curtain call I The Unkillable Swordsman Who Cannot Die
Thank you for reading.
This work contains some harsh depictions.
Those uncomfortable with such content are advised to refrain from reading.
One land and its people are called forth.
Once, that land was known as a forgotten realm.
Even now, the air tainted with miasma renders agriculture impossible, and the people endure hardship, clinging desperately to life.
The primary industries of this continent today are human labor dispatch and the export of monster materials.
Most people bear a distinctive pattern upon their foreheads.
It is said to be the punishment for their ancestors' attempt to become gods.
Commonly known as the Blood Curse, it marks them.
Even after reincarnation, they are reborn into the same bloodline.
They have long endured a life of sacrifice, believing that the sins of their ancestors are their own past deeds, and thus must atone with their very being.
And the Divine Punishers, though shunned in other lands, were well aware of this.
Thus, the people of this land have a unique custom: hiding their foreheads from all but kin.
In such a continent, four hundred years ago, a single swordsman was cast ashore.
His forehead bore a mark of the Divine Punisher, darker and larger than that of the native inhabitants.
When first exiled, he was still young, a man who had not yet understood how one might be cast so far, so far from home.
This is the story of how he came to receive forgiveness beneath the name of death.
~Fret~
How many days have I stared at the horizon, searching for a ship that should never come to this shore…
My stomach aches.
Pain pulses through me.
There is the need to relieve myself.
And yet I cannot die—what does that even mean?
Fret crouched on the sandy beach, drawing the single sword his uncle had left behind into his arms.
At first, he believed this sword, left by his uncle, was meant for his own end.
He could not say he would not die—still, if he severed the head, death would surely follow.
He thought this simply.
Later, he would learn it could not be done, but at that moment, he knew no such thing.
When he lifted the sword, he found it was a double-edged, crushed training blade.
The blade did not suit Fret. It was too short for him.
Still, he held it, uncertain, and upon closer inspection, realized it was the very training dummy he had used since first grasping a sword.
His uncle had meant to convey something.
“Return to your beginning. Do not forget your beginning.”
He embraced the blade, holding close the memory of family, the weight of those days.
Why had he taken up this sword...
‘I will become the knight who protects Spica.’
The ghost of his younger self turned toward his sister, her smile radiant as light.
He remembered what he had shattered, what he had wounded.
He felt so wretched, so unworthy—so much so that he wished to die.
A human who had aspired to knighthood had wounded the sister he was meant to protect, driven by his own desire—had vented his bitterness upon the most defenseless of all, his mother—had trampled on his sister’s feelings, stolen from his elder brother…
As that man had said, I am worse than an animal…
He stared blankly at the water’s surface, reflecting nothing but regret.
A rustle.
The bushes behind him stirred.
Fret instinctively raised his sword, ready to defend.
A blade without edge—useless for cutting, yet still a weapon in its blunt form.
It was ironic, how knightly training proved useful in such a moment.
Before him, a figure emerged—unexpectedly, a human child.
Their skin tone and clothing bore no resemblance to anyone Fret knew.
Likely a native of this land.
Whether they could understand speech was uncertain—but the doubt resolved itself quickly.
Uncle, aren’t you going to eat? You’ve been sitting here all this time—won’t you atone for your sins?
The words carried no venom.
They were spoken in the common tongue of the continent, the same as that of the Empire.
A flicker of mild confusion stirred at being called uncle, though the girl could not be more than ten years old.
Given that, it was understandable.
More troubling to Fret was the mark of the Divine Punished upon her forehead. Why would a child so young bear the same brand as himself…?
Uncle? Want to eat this?
The girl offered a fruit-like thing without hesitation.
Thank you… but I cannot die, so I cannot atone.
Fret flinches. Had he truly shown such weakness to a child like this?
Hunger gnawed at him, but caution held firm.
Uncle, you’re just like the old man up on the mountain—he’s an immortal too!
Then you must atone without end!
The girl laughed, carefree, as though Fret’s words were nothing at all.
“You’re not afraid of me? I am the Divine Punisher.”
“No, I’m not scared. We’re all comrades waiting for salvation from the divine. I’m Synk. Who are you, sir?”
Her eyes, so earnest they seemed beyond her years, pressed upon him.
“I am… Fret.”
Thus, the girl and Fret met.
And Synk told Fret:
“From now on, I shall atone. I will teach you how to purge your sin here.”
He did not understand what she meant, but Synk took his hand, and Fret followed her into the woods.
After walking for half a watch, they came upon a sunken hollow.
