《The Sword Saint and the Saintesses [Regression] [litrpg] [harem]》 1. Anointed An Archangel stood at the edge of his balcony. Aaron checked his silver chronograph, she was just under five minutes early. With her back turned, the morning sun backlit her tall, elegant figure, pristine gossamer wings, and long silver hair. Her beauty belied the terrifying strength of the celestial. A strength he knew would not be enough. He joined her, standing side by side, quietly admiring the sunrise of a world he might never see again. ¡°I take it, introductions and explanations are redundent?¡± Archangel Lauriel, one of dozens of celestial beings currently undertaking the Calling, asked. ¡°Yes.¡± Aaron answered simply. ¡°Then, may I ask you some questions?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Aaron answered, suppressing his mild surprise tinged with amusement. ¡°How did I die?¡± she asked, her gaze still fixed on the cityscape of Vienna. Her voice was soft and crisp, transcending accents or dialects. Aaron sighed, the memory of an armoured Archangel, her snarl of fury masking her desperation, the absence of hope. A sword swing halted as she was pierced through the gut, the shoulder, and finally the heart. Wings tattered, halo dimming, yet still standing amidst the horde, as if refusing to fall. ¡°You died¡­ Well.¡± He paused. ¡°...on your feet, before many of the others fell, if that¡¯s what you were wondering?¡± She exhaled, his answer likely settling an internal debate. ¡°Do you believe we can win?¡± ¡°I have a method. Most of it depends on the first hour, the first day, and then the first month. If I can stop our biggest, earliest losses, then we have a chance,¡± Aaron said. Though his voice was light, his eyes were hard, seeing beyond the skyline to a future even the celestial beside him couldn¡¯t comprehend. ¡°Very well.¡± She answered, whether or not he had been convincing or his plan reassuring, Aaron could not tell. Her piercing silver eyes turned towards him. The air hummed with a latent power Aaron had not felt since his first life. ¡°Aaron Hueber, son of Errol Heuber and Elspeth Wohler. The heavens have borne witness to your trials and judged your deeds as worthy. Your expertise is exceptional, your character beyond question. You have been called to Sainthood, to fight alongside the guardians of civilisation across realms in the Bellum Existentiae, to save reality itself from the horrors of malice and chaos that consume all worlds. Do you accept the call?¡± ¡°I accept,¡± Aaron said, retrieving his pocket chronograph. The final seconds counted down to the moment he had long since prepared for. Twenty years of relentless training, sculpting his body to its peak, studying under dozens of experts in fitness, martial arts, real-world and competitive combat, as well as two Olympic Fencing gold medals. All to ensure he had the qualifications to prevent a catastrophe. Welcome to Sainthood, Aaron Hueber. As a newly Anointed Saint, you qualify to become: The interface overlaid his vision, barely appearing before blinking away, as he made his choice. Your selection of Saint of Swords is contested. Do you consent to challenge your rival to a duel? Or select another option? Warning: all duels are to the death unless forfeited. Aaron consented. The world around him vanished. Choose a weapon. After announcing your readiness, the duel will begin. Instead of a Gothic fifth-floor balcony overlooking Vienna, Aaron stood upon a stone plinth, surrounded by mist and darkness. He was naked apart from a loin cloth covering his modesty. The duelling ring was no more than ten metres in diameter. In front of him stood a rack of swords, dozens of gleaming weapons of all sizes and weights, each blade off-gassing ghostly mist as if made of dry ice. ?Aaron selected two identical swords, each with a blade length of three feet. These were estocs, a type of sword prominent during the European Renaissance, characterised by their straight, often edgeless blades designed exclusively for thrusting. The versions he held, featured sharpened edges on both sides of a diamond-shaped cross-section, providing the rigidity necessary to penetrate mail or plate armour. The combination of a basket guard and crossguard offered enhanced protection to the hands, deflecting strikes while maintaining the weapon¡¯s balance. By keeping the centre of gravity closer to the wrist, the design allowed for greater control, precision, and rapid point adjustment. Aaron preferred these weapons for their effectiveness against armoured opponents and their suitability for dual-wielding techniques. Their lightness complemented his speed, their reach sufficient to keep enemies at bay, granting him both offensive precision and defensive control in close-quarters combat. With the chance to determine the moment he was ready, Aaron took the opportunity to adjust his mindset and prepare his body. He rolled his shoulders and wrists, feeling the comforting weight of the weapons in hand. Then he bounced on his knees, testing and stretching his calves, ankles, and hips. His warm-up was a study of countless injuries, lessons paid for across two lifetimes in pain and blood. Then he swung once. Twice. And on the third, Aaron focused. The ghostly edge hummed with something alive, an otherworldly resonance that keened through the air. A howling whine he could scarcely manifest on Earth. His vision blurred as the swing completed, his eyes crossing from the sheer mental strain. The unnatural toll left his mind fractured, his legs weak. It took several moments of measured breathing to steady himself, to force the world back into focus. "I¡¯m ready," he announced to the void. The weapons rack disappeared. Ten paces away, a figure stepped out of the mist. Aaron recognised him, a man he might once have called a friend. A man who, at this moment, had no memory of their shared history. A man Aaron knew would ultimately betray them all at the most pivotal moment of the final battles against the demons. