A Returner’s Magic Should Be Special - Chapter 13

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 13. The Small Bird (2)

“I’m sorry—why would that be?”
“You’re already a finished swordsman. You have all the fundamentals down. Your instincts are solid, your flow is good, and your attacks always find the opening. You could take a Promotion Match in your current state without any problem. I’d wager there are almost no swordsmen in Alpha Class who’ve reached your level with a blade.”
Dezir Armang remembered Pram as he had been.
Gripping a Silver Thin Sword, rushing at enemies and striking—a speed so extraordinary it was as though dozens of thunderbolts had converged in a single place.
His lightning-fast blade, honed to King Rank, had become legendary even among the survivors.
But that was then.
“Of course, what I said wasn’t about your swordsmanship when you use a Greatsword. I was speaking about when you use the Thin Sword.”
……
Pram’s lips pressed shut.
“Why won’t you use the Thin Sword, Pram?”
“Does it really matter that much?”
“It concerns the party’s fighting strength. Of course I need to know.”
Pram set the Greatsword down.
“Then… would you mind following me for a moment?”

* * *

The sky hung dark as though ready to burst with rain at any moment.
But Pram’s expression as he began to speak was darker still.
“I’ve never known my father’s face. It wasn’t because I lost him at a young age or anything like that. My mother was a commoner, and my father was a nobleman. I was what they call an illegitimate child.”
Pram found a key and turned it in the lock.
“Our household was well-provided for. Looking back now, I think he must have been supporting us. My mother didn’t even know how to sew, after all.”
Pram’s voice as he continued had grown noticeably hushed, quite unlike his usual tone.
“My mother was always proud of my father. Every night before bed, she would tell me how kind he was, how wonderful a man he’d been.”
While Dezir Armang waited in the reception room, Pram returned carrying a long Thin Sword kept in a leather sheath.
Pram offered the hilt to Dezir Armang.
Dezir Armang reached out and took it.
The grip felt excellent. The handle was fashioned from some exceptionally fine, high-quality oak. Something was carved into it—not letters so much as careless scratches, like idle doodling.
The weight was remarkably light for a sword. So light that applying force through a strike seemed nearly impossible.
“Around the time I was six, I learned that this Thin Sword was something my father had left for our family. From that moment on, I began to practice with the blade. So that one day, when I might meet my father, I could be a son he’d be proud of—one who could wield the sword he’d left behind. My mother would always watch me with worried eyes.”
Pram’s expression twisted into a bitter smile as he thought of his mother.
“I don’t think my mother wanted me to reunite with my father. She never once spoke his name to me. Instead, she was always insisting: we were nothing but commoners, and I must never seek him out. To be honest, I understand her reasoning. A high-born noble house would never regard an illegitimate child with honor, or acknowledge one. In the end, even in her final moments, my mother would not give me my father’s name.”
To nobility, an illegitimate child is a symbol of disgrace. In such circumstances, should a nameless commoner appear claiming to be one, the outcome would be predictable.
Pram’s mother must have understood this, which is why she never told him his father’s name.
It was a kind of protection—a shield to defend her son.
And yet, despite his mother’s fears, Pram had wanted to know.
“But despite all her worries, I still wanted to find out. From my earliest years, I was curious about who my father was. Call it curiosity, if you will. Isn’t it natural for anyone to want to know where they come from? That’s why I came to Hebrion Academy. I thought that in a place where nobles from every nation gathered, I’d surely find some clue about my father.”
Dezir Armang nodded as though he understood Pram’s reasoning.
“The first thing I did when I arrived was have this Thin Sword—my only lead—appraised. I thought that since weapons from all over the world converge here, I could learn my father’s homeland by understanding the sword’s characteristics. But the appraisal results showed that this Thin Sword was nothing but a cheap iron blade you could find anywhere.”
Just as Pram had said, the Thin Sword had an exquisitely crafted handle while the blade itself was pathetic.
The silver plating on the surface had flaked away in patches, exposing the ugly rusted iron beneath.
Covered as it was in corrosion, the blade seemed more like a toy than a weapon.
“That my father left my mother and me nothing but some worthless, common iron blade… I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear myself—foolishly convinced that this was something my father had left for our family, desperately hoping to meet him. That’s all. That’s why I won’t use the Thin Sword.”
Pram took the Thin Sword back from Dezir Armang and hurled it irritably into a corner.
“I will never touch that blade again.”

