over her shoulder. At her feet was a large pack filled with food, cold-weather gear, arrows, and more.

  All eyes turned to her in astonishment.

  “You’re going too?” the chief asked, bewildered.

  “We’re short, aren’t we? I can fight well enough.”

  “I know that. But it’s far too reckless. There’s no guarantee you’ll come back alive.”

  “I understand. But many of the men are still young. The village needs them to protect it.”

  “But there’s no need for you to go. You’re only seventeen. Stay here and guard the village, won’t you?”

  “I understand how you feel. But if we are ever to regain our strength, we must preserve our techniques and increase those who will follow us. Besides, I want to see the outside world with my own eyes and prepare for the future. So please allow me to go this time.”

  The chief looked down and fell silent.

  “It’ll be fine. We’ll protect her no matter what.”

  A large man at the head of the line stepped forward. He carried a spear.

  Three more men followed: one with a longbow, the other two with spears.

  “Sending a woman to war—who knows what will happen? Watch her back carefully.”

  The chief gripped the spearman’s shoulder firmly.

  The man nodded deeply.

  “All right, lads! This is Sara’s first campaign. Let’s show them our valor!”

  At his shout, the men gathered for war—

  The men thrust their weapons toward the sky and roared.

  They shouted to rouse themselves.

  While the excitement still burned, family and lovers came forward to offer long strips of cloth that could be wound over the belt. Each had woven the pattern by hand and now gave it to child or beloved.

  It was an old Rondo custom wishing for safe return.

  In ancient times they had given indigo-dyed cloth to staunch bleeding—indigo was long known for its antibacterial properties—but over time the practice had changed.

  Rondo armor used mud- or indigo-dyed hemp and gave a somber black impression, but these cloths came in many colors and added a touch of brightness to the grim battlefield.

  “Sara.”

  Startled by her name, she turned to find Aram standing there.

  “Brother. How’s your leg?”

  “Ah, not bad. Sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

  “It’s nothing. Just focus on healing now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aram was Sara’s real brother.

  “How’s the spear?”

  “Yeah, it fits my body perfectly. Did you make it?”

  “Of course. You said you were going. Who else would I trust?”

  “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”

  To inherit the secret techniques, her brother had been adopted by the blacksmith Adis.

  Their real parents had died when they were young—father in war, mother from illness. Aram had been fourteen, Sara ten.

  Since then they had lived in separate houses.

  They had spent every day training.

  Hadal would occasionally go out to instruct the village men, and Sara went with him.

  Riad, Sedi, Nasel, and Haran had been friends since that time.

  All older than Sara, they treated her like a little sister, but they also competed fiercely with one another.

  When everyone was lined up, a shrine maiden performed a prayer for their safe return.

  May the North Star shining in the night sky protect them and light their way home.

  The prayer used ancient words no one understood, but the meaning was clear.

  Afterward the column began marching west.

  Accompanying the fighters were non-combatants who would handle daily needs—several doctors and blacksmiths.

  They would set up tents, prepare meals, repair weapons, and treat wounds.

  Supplies were divided among several wagons.

  Rondo blacksmiths were highly regarded; other tribes paid them well, so it was good money.

  For doctors, the battlefield was an important place to gain experience. Opportunities to treat deep lacerations or fractures were rare otherwise, and field experience was invaluable for training the young.

  The kingdom’s supply corps provided rations, but regular troops received the larger share; local conscript units often had to make up the difference themselves.

  Units with plenty of grain sold it at high prices, but it was usual for Rondo to earn from weapon repairs.

  “It’s been a while since we walked side by side like this.”

  On the westward road Riad spoke to her.

  He was the oldest of the five, already twenty-one.

  His specialty was the spear; he wielded one over seven shaku long with great skill, and memories of struggling to close the distance remained.

  The head of his spear was longer than usual—two shaku—and broadened gently toward the middle and base, good for both thrusting and sweeping cuts.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. It was fitted into a carefully hollowed, eight-sided shaft of seasoned oak, wrapped in smoked bamboo and lacquered.