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Gregor the Humble. Seven feet tall, with slabs of muscle. Dirty-blond hair pulled back into a warrior''s braid, exposing a hard, pale face with a mouth too wide and sharp eyes too close together. Once, he had been the Saint of Swords, a larger-than-life figure, able to cleave through entire armies with a single swing. A terror to his enemies and, in the end, to those who had once called him an ally. Aaron remembered vividly the pitying smile Gregor had worn when he killed Magda. A simple slash, her back turned, was all it had taken to announce his betrayal. Aaron understood why Gregor had betrayed them. He had seen their cause as hopeless. A rational calculation. At the time, survival no longer seemed possible on the side of the righteous. But understanding was not forgiveness. Unlike Aaron¡¯s toned physique, built for agility, speed, and precision, Gregor appeared as a brute. He strode forward, dragging a five-foot long greatsword behind him. The impossible weight of the weapon scored the ground as it scraped along in a Tail Guard. Aaron lowered his stance. He waited. The mist curled around them, thick and heavy, muffling sound. Gregor stood at the edge of it, a looming shape in the half-light, his greatsword dragging behind him. He did not lunge. Did not charge. A slow breath. A confident step forward. Gregor advanced in measured strides, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His two-handed grip on the sword was loose, casual. But Aaron wasn¡¯t fooled. Gregor was never casual. Aaron shifted his stance, keeping his center of gravity low, his reach just outside Gregor¡¯s range. His off-hand sword angled low, ready to guide a strike aside. His main-hand blade hovered near his centreline, tip steady, waiting to strike. Gregor¡¯s sword flicked forward after he assessed his opponent, a casual, almost lazy feint. A lie. Aaron didn¡¯t react. He read the movement, the lack of commitment in Gregor¡¯s wrist, the slight delay in his stance. The real attack followed, a sudden, snapping thrust. Aaron¡¯s body moved before his mind registered it. His off-hand sword angled into a slanted parry, steel meeting steel at a glancing edge. Instead of stopping the strike, he let it slide, guiding the force away from his centre. The greatsword swirled the air as it passed, its weight pulling it just wide. Aaron felt the air shift. Gregor twisted the blade mid-motion, rolling his wrists to redirect the momentum. The greatsword snapped sideways, turning the failed thrust into a sudden diagonal cut. Aaron barely had time to intercept. A step back. Not far. Just enough. His off-hand sword tilted, catching the blow along its length. Another slanted parry, not stopping the swing, but absorbing, redirecting. The moment the force passed him, he stepped in again. Gregor was fast. Deceptively so. His sword arm recoiled, flowing seamlessly into another cut, low, rising, meant to disable Aaron mid-step. Aaron angled his main-hand sword down, meeting the swing early before the full force of it could develop. His wrist turned, his blade carving a shallow path against the greatsword¡¯s flat, easing its power away from his knee. The impact buzzed up his arm, sharp and precise, but not overwhelming. Gregor smiled just a little. A testing strike. A probe. He had drawn blood from hundreds, thousands of men this way. Letting them believe they had escaped a strike, only for the next one to land. Gregor stepped in. Aaron stepped back. The reach advantage was a wall between them, every step forward countered by a step away. If Aaron rushed in now, he¡¯d eat steel before he reached striking distance. Gregor knew it. His eyes gleamed with amusement even while Aaron''s stoney visage revealed little. Aaron shifted his off-hand sword slightly, breaking the rhythm, baiting an attack. Gregor obliged. The greatsword swept forward in a wide arc, meant to herd Aaron left, to set up a finishing blow. Aaron twisted and ducked, taking half a step forward instead. A flicking thrust with his main-hand sword, quick, aimed at Gregor¡¯s shoulder. Not a real attack. Just enough to force a reaction. Gregor batted it aside with an easy sweep of his greatsword, shifting his weight forward as he did. It was what Aaron had waited for. He stepped in once again with a fencer''s lunge, and Gregor swung to punish him, an arcing horizontal cut meant to catch him mid-movement. Aaron didn¡¯t stop it, he redirected it. The base of his main-hand sword met the greatsword¡¯s middle, guiding it with a fraction of the force. The angle was perfect. The tip of the greatsword was carried past his ribs instead of through them, and now he was inside the guard. Aaron¡¯s blade punched out. A quick jab with his off-hand, just below the collarbone. Gregor twisted to turn the strike into a glancing blow. The wound was shallow, barely puncturing his lung, but the point had been made. Gregor backpedalled, his stance lowering while raising his sword for another strike. Aaron didn¡¯t let him reset. Mid-tempo, with his main-hand released from its guard, he struck again. Not with steel, but something more. His main-hand sword hummed, a vibration turning into a howl of sharpness. He didn¡¯t swing the blade so much as release it. The edge carried beyond the steel, a phantom arc snapping forward in a flash of light. In the single millisecond he had left to react, he twisted his hands to parry, just as Aaron had expected. Gregor¡¯s eyes widened. Aaron¡¯s sword never needed to reach him as its intent carried forth. Gregor¡¯s right fingers separated at the knuckles. His left hand split at the wrist. The wounds were too clean for pain