There, within a shroud of black mist, glared twin eyes of deep crimson, bellowing a wrathful roar.
One glance was enough—it was something vast, like a serpent.
Yet it was not a beast of the wild… something far more dreadfully alive.
“That,” she said, “is the seed of calamity that wells from this land. A demon born of the sins of past people and the burdens of those living now.”
It was Synk who spoke.
Fret is struggling to keep up with the understanding.
I am the divine punisher of blood. To atone here is to purify this calamity’s root by offering my own body and returning it to the heavens. Uncle, surely this too shall be your redemption.
There was something about the way this young child spoke so freely that made Spica seem to overlap with her.
A tightness grips the heart, relentless, as if demanding she must protect.
As if seeing through him, Caine shook his head.
Grandfather said nearly everyone now on this continent is a punisher of the blood god.
It is the souls of an ancient king who did great wickedness, and those around him—bound to the dark, feeding upon themselves, expiating their sins by returning the curse to heaven.
We cast ourselves into death there, and are reborn again, returning to the family’s fold. And once more, we atone for that punishment.
When the divine punishment etched upon the soul is erased, one may step free from the circle of penance and receive absolution, and thus remove the sin (Sin)."
She spoke, then took another step closer to the hole.
"We may not wield magic, but we do possess sacred power. Thus, the demon that consumes our bodies will be purified."
She spoke, then leapt into the abyss, falling downward.
"Uncle, we’ll meet again soon! Goodbye!"
Smiling even as she fell, the girl waved her hand.
And then, swallowed whole by the vast, black mist...
After several crunching sounds, the black mist exploded outward.
Fret collapsed where he stood.
He could not fathom what had happened.
The girl’s life slipped away before he could even reach out.
Below him, only scattered fragments of flesh and the fading remnants of the mist remained.
As if lost in a dream, he remained there for several hours...
The soul had experienced death again and again.
Again and again, it endured the agony of being crushed by demons...
A life so easily discarded could not be treated with such indifference...
Before such a fleeting existence, all thoughts were hollow.
Fret wandered through the forest. After some time, he reached a village.
The villagers, recognizing him as an outsider, watched him with suspicion.
"Is the girl named Sink a resident of this place?"
When Fret asked, the villagers nodded. From his worn appearance, they seemed to understand what had happened.
Then he was led to the village elder.
And he delivered news of Sink’s final moments.
"I am sorry... I could not protect such a young child..."
"No, do not apologize. That would be a desecration. Moreover, the child will return soon enough."
Fret tilted his head, puzzled by the words.
"Those who die are reborn after several years. And they suffer atonement once more, dying again. This may continue as long as the world holds magic—our eternal atonement."
What is that...
As if born only to die...
A child so young...
"If I were to cut away all the magic from this land, would the people's sins lessen?"
Fret asked without thought.
The elder shook his head.
"To do so would be your atonement alone. We are bound until our own atonement ends... even if we are freed, we may fall into Cocytus, or face only the extinction of our souls..."
Fret could say nothing.
How many years had they spent in this atonement? How much more must they endure from now on...
Afterward, Fret sought out demons near the settlement and challenged them to battle.
At first, he did not know how to fight, and each day ended in struggle and retreat.
In time, he came to understand that magic could be used to strike the fiends effectively.
He also learned that piercing the core would cause them to vanish entirely. But by the time he knew this, Fret’s left arm was already gone.
Another truth emerged as well.
Not everyone in the settlement advanced toward the sink as if in penance.
Indeed, he began to wonder if the sink itself was the anomaly.
Most did so only when death drew near, or when the fiends grew too strong to resist.
Some even passed away without ever performing the rite.
What, then, was penance?
Would the sin I have committed ever be forgiven?
Every spare moment, he dwelled on such thoughts.
Two years had passed since he had come to this place.
What are my family doing across the sea…?
Now, Fret was summoned no more than once every three days to exorcise demons, and thus the children regarded him as a hero, while the adults regarded him as a troublesome burden—uncertain how to treat him.
He had even visited the old man atop the mountain.
There, lying with limbs severed, gazing only upward at the sky, was the greedy king from a fairy tale—himself.
A pitiful man, abandoned by time, neither living nor atoning for his sins.
He vowed in his heart that he would never become such a man, yet trembled with fear at the thought that he might one day be just that.
At such a time, a child was born again in the settlement—after a long absence.
Even from afar, the infant resembled Sync.
And simply by being a child, it stirred memories of Spica’s youth.
The emotions welling within his chest were known only to him.
He wept.