  Crafting a three-shaku tang that fit securely into the shaft while maintaining strength required bow-making techniques.

  Sedi was the longbow expert.

  Like spear shafts, the bow was made by combining bamboo and wood.

  After cutting the materials and applying raw lacquer, they were toasted over charcoal so the lacquer would soak in.

  Then they were laminated, bound with cord, and bent with many bamboo wedges.

  The shape resembled a dragon’s spine, so they were called “dragon-bone” bows.

  Bamboo had been brought from the east long ago and quickly spread, becoming a material for daily tools.

  It was used not only for household items but also armor, weapons, and arrows.

  Especially for arrow shafts—straight, hollow, lightweight yet strong—nothing else could replace it. Rondo arrows, loosed with their unique bow shape and technique, had terrifying destructive power.

  They loved bamboo.

  It bent flexibly in strong winds without breaking, stood straight and strong, and spread vigorously upward.

  Above all, it was useful.

  Perhaps they wanted to live that way.

  Bamboo was everywhere in daily life.

  When smoked over the hearth, the skin turned a deep red-brown or red-black; everyone loved that color.

  Smoked bamboo was used mainly for weapons and armor; generation after generation they cared for and wore the gear they had inherited.

  “You disappeared for a while—what were you doing?”

  Nasel asked.

  “Training in the mountains.”

  “Mountains? What for?”

  Nasel was a year older than Sara, a dexterous man skilled with sword, spear, and bow alike.

  “Master died before he could teach me the secret techniques, so I was searching for the stone monuments.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “Two of them.”

  “Two? Are there many?”

  “Yes. They’re hidden. I have to visit nine places.”

  “That many? But in these mountains it shouldn’t take long, right?”

  “No, it’s deeper in the range.”

  Nasel stopped in surprise.

  “You went to the Almira Mountains?”

  The Almira Mountains lay even farther north of Sara’s home range—high, rugged peaks.

  It was a world of virgin forest and wild beasts.

  Up to the middle slopes spread untouched conifer forests; above that, vegetation thinned and bare rock appeared—an austere, harsh landscape.

  Many wild animals still lived there as in ancient times.

  Not only wolf packs, but white tigers unique to the forest and large bears covered in stiff gray fur roamed where no one dared enter.

  The predecessors had left the secret techniques in such a place.

  Worse, you had to visit all of them to obtain the full art.

  The first monument was at the summit of the mountain where Sara lived.

  It was a black granite slab with a cut surface so smooth it was impossible to tell how it had been made. About six shaku tall, the top bore a pattern: the Rondo clan crest known as the Taiji mark.

  A large circle with eight smaller circles arranged in the eight directions. In the center, representing the North Star, was a large circle with a hole.

  Looking through the hole did not point north; only distant mountains were visible.

  —Let this stone be your guide. Reach the place of beginning by your own skill alone and obtain the secret art—

  Around the central hole eight more circles were carved, but only the one on the lower side of the crest was filled in as ● instead of ○.

  If those circles indicated positions, visiting several might reveal the center.

  With that thought Sara had set foot in the mountains.

  But without maps or exact distances, she could not search effectively.

  After a year she had visited only two sites.

  The first stone pointed to the northern circle, the second to the southeast, the next to the west.

  She had walked the area where their intersection should be, but found nothing. Worse, she lost her sense of direction and could no longer find the next stone.

  She had returned to the first site to start over in order—and that was when the conscription order came.

  The inscriptions on the stones were not clues to the next location but the very teachings her master had always given.

  The northern stone spoke of grip:

  —Those who place thumb and forefinger on the hilt walk the path of the defeated. Converse with your own body and find the path to victory—

  The southeast stone read:

  —When you step, that is the moment to cut. Cutting is not only attack—

  One step, one cut—one of the master’s teachings, the foundation of offense-and-defense-as-one techniques.

  Each phrase her master had taught her came flooding back.

  She already possessed it, she thought.

  If so, she was curious what the final stone held.

  “But why did you, a girl, end up inheriting it? There were plenty of men.”

  Sedi asked.

  Sara hesitated.