to register immediately. His hands stopped working and the greatsword clattered to the floor. Drops of dark blood littered the stone. Near delirious with mental exertion, Aaron raced forward on jellied legs, closing the final distance. Gregor tried to retreat, but between the shock of losing his fingers, his missing blade, and his punctured lung, his mind and legs were slow. His body had realised what his mind had not. Aaron gave him no time to understand, no chance to plead or forfeit or save his life. The main-hand sword cut across Gregor¡¯s neck in a clean, brutal arc. This time, there was no magic. No intent beyond the steel of the blade itself. A final slash ended the man who had betrayed them all, righting the first of so many wrongs in the Bellum Existentiae. Gregor¡¯s head fell, his body followed. The mist rushed in to swallow him. Aaron exhaled, still on guard, his hands were shaking, both blades dripping red. The swords disappeared and Aaron was returned to his balcony. Congratulations, newly anointed Saint of Swords. You have one hour before convocation at the Calling of Anointed Saints. Upon his balcony, Aaron reflected on the duel as he regained mental clarity. Had Gregor been at his prime, with the knowledge and experience he possessed towards the end, Aaron doubted he would have won. However, as Gregor had been now, a terrifyingly canny swordsman at the pinnacle of mortal ability, yet with little understanding of the higher-order concepts of ascended sword arts, he was simply not Aaron¡¯s match. Beyond that, Aaron had planned for this specific duel for years. After Gregor¡¯s betrayal in the final years of his previous life, Aaron had chosen to adopt the mantle of the sword despite being unable to become its saint. He had been fortunate to find ascended swordsmen to learn higher-order concepts and focus them into real-world effects. This ability to project the edge of a sword beyond its physical boundary, in either a slash or a thrust, was known as Sword Intent. There were multiple levels of increasing proficiency and destruction, and even after a second lifetime of training, Aaron could only just consistently scratch the first. Out of his many goals and objectives in this second life, his journey to mastering ascended sword arts had to be paramount. As, after all, there were far too many people he needed to save, far too many monsters he needed to cut down. 2. Convocation Aaron had long since made preparations for this day. Leaving his balcony, he was surprised to see Lauriel casually browsing his trophy cabinet. ¡°You¡¯re still here?¡± Aaron paused at the door before continuing his preparations. ¡°Why the sword?¡± she asked instead of replying. ¡°Gregor turned traitor.¡± Aaron grunted as he shoved pre-prepared items into a large rucksack. Distracted by his task, his mind wandered. ¡°The aspects the Saints represent may be equally important, but like pillars supporting a roof, take out the right ones in the right order, and the whole thing comes crashing down. Life, Space, Shield, and the Sword. Two of those are lost on the first day, three in the first week, all, after the first month. If I have any say in things, that will change.¡± A second life came with certain advantages. Armed with knowledge of general economic trends, after an initial loan from the Bank of Mum and Dad and a series of well-timed investments guided by his eidetic memory, Aaron Hueber amassed a considerable fortune. Enough to repay his family a hundredfold. Enough to hire the finest tutors Earth could offer, to train and live as a professional athlete. Enough to pursue the acts of heroism expected of a Saint. Enough to source or commission the finest blades mortal hands could craft. After assembling his pack, Aaron donned a custom-made armoured jerkin. Its black carbon nano-weave outer fabric covered space-age layers of Kevlar and ceramic fibre. The high collar completely covered his neck, while the bottom hem reached several inches below his waist. A neodymium puck clicked as a greatsword, sheathed within a carbon-fibre scabbard, snapped into place on his back. Aaron secured a sword belt before clipping a similarly customised titanium-reinforced ¨¦p¨¦e mask to a hook, leaving it to dangle beside his shoulder. He studied the two knives and two short swords long since honed to a razor¡¯s edge, nd wondered if these modern but wholly mundane weapons would last to see the end of the day. "Foresight is a burden. But it''s better than regret." Knowing the Archangel was unsatisfied with his answer, Aaron continued. ¡°It¡¯s true I didn¡¯t have the same talent for the sword as him. But it¡¯s a weapon I¡¯ve come to respect. Besides, when lives are on the line, how much talent one has matters the least.¡± He looked at her. Her right hand hovered just before her chest, fingers gently shifting against one another, as if rolling something unseen between them in a slow, absent motion. Aaron would have considered her lost in thought had he not been ensnared by Lauriel¡¯s unblinking gaze. ¡°What is it?¡± he asked. ¡°It¡¯s not much.¡± Lauriel tossed an item towards him. Aaron caught it, examining the Ring of Holding in his palm. At first, he felt elation. Then he frowned. Why had he never received such an incredibly useful artefact in his previous life? He looked at Lauriel in question. Lauriel shrugged. ¡°We can show favour to those likely to lead, or those whom we believe may become Saint Sovereigns.¡± ¡°Saint Sovereign?¡± ¡°Live long enough with that method of yours, and perhaps you¡¯ll find out.