“Fret, Sync has returned. This child holds Sync’s soul.”
The elder placed Sync into Fret’s remaining arm.
The warmth was unbearable. A mass of life lay there.
I will atone—ten times over, no, a hundred times over—my own atonement. But first, I will atone for you, Sync. For your sake, I will endure even more than my own burden.
I will strive, so that your sin may be forgiven sooner… so please… do not give up…
From that day forward, Fret sought a way to exorcise demons without magic.
He established the method, taught it to the villagers.
He spread the culture and writing of the Empire beyond their borders.
It was a life-risking endeavor, yet the atonement that did not cost lives transformed their consciousness.
Years passed. The second Sync had grown into adulthood.
Fret felt a quiet sorrow—his nephew must now be of this age.
He had known Sync admired him. Yet he had pretended not to know.
To touch one such as himself—without seed—could bring only harm.
She was devoured by a demon just before piercing its core of evil…
She did not depart with a smile like the first Synk...
Her expression was filled with agony...
After a time, those marked by no divine punishment began to appear, scattered here and there.
Some turned their gaze toward the land across the sea.
Years later, the soul of Synk returned once more.
This Synk had grown into adulthood, married, and borne children.
Synran, the husband of Synk, was a good man.
From that time onward, Fret ceased to age.
Perhaps this was the natural span of life he had been granted from the beginning.
It was likely around the time Spica was released from her duties in the homeland...
Fret found beauty in that ordinary existence—something precious and fleeting.
Now, at last, his heart ached with the realization that he had once destroyed something so sacred.
His resolve to exorcise demons, born of penance, grew stronger.
Eventually, Synk came to resemble Fret so closely in appearance that the difference was negligible.
Synk spoke.
"How many more times must I atone before I am set free..."
Will I not be able to see Uncle again once I’m freed… That would be lonely…»
Synk and Fret had both grown so faint in the mark of divine punishment that the difference was nearly imperceptible.
To Fret, Synk had become like a daughter, a granddaughter, a family—something irreplaceable.
“It’s alright. I’ll find you, I’ll find you no matter what. So… it’s time to be forgiven. You’re refusing forgiveness, aren’t you?”
Synk widened her eyes and looked away, astonished—she had not even been noticed by her husband.
“It’s alright. Even if I am reborn as something other than human, I will not lose your soul. So… is it time to go?”
Synk nodded.
Even after Synk began her journey toward forgiveness, Fret continued to purge the corruption.
After driving his sword into the largest demon core he had ever encountered in the forest, Fret felt at last that he had been forgiven.
The god who watched him had long favored one who raged more at the sins of others than at his own.
After granting forgiveness, the god offered Fret a choice.
To be reborn as a stranger, severed from the bonds of his former life, never to touch them again— or to be reborn, carrying the weight of those ties, yet not as a man…
Fret chose the latter without hesitation.
—The Knight Who Cannot Die to Atone for His Sins—
Long ago, there was a man known for his brutality.
A man proud of his strength tormented the girl who had become his sister by adoption.
When his family rebuked him, he slew his mother and grievously wounded his brother, yet showed no remorse.
Enraged, the god cursed him with immortality, decreeing he would atone for his sins upon the cursed earth.
He regretted deeply, but it was too late.
His specialty was swordsmanship. With that skill, he wielded his blade for three hundred years upon the cursed earth, slaying demons and pleading for forgiveness before the divine.
When the deity learned of his sincere repentance, He pardoned the man and granted him peace, so it is said.
The end.
"Spica, what is it? Let's go?"
She felt she had recognized the soul that had just passed by.
"Fret! Wait! Stop!"
One dog broke free from the girl’s grip and dashed forward.
Fret was strongly drawn to the soul he had just passed.
His heart, his scent, his movement, his breath, his very essence—this soul knew that child…
Fret ran toward the owner of that soul.
〜curtain call I The Undying Swordsman Who Cannot Die, Atoning for His Sins End〜
Greetings to all.
I apologize for the delay in posting—exams, sudden duties, and the child’s events all conspired to delay me.
Above all, Fret had been sulking, and I could not bring myself to write a story (；´Д`)
No matter how many times I rewrote it, I couldn’t quite convey it properly, but I hope the mood came through—Fret, too, endured much. (laugh)
Incidentally, “Syun” was intended to be written in kanji as “Zai Kō”—a play on “sin” turning to “true red” upon forgiveness. A backstory I never managed to fully reveal…
How she was reborn, I leave entirely to your imagination.
Until our next tale,
Sato Mashiro