  “Who knows. If the arrow had pointed to you, would you have accepted?”

  “I wonder. But if I’d known from the start I’d have to go into the Almira Mountains, maybe not.”

  “I hesitated too. I didn’t want to go to a place full of beasts.”

  “Well, you came back safely, so maybe I should avoid sparring with you.”

  Sedi joked.

  They had all learned the same techniques from the same master without distinction.

  Sara knew why she had been chosen to inherit the secrets.

  And she had a faint sense of what the final stone held.

  Her master had occasionally told her stories connected to Rondo history and its curse.

  The tale of the Five Supreme Swords of the Realm that still existed.

  It was a story from a thousand years ago.

  At that time the Rondo lived much farther east, closer to the sea, and called themselves the Rona.

  They were masters of ironworking and the martial arts that used iron weapons, and they produced superb arms.

  Among them was a particularly outstanding married pair of master smiths.

  Their names have not been passed down, but they laid the foundation for the weapon-making techniques still used today; their works served as models.

  Once, a king who had pacified the eastern lands ordered the Rona master smith to forge five weapons.

  But the smith refused to serve a king who had destroyed other countries by force and treachery and massacred their people.

  Enraged, the king killed the smith’s wife.

  He threatened that unless the five weapons were completed within half a year, every Rona would be slaughtered.

  The smith embraced his wife’s body, wept tears of blood, and wailed.

  In a single day he built a giant furnace, laid his wife’s corpse upon it, and kindled the fire to refine iron.

  He forged seven weapons from the iron born of his wife’s remains:

  A double-edged sword, a ten-soku great tachi, a matched pair of kodachi, a sasa-ho spear, a large curved halberd, and a small dagger.

  For half a year he silently hammered iron.

  During that time he persuaded many disciples to flee west with their families and leave the village.

  He entrusted his beloved two children to them.

  When the king returned after half a year, the village was empty.

  Only the sound of hammering carried on the wind from the workshop on the outskirts.

  The king found five weapons there and marveled at their beauty.

  He praised the smith, but the man merely swung his hammer and struck iron.

  He no longer cared about anything else.

  Angered by the sight, the king drew one of the weapons the smith had made—the double-edged sword—

  and stabbed the smith in the back, killing him.

  The master smith collapsed over the anvil and died.

  Blood spattered into the furnace and burned, filling the air with a stench.

  Blood overflowing from his chest dripped onto the unfinished small dagger he had been forging with his life.

  The king showed no interest in the blood-soaked unfinished dagger and took the other five weapons back to his castle.

  Those arms were said to have such terrifying sharpness that they could cut a criminal’s torso cleanly in two without a single nick.

  This is the tale of the Five Supreme Swords of the Realm handed down across the eastern continent, yet the tachi and dagger are not counted among the five.

  There is a sequel.

  The king who took the weapons girded the sword at his waist and bestowed the rest upon his loyal subjects.

  They rejoiced and kept them close.

  Soon afterward, misfortune struck one after another in their households—family and retainers died of illness or accident.

  More time passed and they began to feel ill themselves.

  Within a year, everyone who had possessed the weapons had left the world.

  Including the tyrannical king himself.

  Afterward the royal line died out in a few generations. When another took the throne the country split and fell back into an age of war.

  The same thing happened not only to the king and his ministers but to all who obtained these unparalleled treasures. People began to call it the smith’s curse.

  These cursed weapons terrified many, yet many others sought to make that terror their own. The blades passed through countless hands, and today no one knows where they are.

  The Rona who fled west knew that the master had forged a tachi.

  They had taken it with them.

  It was said to have been passed down as a model for the disciples.

  But no one knew the whereabouts of the unfinished dagger.

  Sara suspected the dagger might be stored at the “place of beginning.”

  She did not particularly want to obtain it.

  A blade with such a history was not something one picked up lightly.

  Still, now that she was going to war, who knew when she would be able to visit the final stone? Sara looked up at the sky and sighed.

  The road leading from the village wound westward and entered a forest.

  Suddenly there was a rustling in the bushes beside the road. Everyone tensed and readied their weapons.