¡± Between eyeblinks, the Archangel was gone. As a newly anointed Saint, you may choose one passive and one active perk. In addition, after winning a contested selection, you may select an additional passive perk. After packing far more than he had planned, and as quickly as he could, Aaron spent the remainder of the hour carefully reading through the list of perks that would shape his second Sainthood. It was unclear whether he could still be considered biologically human. What was certain, however, was that after the Calling, if a Saint lived long enough, they would begin to embody their aspect, becoming a being far beyond a normal Ascended. Aaron felt a flicker of annoyance as he reviewed the long list of options. Gregor¡¯s choices had been obvious. Titan Strength as his active perk, and Hydra Blood as his passive. It was a solid combination, Regenerating from injuries, even regrowing limbs, was tempting enough on its own. But Giant¡¯s Strength? A simple, reliable boost to power, yet nothing compared to the other options available. Did Gregor know something he didn¡¯t? Had he miscalculated, was it pride in his own talent? Or was there some hidden advantage Aaron had that he had not? Despite outward appearances, Gregor had never been stupid. Either way, Aaron pushed the thought aside. He had his own decisions to make. Aaron Hueber Active Abilities: Passive Abilities: This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Knowing the scale of the battles and trials ahead, Aaron sought an equaliser. No matter how many swords he carried, he was still just one man. From the very beginning, he would face stronger and far more numerous opponents. Gregor had relied on raw strength, wielding it to devastating effect in his early days. But without mastering Sword Intent, he would have never become the force he ultimately was. Aaron chose a different path. Instead of brute power, he doubled down on his true strengths, his speed, intelligence, and the hard-won experience of a lifetime battling demons and horrors. A Sword Soul to refine and ultimately evolve his Sword Intent. Crescendo Temporis, to ensure his capability scaled with the enemies he would soon face. Sleipnir¡¯s Heart, for the endurance to fight until every battle was won, with the recovery to stand up and do it all again. Beyond that, Aaron had little doubt Crescendo Temporis would place extreme strain on his body, meaning rigorous training would be essential. Perhaps, between conflicts, he would seek out Ascended trainers to push his limits. In addition to the new Sword Saint perks, several abilities from his previous life remained. Mens Indelibilis ensured that memories from his past life persisted through childhood and adolescence. The second perk granted him the ability to gift his former passive ability to another, though whether he would ever subject someone else to such torment, Aaron wasn¡¯t sure. Beyond that, his final active perk was something else entirely. With her final breaths, Magda had loaned to him her wisdom, entrusted to him until the moment they met again. A moment that was fast approaching. Aaron glanced at his chronograph, barely registering the warm trickle of blood from his nose. His body was shifting, altering, deviating ever further from mortal. Every new perk or perk upgrade required one hundred seconds of pain, with some hurting more than others. As his heart was replaced, Aaron doubled over, breath ragged, fingers digging into the fabric of his armoured jerkin. His vision blurred at the edges. Clinging to consciousness, he endured.
Saint of Swords, you have been called to the Grand Convocation of Anointed Saints. Armed, armoured, and, thanks to Lauriel¡¯s Ring of Holding, better supplied than he could have hoped for, Aaron took a breath. He adjusted his mindset, reviewed his plans once more, then stepped through a gilded door in reality. In one moment, he was on Earth, within his well-maintained apartment in Vienna, Austria. In the next, he stood on Convexus Magnus, a floating island within a pocket universe called Evermarch. Had he stayed long enough to listen to the introductory speeches and inductions, he would have heard how Evermarch was the most secure bastion of the righteous and brave across all realms. But Aaron knew better. Despite his jaded thoughts, his heart still soared as he took in the majesty of the Hall of Reunion. Gilded arches swept across a hall wider than a football pitch. The vaulted ceiling, towering several storeys overhead, supported a glass skylight at least ten metres wide. Beyond it, a striking night sky framed the celestial architecture, the gilded marble and understated divine d¨¦cor bathed in ethereal light. The hall was alive with the voices of hundreds. Some faces he recognised, reassuring in their presence. Others, he desperately wanted to avoid. Aaron nodded as he passed Thane Keal, the Saint of Tongues and one of the few saints he respected. His salt-and-pepper fuzz covered a grey face marked by old scars. His eyes were steady, shining, dark portals, all the more stark given the contrast. Thane returned Aaron''s gesture. The man had the look of a veteran, standing with the quiet authority of someone born to command. Aaron had never heard of Saint Sovereigns, but this man who was one of the rare few to rise beyond Anointed and True Saint to a level of ascension known as High Saint¡ªwas surely on that path. He remembered his death near the end of the Bellum Existentiae. Rain pounds stone, the wind howling but unable to muffle the roars of the demonic tide. Buying time for the survivors to fall back, the High Saint stood alone on the wall, a final bastion on a realm on the brink of being overrun. Infusing his very life essence into his voice, he spoke a final word that broke the sky. Aaron¡¯s frown deepened as his gaze locked onto someone who had always given him a headache. He checked himself, armoured, equipped, and not dimension-hopping naked, before glancing back at her. Tess van Tolwoud, the Saintess of Shields. She was staring at him. Glaring at him. Intensely. During his previous life, they had rarely interacted. The few times they had, their encounters had been far from friendly. Even now, despite how important and powerful she could eventually be, few of his plans involved working with each other. Aaron dismissed it. He had more important people to find. He moved through the crowd, his focus sharpening the moment he spotted a familiar, and very welcome, mop of shaggy purple hair. ¡°Hello, Magda,¡± Aaron said, failing to suppress his joy from the one-sided reunion. ¡°Oh? So you¡¯ve heard of me?