* * *

Whoosh.
The Greatsword, heavy and substantial, cut through empty air.
Pram was practicing his Slashes.
Slash practice was a crucial process in understanding the blade—the very foundation of Swordsmanship training.
‘By this measure, it’s no exaggeration to say he has no aptitude for the Greatsword….’
With a Greatsword, swordsmanship wasn’t about precision; it was about the weight driving the strike downward.
That’s why he had to leverage its slow yet destructive advantage, and cultivating the strength to avoid being pulled down by that weight was crucial.
But Pram’s body, optimized for the Thin Sword, could not meet any of the requirements necessary to wield a Greatsword.
‘Teaching him would be futile.’
This was a matter of habit. According to Pram’s own account, he had spent ten years using the Thin Sword.
But ever since coming to the academy and receiving an appraisal of his Thin Sword, he’d been using a Greatsword instead. That meant he’d wielded the Greatsword for barely two weeks.
It was only natural that ten years of ingrained habit couldn’t be overturned in two weeks.
Dezir Armang exhaled a long sigh.
“Truly, if he would just use the Thin Sword, every problem would be solved.”
But Pram did not use the Thin Sword. Or rather, it would be more accurate to say he did not wish to use it.
The fact that he refused the Thin Sword was certainly painful for Dezir Armang, yet on the other hand, he could understand Pram’s feelings.
Had Dezir Armang been in the same position, he too would never have touched the Thin Sword again.
But if he allowed himself to think that way, the matter was as good as finished.
‘It’s too early to give up.’
Dezir Armang had not abandoned hope.
He had discovered one contradictory point in Pram’s account.
A contradiction that made no sense whatsoever—and crucially, a clue that might unravel the solution to this entire situation.
That contradiction was the Pram who existed in Dezir Armang’s memory.
‘In his past life, he wielded the Thin Sword.’
The Pram of that former existence had certainly used the Thin Sword.
‘There must be something. A moment when he steeled his resolve and took up the Thin Sword again.’
There could be only one such moment.
‘The Silver Thin Sword—his father’s only legacy.’
He had reason now to see that blade once more.
Dezir Armang approached Pram, who was still practicing, and announced his presence with a soft cough.
At that sound, Pram ceased his training.
“Forgive me for interrupting your practice.”
“What is it, sir?”
“That sword you showed me yesterday—could you show it to me again? There’s something I’d like to verify.”
Pram’s expression was ordinarily gentle, but the moment that blade was mentioned, his face stiffened subtly even before Dezir Armang.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“I know what an impertinent request this is of you. But for my sake, couldn’t you show me that sword just once more?”
“Even if you ask it that way, it’s impossible now.”
“Impossible? Why?”
Pram paused for a moment.
What he said next completely defied Dezir Armang’s expectations.
“I’ve already sold it.”

* * *

-This stop is the Commercial District.

The first sight that greeted him when he stepped off the bus was a vast avenue stretching outward, flanked on both sides by dozens of streetlamps.
Around that broad thoroughfare clustered a dense crowd of vendor stalls. Wherever one looked—at intersections, plazas, or alleyways—there were only shops.
The Commercial District was the only civilian-access zone within Hebrion Academy.
Not only students, but people from every nation gathered here.
The vendors’ hawking made the ears ache. Save for the narrowest of passages, the streets were so packed there was barely room to set foot.
“May I ask you something?”
As they passed a blacksmith’s stall with swords arrayed on display, Dezir Armang turned to Pram with a question.
“Why did you sell the sword?”
“After talking with you yesterday, it became clear to me. That sword simply wasn’t helping me at all.”
Dezir Armang realized that his actions had altered the future.
Perhaps, because of him, Pram would never use the Thin Sword again for the rest of his life.
At that thought, Dezir Armang shook his head violently side to side.
‘It’s not too late yet. What matters now is finding the moment that will make Pram take up the Thin Sword again.’
They turned into an alley. Unlike the broad avenue before, this passage received no sunlight.
At first, vendor stalls appeared sporadically, but after walking deeper for several more steps, they vanished entirely from sight.
Just as Dezir Armang was beginning to think no shops could be found in such a place, a lone building appeared in the distance.
Dezir Armang spoke, catching his breath.
“I don’t understand why a shop would be in such a remote location.”
“I heard they also purchase stolen goods. I suppose that’s why they’re hidden away here.”
The building was adorned with elaborate marble, and a sign stood before the door, inscribed with something in the common tongue, the surface entirely covered with text.
Dezir Armang read the inscription on the sign.

Ujukun’s Antique Shop.
Appraisal and purchase of antiquities—the most trusted establishment with Hebrion Academy.
Unpurchased items may not be touched.
No refunds due to change of mind. No refunds due to defects in merchandise. Under no circumstances shall refunds be issued.

Dezir Armang’s eyes narrowed.
“He certainly loves money.”
That was not the end of it.
He read the final clause.

Top-tier security personnel are always on standby. The proprietor cannot guarantee your safety should thieves breach these doors.

Pram spoke up as Dezir Armang fanned himself with a hand fan, cooling the sweat.
“Are you certain you wish to enter?”
“Yes.”
“I must reiterate—I will not be using that thin sword.”
As Dezir Armang opened the building’s door and stepped inside, Pram reluctantly followed behind him.
They passed through a narrow corridor barely wide enough for one person, and a chandelier-lit hall came into view.
At the far end of the hall stood an enormous iron door through which one could enter deeper into the shop.
Pram used the door’s knocker to rap against it.
Thud-thud.
A moment later, a man emerged from within—a giant of an Esteban appearance.
Once Dezir Armang and Pram had stepped inside, he closed the door behind them. The firmly shut door showed no sign of opening easily.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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