  Two gray wolves burst out.

  Seeing the armed men, they bared their teeth and growled.

  “Wait! Everyone, wait!”

  At Sara’s shout the wolves pricked their ears and raised their heads.

  When she walked toward them they whined and rubbed their noses against her.

  “You followed me? Can’t be helped, huh?”

  She stroked their heads.

  “You tamed wolves?” Haran asked.

  “Yeah. While I was in the mountains, a pack of wolves fought a bear. The wolves were losing and fled, but these two were too scared to move and got left behind.”

  “You fought a bear?”

  “No way. I just threw chili powder in its face and chased it off. After that we traveled together.”

  “I see. They’re still young, so they could get used to people… but what bodyguards you’ve got.”

  Sara took dried venison from her pouch and gave it to them.

  They ate greedily. She patted their heads again, then returned to the marching column.

  The two wolves followed right behind her.

  Naturally, no one came near her anymore.

  The road to the battlefield was still long.

  Before dusk the Rondo column stopped and began preparing camp.

  Sara quickly set up her tent, then took the wolves to find a watering place nearby.

  They were covered in dust; she wanted to wash them.

  Deep in the woods was a small spring. She undressed and stepped in.

  The wolves also entered the water to clean themselves.

  If they were coming along, she didn’t want fleas or parasites.

  Doctors came later to draw water for cooking but pretended not to notice.

  Reacting strangely would only cause trouble for everyone.

  When she got out, the wolves shook themselves vigorously, spraying water everywhere.

  Sara changed her underclothes, washed the dirty ones in the spring, and carried them back.

  When she returned to the tent, dinner was ready.

  The wolves had claimed the spot in front of the campfire to dry off.

  Sara chuckled at the sight.

  Suddenly a wooden bowl of soup and bread appeared before her.

  Riad had brought it.

  “Pretty tame bodyguards you’ve got there.”

  Sara laughed out loud.

  “Well, we’ve been together more than half a year, so they’re used to fire now too.”

  She took out the rest of the venison. The wolves came over.

  She split it in two and gave it to them; they ate with obvious pleasure.

  “Do they have names?”

  “This boy is Loki, this girl is Shera.”

  “Any special meaning?”

  “They’re the names of the creators of the Five Supreme Swords.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know that. You’re well informed.”

  “The secret blacksmithing texts record the names. My brother knew them.”

  “I see. In the last war Aram saved me many times. When we retreated he covered the rear, so I could escape—but Aram took a wound to the knee.”

  “That’s war. Don’t blame yourself. Besides, my brother is still alive.”

  “Yeah. But we’ll protect you no matter what—even at the cost of our lives.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment. But don’t die. For the sake of our future.”

  “Understood. Let’s all return to the village alive.”

  Sara nodded.

  In the previous war the Rondo had sent a hundred-man unit.

  Only seven had not returned; no other unit had a survival rate over ninety percent.

  It was not that they had accomplished nothing. Even when placed at the very front as conscripts, they had been the only ones still fighting at the end.

  Their values concerning martial arts and weapons were completely different, and so were their tactics.

  They were immigrants from the east, a people unlike the surrounding tribes, yet Elisya recognized them as an important fighting force and treated them differently.

  The provincial governor had been strictly ordered to leave them alone except for tax collection.

  There had once been a staff officer who suggested incorporating them into the regular army, but conservative factions who disliked introducing “foreign elements” opposed it fiercely and the plan was dropped.

  They acknowledged the Rondo’s strength in battle, but found them too alien to approach comfortably.

  Even so, flexible men like Aquinaes existed, and occasionally someone tried to add them to the fighting strength.

  Looking up, autumn constellations twinkled in the sky.

  The small circles of the Taiji crest represented the stars circling the North Star.

  The eight especially bright stars surrounding the North Star were called the Eight Wings; the Rondo revered them.

  They showed direction at night and served as important markers.

  Loki howled toward the star of the Heavenly Wolf.

  It was a long, beautiful howl.

  Your feedback is greatly appreciated and really encourages both the original author and the translator to keep bringing more chapters.

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