¡± Magda, Saintess of Forbidden Knowledge, regarded him with an amused smirk. Her lazy, laconic tone contrasted sharply with the sheer intensity of her presence. She gave him a slow once-over, her expression shifting from curiosity to approval. The saintess wore black silk, the fabric clinging to her freckled, olive skin like painted shadows. Violet eyes edged with an unnatural luminosity fixed on him with the same heavy-lidded look that had drawn him in all those years ago. Her hair, a wild tangle of deep purple, framed a face both sharp and enigmatic. There was a curiosity in her expression, a flicker of warmth. But beneath it lay calculation, the mind of a scholar who often abandoned morality in pursuit of understanding. ¡°You could say that,¡± Aaron replied. ¡°I need your help, and soon. Once upon a time, you gave me something to hold on to. And now, I believe it¡¯s time I gave it back.¡± He held out a small violet marble. Magda plucked it from his palm, rolling it between her fingers before, with deliberate slowness, slipping it into her mouth. Her lazy smile remained, her curious eyes never leaving his. Aaron had lost to this poker face more times than he cared to count. He knew exactly what lay beneath it. If she sensed even the slightest falsehood or malice, she would react first, violently. ¡°Hmmm.¡± She rolled the marble on her tongue before swallowing. ¡°Well, I certainly gave you this. When, however, is another question. While I don¡¯t intend to fully digest¡­ this gift, for now, I can extend my assistance.¡± "Outstanding. Please, follow me," Aaron said. His dry tone masked the joy behind it. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her mild amusement as she fell into step beside him. ¡°Did we fuck? In our previous lives?¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve worked it out, then? That was quick.¡± Aaron chuckled, even though she had just met him and had no history of their interactions. A familiar warmth bubbled up from his soul, a feeling that, because she was here, things might be better this time. ¡°Not many options to consider. And given how you¡¯d rather dodge the question than give a straight answer, well then, I can only imagine I blew your mind, especially as I was the first one you sought out.¡± Aaron could only laugh. ¡°I¡¯d imagine you probably have all the answers inside that purple marble of yours.¡± ¡°Saving it for a rainy day. Besides, with you appearing so¡­¡± She gave him another once-over ¡°...competent, I¡¯ve decided I¡¯ll work things out on my own. At least for now.¡± He was dressed for battle, everyone else was dressed for a ball. This disparity garnered looks of curiosity, disdain and in the rare few, caution and alarm. He avoided conversation starters and entreaties from the other Saints as he drew nearer to his goal. He checked his chronograph, nineteen seconds remained. ¡°You don¡¯t plan on killing people, do you?¡± Magda wondered idly. ¡°Only bad ones. I promise.¡± Aaron wore his epee mask at the ten count. To her credit, Magda waved her hands, a brief flash of purple coated her skin before it faded, leaving only her smirk in reply. The crowds parted, and Aaron saw her for the first time. It took everything he had not to stare. He had met people from countless races across dozens of realms. Saints and Saintesses often grew more radiant as they ascended. Celestials were born without flaw. Yet even among them, the elf before him stood apart. She was, without question, one of the most ethereally beautiful women he had ever seen. Cassandra Ljoswyn Aenvaldr, Saintess of Life, stood in quiet deliberation with another of her kin. As he counted down the seconds in his mind, the elf¡¯s large, blue eyes finally registered his approach, widening fractionally in confusion and concern. As his count reached zero, Aaron unsheathed his blades. 3. Assassins ¡°Magda, please protect the elf.¡± That was all Aaron managed before pandemonium broke loose. The air rippled beside him. He lunged. His knife drove into shifting flesh. The demon was still forming, its body flickering between dimensions. A grating squeal as the wound sealed around the steel, fusing it into the creature¡¯s half-formed chest. He tried to wrench it free, nothing. The demon had completed its translocation, and now, Aaron''s dagger was part of it on a molecular level. As expected, but still infuriating. Losing a custom-made knife worth sixty thousand US dollars this quickly stung more than he cared to admit. With no time to dwell, he spun as the demon assassin¡¯s axe came down, a crude but brutal slash. Aaron pivoted left, intercepting with his off-hand sword. A slanted parry, just enough to deflect the heavy blade, its momentum carrying it past his shoulder. The instant the opening appeared, he struck, drawing his second blade in a seamless Nukitsuke, the cut flowing straight from the draw. His main-hand blade slid upwards in a brutal arc, cleaving through throat, jaw, and face in a single, ruthless slash. A guttural wheeze. The demon staggered, clawing at the ruin of its face, its features little more than shredded flesh and exposed bone. His off-hand sword punched forward, burying itself deep in the creature¡¯s chest. With a sharp kick, he wrenched the blade free as the demon crumpled, thick, tarry blood bubbling from its mouth. The air was already thick with the stench of