The Regressed Magic Swordsman Devours the North - Chapter 33

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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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Episode 33. Gaining People (2)
— September 5th, 6 AM
Golden dawn was breaking across the horizon’s edge. Light seemed to travel in straight lines, yet it did nothing of the sort.
Wherever it touched mountain range, building, or river, it refracted at its own angle, and those reflected rays illuminated even the places turned away from the sun.
Though the hour was far too early to begin work, the sound of metal rang out in measured rhythm from beyond Seyren’s outer edge.
Following the sound, one would find a smithy carved from the shell of an abandoned factory.
The sign above read “The Iron Breath,” a name that left an impression.
Though truth be told, what impressed more was the notice written just below it.
“Alcohol welcome. Empty hands turned away.”
True to its reputation as the place where the finest metalwork in the north took place, rhythmic hammer blows rang out alongside waves of scorching heat.
Whoosh—
Clang—! Clang—!
Sticky sweat, sour tang, cheap alcohol—the mingled smells hardly made it a welcoming place to linger.
Yet through it all, a man stepped inside.
“Who are you? No outsiders during work. Get out!”
Barkan, proprietor of The Iron Breath and seated before the anvil mid-swing, bellowed in a voice like a cavern.
He was short of stature, but his arm muscles were grotesquely massive, sinews writhing beneath the skin like living creatures.
Yet his belly bulged prominently outward—a physique that spoke not of disciplined training but of hard-won, practical strength.
True to his lineage as a descendant of the dwarves said to have existed in ancient times, he possessed a frame solid as stone, beside which lay a crude unmarked bottle of moonshine.
Unbothered by the command to leave, the man approached with measured steps and spoke.
“I’ve brought good spirits.”
It was a pleasant voice—or was it a well-spoken sentence? Barkan kept his eyes on the anvil as he replied.
“Wait until I finish.”
The man said nothing and waited. And when Barkan finally turned from his work,
Refined clothing. Brilliant golden hair. Eyes that seemed to hold the depths of an abyss. Two heavy-looking bags.
Barkan recognized him at once.
“Sion.”
“It’s been a while, sir.”
Barkan had long served as a retainer of the Karsen Family before striking out recently to operate his own smithy independently.
When Sion was a child, he had lived in the great manor and they had often crossed paths.
“What brings the irresponsible brat here?”
“I’d like to commission something from you, sir.”
“What?”
Sion smiled broadly and set one of the bags he carried atop the empty anvil.
Thud—!
A weight that settled with profound heaviness.
Zip—
As the zipper opened, a dark metallic mass shot through with deep blue light filled Barkan’s pupils. His eyes trembled as though the earth had shifted beneath them.
“This is…”
As though entranced, Barkan touched the metal with his bare hand. The sensation was strange—cold, yet with magical power churning within.
“Meteorite Iron? And excellent quality at that, with hardly any impurities mixed in.”
“Your eye hasn’t dulled.”
Barkan lifted his head. His face was a complex tangle of astonishment, avarice, and the drive of a craftsman.
Sion found himself briefly reflecting on old memories. He’d been beaten for so much as carelessly touching iron. Not particularly fond recollections.
“A knight’s blade and simultaneously a mage’s staff. Is such a thing possible?”
Barkan’s eyes narrowed.
“A sword that’s also a reservoir of Mana, and on top of that, a mage’s tool… Most mages set what we call a Magic Tool at the staff’s tip to amplify their power. Swords rarely use them because the vibration from impact tends to shatter the Magic Tool’s delicate circuits. It’s uncommon, but…”
Barkan tapped the Meteorite Iron as he continued.
“This material has an exceptional ability to absorb vibrations, so it’s not impossible. You could carve a space into the sword’s grip where a Magic Tool could be fitted. But why go to such trouble?”
“I have use for it.”
Barkan seemed to find the answer bland, for his lip curled and he reached for the cheap bottle of liquor beside him.
“Fine materials, an interesting design. But to work with a monster like this, I’d need to kindle my spirit. And these days, my spirit won’t catch fire at all. Ever since those accursed nobles seized control of the spirits trade and started wielding it, I can’t remember the last time I tasted proper spirits. Not anymore.”
Barkan was a terrible drinker.
But since the Daikahh Family had monopolized the spirits distribution network, fine alcohol had become the exclusive province of the social elite, making it as difficult for a blacksmith to acquire as plucking stars from the heavens.
