The Man Who Remained — His Second Life Began with a Humble Bow of Apology. - Chapter 113: The Hero’s Sword.

The Hero’s Sword.

The most beloved man in the world now sits alone in the loneliest place in the world—the throne—quietly awaiting the end.

Because… he had been entrusted with it. Entrusted by the person dearest to him, with the words: “Protect everyone’s smiles.”

That man, Claude—the Guardian of Humanity—was now gazing at a single sword, and in a voice that sounded almost bewildered, he murmured quietly.

“To think I’d find it now of all times…”

It felt like the lead actor stepping onto the stage only after the curtain had fallen.

“I’d like to complain too, you know, Temporary Master. Why didn’t you find me properly?”

A high-pitched voice, tinged with irritation, rang sharply in Claude’s ears, making him frown. The voice was coming—from the sword itself.

“Well… I honestly didn’t think it really existed. I was looking for it. The Church faction searched too. But since it never turned up, I thought it was just a fairy tale.”

Claude examined the sword closely.

Its decoration was lavish without being gaudy, a masterpiece beautiful both as art and as a weapon. In a king’s hand, it would never look out of place—if anything, it would elevate his majesty even further. Surely, there was no blade in the world more beautiful than this.

Even compared to his own holy sword, this one was… stunning. Magnificent.

It was, in every sense, the very image of the legends sung by bards.

A sword said to be wielded by the Hero.
A sentient blade that could speak, and aid its master.
And now, it was in Claude’s hands.

…Though it appeared far too late—long after the Demon King had been slain, and nothing was left but the quiet remainder of his days.

“So, what was your name again?”

Claude asked, despite having heard it several times before. He had never cared enough to remember, letting it slip in one ear and out the other.

“How many times must I answer that question? My true Master—that is, the Hero—gave me my name, so I truly don’t mind. The previous Hero called me the Holy Sword Nova. My own name is Seraphim.”

“Ah… right, that rings a bell.”

“If you’re not going to remember, then don’t ask, Temporary Master.”

“My bad. So… your name and the sword’s name are different?”

“Of course. I was created to aid the Hero. You could call me a tsukumogami, if you’re familiar with the term?”

“Nope. So… a god?”

“Broadly speaking, yes. But since you come from a world where monotheism is the norm, it’s fine if you don’t get it. Besides, there’s not even a word for ‘polytheism’ in this world.”

Claude didn’t understand, nor did he care to. He let the words pass him by.

“Alright, so not a god.”

“Think of me as something closer to a spirit. Or… simply because my Hero was special, I too am special.”

Seraphim declared proudly.

“One more thing. Why am I a ‘Temporary Master’? I am a Hero, technically.”

“…Huh? I don’t acknowledge you as a Hero.”

Claude’s eyes widened.

The Hero among Heroes.
The King of Heroes.
The strongest Hero in history.

He was called so by the people, loved by all, sometimes feared.
And he took pride in having saved more lives than any Hero before him.

For someone to deny he was a Hero at all—that was something he’d never expected.

“Why don’t you acknowledge me? I mean, it’s true I’ve never really thought of myself as a Hero, but I was recognized by the gods, you know.”

Seraphim sighed, loud and deliberate.

“That’s exactly the problem. Becoming a Hero just because a god told you to—that’s absurd.”

“Interesting. Then what is a Hero?”

“A person who does not give up.”

“…A person who doesn’t give up? That’s all?”

“Hah. Yes. That’s all. And yet, because you can’t even do that, you’re only a TemporaryMaster. Tell me, Claude… haven’t you given up already?”

Her words struck deep. For a man who had long since given up on life itself, they cut painfully.

“Anyone can have the qualities of a Hero. The Hero is simply the most human of humans. But having the qualities doesn’t mean one becomes a Hero. Power… doesn’t really matter. What matters is the heart. To fight for someone else, without giving up until the end. To live for others. A messenger of peace—that is the Hero.”

Seraphim lectured him proudly, even arrogantly, about what it meant to be a Hero—speaking to a Hero.

Claude could only listen with a wry smile.

And indeed, though he had been chosen as a Hero, achieved great deeds, and still reigned as both Hero and King… he had never once believed himself to be one.

“Listen well, Temporary Master. A Hero is the hope of the people—”

At that moment, the great doors before him opened quietly.

“Yoo-hoo, mind if I come in?”

It was Mary, an old comrade, walking in with light, quick steps.

“Mary… and Medil, too? Now that’s rare,” Claude remarked, his gaze settling on Medil, who followed quietly behind Mary.

It wasn’t unusual for Mary to come to the throne room—she was the head of the Thieves’ Guild and had a hand in state affairs.

Medil, however, was another story.

Among their companions, she was the one who avoided people the most… and hated them the most. And, if one were to add yet another “most,” she was also the most maidenly of them all.

She couldn’t go on living without holding on to her memories of Cross.

But if she dwelled too deeply on the brilliant days of their journey, living became unbearably painful.

Caught between those two extremes, Medil had chosen to keep her distance from the others—especially from Claude, who had been closest to Cross.

“It’s… another matter. Well, sort of not,” she said curtly.

“Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?” Claude asked.

Mary, however, grinned as if she knew exactly where this was going. “You see, I found a fake Medil.”

“A fake?”

“Yeah. Pretending to be the witch who helped defeat the Demon King—working as some cheap fortune teller.”

“Hm… and what do you want to do about it?”

“Still deciding. Oh, and by the way, she was a plump old hag—pointy hat, all in black.”

Medil’s face twisted in deep disgust.

“…And?” Claude prompted.

“I came because I found someone pretending to be you. I thought about ignoring it… but if that impostor started wrecking land, Cross would be sad. So I beat her senseless, handed her to the soldiers, and had her thrown in prison. Mist Half Village. Check it. Here’s a map.”