sulphur, burnt hair, and something acrid, coating his tongue with every breath. The corpse had barely hit the ground before another demon assassin took its place. This one was brutish, thick-limbed, its hunched body a mess of tumours and scar tissue. A sneer twisted its jagged, sharklike teeth. Crude armour, hammered together from uneven plates, covered its chest, but despite its bulk, it moved quickly. It lunged. The mace came down. He angled his off-hand blade, ready for the downward mace strike. Aaron met it with a rising, rotating block, deflecting. The sudden shift opened the demon¡¯s guard just enough. He struck. A probing thrust, just a flicker of steel, enough to make it hesitate, to backpedal, off-balance. As its balance shifted to its back foot, the mace dragged low, now uselessly out of position. Rapid thrusts, each one flowing into the next. Powerful, precise, making use of the opening, littering its torso with wounds. Another presence slashed from the side, and Aaron blocked before stepping in, pivoting smoothly into a low lunge. His main hand drove into the inner thigh of the approaching demon, slicing through thick grey flesh. With his sword withdrawing came a spurt of steaming blood. He didn¡¯t stop. Left-right-left. Each thrust deeper than the last, each blow more certain, turning its chest into a sieve of bubbling, viscous blood. The demon stumbled, knees buckling. But even as it fell, it mustered the strength to raise its weapon once more. Aaron¡¯s thrust drove through the side of its throat. The blade carved through arteries, then sliced outward, severing the side of its neck. The creature shuddered, then went limp. He barely had time to pull his sword free before movement behind Cassandra caught his eye. A dagger, mid-plunge, the assassin¡¯s blade, aimed for the Saintess of Life¡¯s exposed flank. Aaron¡¯s Sword Intent ignited. Grey light flared along his blade, the whispering, ghostly edge extending beyond the steel. His arm snapped forward, and the slash, far brighter and faster than any he had produced before, was released. The spectral strike blurred across eight yards in a blink, passing an inch away from Cassandra¡¯s shoulder. The assassin didn¡¯t even have time to register the attack. The glowing edge sheared through wrist, forearm, then cleaved from collarbone to hip in a single, seamless stroke. As the pieces of body tumbled to the floor in a bloody heap, Aaron blinked, bracing for the familiar wave of weakness, the trembling in his legs, the disorienting toll such strikes usually demanded. For a moment, he stood there, stunned, marvelling not just at the kill but at the fact that he was nearly unfazed by the mental exertion. He caught the terror-stricken eyes of the elven saintess. A whistle of air, then a war mallet slammed into his forearm from the side. His space-age armour absorbed much of the impact, dispersing force across its structure, but the sheer weight behind the strike still sent him reeling. His feet barely found purchase, the ground tilting beneath him as he twisted mid-air. He landed hard, rolling just as the next strike came down. The mallet cratered the stone where he had stood a heartbeat before. Aaron scrambled to his feet. A juggernaut loomed above him. Scarred, lumpy flesh stretched over grotesque muscle. One milky eye bulged, the other squinted with cruel beastial cunning. Black steel armour encased its torso, jagged and warped, fused with pale, malformed skin. At least three times his weight. Each step made the ground shudder. The other assassins still lingered, but by now, the other Saints had engaged them. Magda now stood beside Cassandra, her arms outstretched as her arcana formed violet webs of restraint. The juggernaut exhaled, slow and rasping, its breath thick with the stench of burnt meat and decay, rolling over Aaron like a gust of steam. He adjusted his stance. Off-hand sword raised high, defensive. Main-hand blade low, aching and numb, but steady. The demon moved first. The hammer lifted, then plunged in a full-force slam, aiming to crush him into the stone. Aaron met it, parrying the haft mid-fall, his precision and timing sending the immense weight off-centre. The mallet crashed beside him with the force of a boulder, splintering the ground. He countered with a sharp, punishing thrust to the inner elbow, quick, surgical. Vein and tendon parted. The demon¡¯s grip spasmed. It''s hammer tilted, its momentum pulling it off balance. Aaron pressed forward. A high slash, his off-hand blade carving across the juggernaut¡¯s face. Not deep, but enough to blind its squinting eye. Enough to shatter its rhythm. Before rebirth, Aaron had dedicated himself to the sword. He had never been the strongest, never the fastest, never the most naturally gifted. In his first life, he had been a nuclear scientist, an expert in precision, in measuring the vibrations of molecules using atomic clocks. Physical pursuits had never been more than a means to stay healthy, a secondary concern to the intellect that defined him. As the Time Saint, his greatest ability had always been his mind. What took others hours or days to learn, he grasped in minutes. As he prepared to become the Sword Saint, he understood that his intellect would be his greatest weapon. Over time, where his mind led, his body followed, muscle memory forged through relentless training, repetition evolving into mastery. What began as rote learning ultimately became a personal exploration into the very essence of the sword. Aaron grew faster, the effects of Crescendo Temporis becoming ever more pronounced as the world fell away. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. From his perspective, the juggernaut now moved as if wading through molasses. And as his offensive continued, something shifted inside him. A new, quiet presence, his Sword Soul, stirred, resonating with each strike. His blades began to sing. Ghostly grey light coated their edges, the air howling with every cut. Aaron¡¯s off-hand sword slashed high. His main-hand blade stabbed forward. The juggernaut flinched. Steel slid through plate, sternum, heart, then backbone. The demon stared at him, not in pain or outrage, but with a mild annoyance as if the end of its life was less important than the notion he was beasted by someone a fifth his weight. A gauntleted hand severed below the elbow hit the stone with a wet plop. The monster¡¯s knees buckled. Its hammer slipped from its grasp, crashing to the ground with a dull, echoing thud. Aaron marvelled at how effortlessly his blade, coated in Sword Intent, slid free from the inch-thick iron breastplate. With a single, decisive cut, he beheaded the kneeling juggernaut. Two assassins remained engaged with the others with their backs turned to him. Before they could react to their leader¡¯s defeat, a slash of blade-light carved through the air. A demon¡¯s head toppled, never knowing how it had died. By the time the final assassin understood it was alone, Aaron¡¯s sword had already pierced its heart. Panic and commotion replaced the sudden end to the violence. Bodies lay strewn across the battlefield, most slain by his hand. Satisfied that no saints had been killed and the incursions had ceased, he rose from his sword stance. With a clearer sense of the strengths and limits of his newly chosen perks, Aaron''s breath came ragged. His arms burned, muscles trembled from exhaustion. Each heartbeat struck like a hammer against his skull, heavy with mental strain. He had never relied so heavily on ascended sword arts. He had not expected the demons to be this strong, this soon. And yet, this battle was only the first of many on this day of corrections.
¡°What are you doing?¡± Magda stepped beside him as he sifted through the bodies, checking wrists, prying open severed gauntlets, searching for something. Both swords were tucked under his armpit, his wire-mesh ¨¦p¨¦e mask dangling by his shoulder, still dripping with blood and bits of gore. In the minutes since the fight, Aaron¡¯s jellied legs had regained their solidity, steadying with each long breath. The throbbing in his skull had dulled to a manageable roar. A crowd had gathered, saints, saint squires, Magisterium officials, servants, and administrators, all native to this realm. Those who had fought huddled around the Saintess of Life, the elf at the centre of a makeshift triage for the unlucky, foolish and the brave. In contrast to the many unarmed, unarmoured saints in ball gowns and dinner jackets, Aaron was already dripping in blood. ¡°Looking for something,¡± Aaron muttered, rifling through pouches and belts, his senses still on edge for another ambush. ¡°Is it this?¡± Magda swung an enchanted bracelet around her finger. Woven from ivory and leather, at its centre sat a metal brooch, silver filigree and demonic runes coiling around an obsidian ruby. Aaron chuckled in wry amusement. ¡°Why yes. May I, ¡± He reached for it. She snatched back the artefact. ¡°And what exactly do you intend to do with this¡­ interdimensional translocation transponder?¡± Aaron met her gaze. ¡°There¡¯s someone else we need to save.¡± ¡°We?¡± Magda¡¯s coy smile faded at the prospect of teleporting straight into a demon-infested stronghold. ¡°It would be¡­ easier with your help.¡± Aaron tried, knowing full well that without Magda¡¯s sensitivity to certain magics, finding who he needed to find before time ran out would be nearly impossible. ¡°And why in Morgathor¡¯s name would I help you, mister mysterious Saint of¡­ swords?¡± ¡°Knowledge and power?¡± Aaron offered, half question, half promise. ¡°That should lead to a demon staging post. If we infiltrate successfully, you may have the opportunity to find demonic journals, texts, whatever scraps of forbidden knowledge they¡¯ve hoarded.¡± ¡°Drat! Right in the heart.¡± Magda harrumphed, clutching her chest, likely feeling put out for having her weak spot exposed so easily. ¡°What¡¯s the plan, exactly?¡± She folded her arms, scepticism clear in her posture. ¡°Despite how capable you may seem, I don¡¯t see us surviving a headlong charge into wherever this beacon leads. And let¡¯s say we do succeed, how do we return? From what I recall, this transponder only offers a one-way trip.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the Saint of Space,¡± Aaron said. ¡°Somehow, their arrival at the convocation was intercepted. Now they¡¯re trapped, under siege, and likely to soon die if we don¡¯t get to them. If we rescue them, then they can teleport us back¡± ¡°They can can they?¡± ¡°Probably.¡± ¡°And if we arrive only to find out that they¡¯re already dead?¡± Aaron shrugged. ¡°Then we do as much damage as we can while searching for another way out.¡± Magda¡¯s gaze lingered on him, her thoughts unreadable but likely weighing the risks. The silence stretched, only broken when another voice cut in. ¡°How is it that you know what you know?¡± Aaron turned, the high elf approached, her supernatural hearing likely catching every word of their conversation several yards awat. At first glance, she seemed ethereal, otherworldly. But as she drew closer, the impression faded. Too many details, too many subtle imperfections, her tension, her weariness, made her feel real in a way no celestial being could match. Her pale hair spilled like quicksilver. Her eyes, sharp, watchful, were guarded, measuring, concern threading through their intensity. The pointed ears marked her as elven, but even among elves, she moved with unnatural poise. She carried herself like someone who should be untouched by violence, yet everything about her said otherwise. White gloved hands stained with faded blood, the tightness in her shoulders, the twitch of her fingers before she stilled them, the careful set of her jaw, her wariness woven into every movement. ¡°Your arm?