Of course, Sion was different.
He had peacefully inherited distribution rights for select items from the Daikahh Family.
Sion set the second bag he held beside the Meteorite Iron. Gently. Carefully.
“That’s precisely why I prepared this.”
Zzzip—
As the zipper opened, Barkan’s eyes trembled visibly. As though he’d discovered some impossible gem, they shone and sparkled with unbridled delight.
His hand trembled as he spoke.
“……Could it be Valhalla’s Tears: 60 Years?”
A spirit legendary among northern craftsmen. The very fine wine that the Daikahh Count had controlled in its entirety as a bribe for the northern nobility.
“You like this drink, don’t you?”
“Like it? I love it!”
In that instant, from deep within the factory, figures hidden beneath the noise of work came rushing out.
“What, what is it!”
“Valhalla’s Tears?”
“Insane, it’s real?”
“Chief! Is that really it?”
Dozens of burly blacksmiths, grease-stained and dripping saliva from the corners of their mouths, crowded around Sion and Barkan.
They moved like a pack of starving wolves.
Sion pretended to count the bottles inside the bag with his fingers.
“Exactly thirty bottles. This is the commission fee, and once a fine blade is completed, I’ll procure one hundred more for you. As I mentioned earlier, please craft one sword that doubles as a staff, and two short swords.”
Barkan’s eyes had already rolled back—no longer at the Meteorite Iron, but at the bottles. With trembling hands, he snatched one up as though seizing prey.
“You fools! Why aren’t you holding your hammers! Raise the forge temperature to the limit this instant! From today on, this door locks from the inside! Nobody leaves until the blade is finished, you hear me! And come get one bottle each!”
At Barkan’s command, the blacksmiths roared in triumph and claimed their Valhalla’s Tears.
Barkan unscrewed a bottle with his thick hands and drank deeply.
Ahhh!
As Barkan let out a cry of delight, the aroma spread throughout the forge. Yet it bore none of the cheap stench from before.
It was a bouquet that had condensed the fragrances of countless fruits to their limit, unfolding softly—refined and layered.
“The inspiration’s flowing now! Wait for it. I’ll craft you a masterpiece!”
“Yes. I have business elsewhere. Take your time with it.”
Sion smiled gently and left The Iron Breath.
The spirit had come through distribution channels, so it had cost considerably less than the original commission.
But the craftsmen’s satisfaction was absolute. A true win-win.
***
—September 5th, 11 AM
I left the Unique Rain auction house and visited the residence of number 77, with whom I’d clashed so hotly—Brener Winston.
The Olden District of Seyren was a space where the north’s raw breath had been overlaid with gilded ornamentation.
But Brener Winston’s residence stood out—incongruous and ostentatious, as though the Central Empire’s grandeur had been forcibly transplanted there.
“Welcome.”
A middle-aged man who appeared to be a butler greeted me warmly. I gave a brief bow and stepped inside.
The Brener Family.
A noble ducal house whose blood ran alongside that of the Central Empire’s imperial line.
They had succeeded in controlling the distribution of specially dyed textiles across the entire continent as their core enterprise……
In short, a wealthy noble house.
Brener Winston, following his father’s orders, distributed high-grade textiles throughout the north.
He hadn’t particularly expanded the business—simply engaged in various enterprises, traded with merchants, and circulated fabrics. Yet the money flowing in from that alone was considerable.
In other words, this man was also rich.
In this world, two things turn men’s eyes away from reason: power and wealth.
When these two take hold, rationality ceases to function.
One becomes either a perpetual victim or a consummate villain.
It was not uncommon for men to chase madly, fall into traps, and die.
Fathers killed sons, sons killed fathers—tragedies were frequent.
But Brener Winston was somewhat different. His greed was neither large nor small—he was an odd one.
He clung more to the glittering things wealth could buy, to luxuries that might satisfy vanity……
One might say he lacked something; viewed another way, he was innocent. And today, I had come to purchase a building he owned.
A property remote from the city with ideal security and defensive positioning, large enough to establish the finest training grounds—a place only those whom I trusted could ever enter.
As I stepped into the reception hall—
Ornate sculptures, expensive carpets, fine furniture and the like. Everything reeked of vanity. How much had he poured into acquiring these things?