With that, Medil tossed a rolled parchment to Claude.

“Well, well. For the people-hating Medil to go that far… love really is something,” Mary teased.

Medil shot her a cold glare. “Is that a problem?”

In the past, she might have gotten flustered or tried to dodge the comment.

But there was no reason for that anymore—there was no one left in this world who could make her feel embarrassed… or beloved.

“No. Not at all. We’re all the same,” Mary replied, smiling with quiet loneliness.

“…All that’s left is for a fake Mary or a fake Sophia to show up. That’d be amusing,” Claude mused with a faint smile.

“Yeah, I guess so. Well, that’s—”

BANG!

Mary’s words were cut off as the doors to the throne room slammed open with a deafening crash. No—“opened” wasn’t the right word. They’d been destroyed.

The double doors, flung with such force, were now so battered they’d never serve their purpose again.

Who could possibly be barging in?

They all turned to see the intruder—and their breaths caught.

Claude, Mary, and Medil rarely experienced true shock, but this time, they all did.

Standing there was Sophia—the saint, their last surviving comrade—smiling sweetly as always.

It wasn’t her arrival that shocked them.

It was the bloodied human head she held in her hand.

Clutching the hair as if to tear it out by the roots, she had walked here without a care for the stares, crimson dripping to the floor with every step.

It was something unthinkable for the pure, gentle Sophia.

And because they were once comrades, they knew—Sophia was in a fury.

Ever since losing Cross, their group had been emptied of strong emotions. For one of them to display such raw rage was rare—rarer still for it to be Sophia, whose patience was unmatched.

“Sophia. What happened?” Claude asked.

Still smiling, she replied, “This was Cross’s impostor.”

The air in the throne room cracked and froze.

“Not only that—he was using Cross’s name to assault countless women.”

Her smile remained bright and almost cheerful—but the atmosphere around her was glacial.

No one present was shocked into fear—except for Seraphim.

The other three reached their own breaking points of rage in an instant. This was their one and only taboo.

“…I see. You’ve done well. I’ll see to it that every surviving victim is cared for by my kingdom’s full strength. I will not allow anyone to sully Cross’s name by bringing misery to women.”

At those words, Sophia finally let the tension in the air ease—just slightly.

“Thank you, Claude.”

And with that, she casually tossed the severed head—a face that looked nothing like Cross—to the floor.

Claude, Mary, and Medil tore it apart together until not even dust remained.

Once they had all calmed down and taken a moment to rest, Sophia, back to her usual demeanor, asked sweetly, “By the way, why is everyone gathered here? Was I… left out?”

“Coincidence. Do we look like the kind of people who’d casually meet up?” Medil said dryly.

“Not in the slightest. And it didn’t look like you were having fun, either.”

After that, Sophia turned to Claude.

“One more thing, Claude. That sword—what is it? A sudden weapon change? Trouble?”

Frankly, within the human world, Claude could beat anyone with nothing more than a wooden stick. He had no need to replace his weapon.

“This? My men found it. Supposedly, it’s the legendary Hero’s sword.”

“Oh my… then will you tell us the story?”

At Sophia’s intrigued tone, Seraphim—who had been keeping quiet under the oppressive air—suddenly burst forth in grand proclamation.

“Yes, indeed! As my temporary master says, I am the Legendary Hero’s Sword! I have journeyed alongside countless heroes, achieving great deeds! Their one and only partner in battle and in life—that is I, Seraphim!”

Her smug voice made Medil smirk, while Mary and Sophia smiled in amusement.

“Oh? Why ‘temporary master’? Even if you’ve renounced the title of Hero, the gods and the people alike recognize you as one.”

“Apparently, I’m not fit to be a Hero. Supposedly, a Hero must have a pure heart. The gods must’ve accepted me as a provisional master.”

“That’s not it,” Seraphim said bluntly.

“Then what is it?”

“I chose you as my temporary master because you are deeply connected by fate to my true hero. That bond means you will one day meet them. So, I accepted you as my temporary master and have been waiting here, yearning for the day my real hero appears. And—oh! I sense the same deep bond from everyone here! Could it be… will they come today?!”

Medil tilted her head thoughtfully. “This hero of yours… it’s not one of us, is it?”

“Of course not! People with your level of skill but hearts as black as pitch can’t be heroes. If you ever said you wanted to help people of your own free will, I’d suspect you’d gone mad.”

“That, I can agree with. So… you’re saying this person has deep ties with all of us?”

“Yes! Without question!”

“Well, I’ll tell you now—I’ve barely spoken to anyone besides you lot.”

Only one person fit the description—deeply connected to them all, possessing the noble spirit of a true hero, and never giving up no matter what.

“…Seraphim, hearing that from you is something that warms us to our very core. Thank you for recognizing them. For that alone, you’ve earned our respect,” Claude said quietly.

“Yes, yes, I can feel it—your goodwill and respect are practically pouring out of you!”

“Yeah… but, Seraphim, there’s a hard truth here. We had one more comrade—unlike us monsters who barely think of humans as people. Kind, respectful no matter the cruelty, still loving people even after being mocked and hurt… someone who never gave up.”

“Oh! That must be my hero! Strength doesn’t matter—if anything, I prefer them weaker so I can protect them! All they need is kindness, courage, and a heart that never quits! So, where are they now?”

Claude’s gaze lifted toward the ceiling. His voice was faint, ragged.

“…Dead. Killed after we defeated the Demon King… by human greed.”

For a long while, Seraphim said nothing.

Hours later, she began to sob quietly.

Her weeping lasted for a month.

And all that time, Claude never once let go of the sword—holding it close, as if comforting her.

…Or perhaps, comforting himself.