¡± She continued. Without hesitation, the elf reached out. Her touch was light, but almost immediately, a cool, soothing sensation spread from the point of contact. Within seconds, the bruising and hairline fracture from the juggernaut¡¯s hammer strike faded. A moment later, the relief spread further, dulling the throbbing migraine that lingered behind his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s handy,¡± Aaron murmured. ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°I should be thanking you. Those assassins, that juggernaut, they all came out of nowhere. And yet you appeared forewarned.¡± Magda¡¯s gaze flicked between them as if watching a tennis match, interest plain on her face. Behind the elf, members of her retinue had drawn closer. The ring of onlookers, saints and Magisterium alike, had stilled. Their conversation hushed. Everyone was waiting; the question hanging in the air was one they all wanted answered. Aaron had no interest in revealing his secrets to an audience. ¡°Just luck and preparation.¡± Cassandra pursed her lips, disappointment deepening the furrow in her brow. She stepped close. The unexpected closeness of presence caused Aarons heart to spike for more reasons than one. She spoke, her voice dropping low, breath warm whisper against his ear. ¡°They were targeting me, specifically weren¡¯t they? Several of us would¡¯ve died without your ¡®luck and preparation.¡¯¡± Despite her breathy words and intimate proximity, the firm edge to her tone made it clear she wasn¡¯t convinced by his explanation. Yet beneath that scepticism, there was something brittle, a lingering tightness in her voice. Adrenaline, or whatever the elven equivalent was, still thrummed beneath her skin. She continued. ¡°But it¡¯s not just what you knew that puzzles me, it¡¯s how strong you seem to be, despite all being newly anointed. We are still mostly mortal, barely ascended.¡± She wasn¡¯t simply fishing for answers. Behind her questions lay a calculation she struggled to conceal. Aaron¡¯s expression remained purposefully neutral. There was nothing he could say that wouldn¡¯t invite more questions, and he already had enough complications to manage. ¡°In my position,¡± she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, ¡°I can¡¯t afford to ignore capability like that.¡± ¡°Your position?¡± Aaron echoed, the lightness in his tone hardening, unsure whether to take her words as an invitation or a threat. She pressed her lips into a thin line. ¡°I seek allies. People I can work with. Perhaps we can help each other, I¡¯m already in your debt.¡± Aaron arched a brow. ¡°We¡¯re saints, not politicians. And besides, you don¡¯t seem like the type to throw yourself into danger just to settle a debt.¡± Cassandra¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°Nor will I shy away from danger in search of answers. I am not one to be left in the dark while others plot with my life in the balance.¡± There it was. She wasn¡¯t afraid of the enemy or battle. She feared powerlessness. The lack of control. Aaron realised it then. ; So that¡¯s what this is,¡¯ he murmured to himself. ¡°You¡¯re not just lucky. You know that which many do not.¡± She pressed. He tilted his head slightly. ¡°And you want to be in the know?¡± ¡°Yes, especially after¡­ I wish to understand the situation,¡± Her voice softened, the edge of steel giving way to something quieter. ¡°I refuse to be blind and¡­ unprepared.¡± ¡°And instead of waiting for the Magisterium to investigate and explain things, you seek me? Why? Because you trust me? Because I saved your life?¡± ¡°Something like that.¡± She leaned back, countering smoothly. Aaron studied her closely. She was cautious, guarded, a calculative mind sharpened further by uncertainty. He recognised the look; he¡¯d seen it before. Survivors grasping at anything steady before the ground fell out from beneath them again. Could he trust her? He trusted Magda implicitly, but Cassandra? He didn¡¯t know her, couldn¡¯t have known her. Yet he did need help for what came next, even more for what would come after. Aaron inhaled, then exhaled slowly. ¡°Fine then. Wait here until we return.¡± Cassandra¡¯s eyes hardened. ¡°Something tells me you don¡¯t intend to return for sometime. No. I think I shall come with you.¡± He frowned. ¡°You do realise where we¡¯re going? It won¡¯t exactly be safe.¡± ¡°Given recent events, is anywhere safe anymore?¡± she said firmly, glancing at the lingering crowd, the blood stained floor. Aaron met her gaze, decision made. ¡°If you seek safety, all I can promise is blood and steel,¡± he pressed. "Faith forged in steel lasts longer than prayer." Cassandra answered with the ghost of a smile. He turned to the purple-haired Saintess, extending his hand. ¡°Magda?¡± Magda tapped her lip lazily, considering. ¡°Hmm. One Saintess rescued, another avenged, and off we go to save a third. Busy day, Sword Saint.¡± Aaron frowned slightly. ¡®Avenged?¡¯ Aaron briefly wondered. ¡°The marble?¡± She stretched out the sound as if barely interested. ¡°Mmmmm. Its memory runs backwards. So I took a sneek peek at the ending.¡± Magda smirked, utterly unbothered by having just witnessed her death in reverse. Cassandra¡¯s expression remained guarded, but her gaze sharpened in curiosity. ¡°And?¡± Aaron pressed. Magda sighed theatrically, slipping her hand casually into his. ¡°Yes, yes, I¡¯ll follow you on this errand of yours.¡± She prodded his armour lazily. ¡°Just remember, you saved me first, So I¡¯m top of the pecking order.¡± She turned, already beginning to walk, tugging him along lightly. ¡°But sure, I¡¯ll stick around¡­ for now. Let¡¯s go.¡± ¡°What pecking order?¡± Aaron resisted the urge to rub his temple, his gloves still crusted in gore.