“Who’s this? One of those bastards who trampled my pride at the auction house?”
Brener Winston, lounging on the sofa, lifted his handsome face—boyish beauty rippling across it. He was trying to seize the initiative, but up close, this fellow was genuinely entertaining.
“I was discourteous then.”
I answered in a somewhat businesslike tone, and he raised his eyebrows, asking:
“Why did you come?”
He was displeased. This confirmed what I suspected—he had no talent for business.
I smiled gently and sat on the sofa across from him. Then I opened my bag and withdrew a fist-sized Sunstone.
“I came to pay my respects, moved by the kind of fiery passion the Brener Count displayed.”
Whoosh.
The warmth of the Sunstone and its beauty alike filled Brener Winston’s eyes.
The Sunstone’s temperature was remarkable enough, but its value as a gemstone was equally extraordinary. Moreover, he’d never seen one this size before.
Brener accepted the Sunstone I offered with both hands, his mouth falling open. He was completely captivated.
“A gift for you.”
He set the Sunstone aside and spoke.
“Determination? Hmph. So you won after all, didn’t you?”
The words were blunt, yet warmth threaded through them. At this point, I’d already secured ninety percent of what I needed.
“That simply proves how valuable the items Lord Brener coveted truly were. Most especially, thanks to your magnanimity in yielding that final piece of Meteorite Iron, I was able to preserve my standing. I remain ever grateful for your generous heart.”
At my deliberately flattering words, Brener’s eyebrows twitched. Truly, this man was an open book.
I fiddled with my teacup and cast my bait with practiced ease.
“The scenery along the Rumenia River has been quite lovely of late, I hear. And it’s said that you own a most ‘charming’ property in those parts.”
For a moment, Brener’s face twisted in a peculiar way. He quickly raised his cup to his lips, as if to hide his discomfort.
That building was something he’d once purchased with great fanfare, eager to enjoy the riverside views. To be fair, the location hadn’t been poor back then. But then.
Development restrictions were imposed on the area. Now it was merely a ghost building, bleeding money in taxes, devoid of foot traffic.
With no shops nearby, it couldn’t be sold or even used—Brener Winston’s greatest mistake.
“Ah, that building? It’s a place I treasure because the location is so excellent. There’s nowhere quite like it for enjoying quiet meditation.”
Brener spouted transparent nonsense. Even his posturing looked good on that handsome face.
“I see. Your taste is truly remarkable. As it happens, I too have been seeking a quiet place to think, away from the complexity of the city. What a shame.”
“What? Really?”
Brener’s eyes widened in an instant. He leaned forward to the edge of the sofa without even attempting to hide his eagerness. A truly transparent man.
“Did you come looking to buy that place?”
“Yes. I was intending to, but unfortunately——”
“I’ll sell it!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ah, no. Well, it’s a place I cherish, so I was hesitant. But since the Third Young Master of the Karsen Family asks so earnestly… very well. I’ll let it go for seven billion Jenni——”
“Four billion Jenni.”
“What.”
The building had once commanded a price tag near seven billion Jenni given its size, but it was so neglected and outdated now that four billion was fair market value.
And Brener Winston’s cash flow had grown precarious of late, thanks to his relentless indulgence.
Four billion Jenni would give him breathing room.
“If that won’t do, then I’m afraid it can’t be helped——”
“No! I’ll sell it!”
I watched his face—now so transparent I could see right through it—and smiled gently.
“Excellent. Shall we draw up the contract immediately?”
The contract went through without a hitch. Brener looked like a man wondering where all the fools in the world were coming from. His expression was so transparent it took all my restraint not to laugh.
After the contract was signed, Brener Winston fixed his gaze on the gifted Sunstone and asked.
“But, Sion. This really is rare, isn’t it? I’ve never even heard of one this large.”
“Indeed. It would cause quite a stir in high society if word got out.”
“Really?”
And so today, I had gained
a invaluable publicist.
“Of course.”
The Returning Swordmaster Consumes the North
Author
: Bang Sim-sim
Production Date
: June 16, 2026
Publisher
: (주)에이시스미디어
Editor
: 에이시스미디어 Editorial Team
Address
: 10F Urban Bench Building, 325 Teheran-ro, Gangnam-gu, Seoul, Korea
Email
: [email protected]
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UCI
: G720:N+A129-20260615032

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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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