I’m Not the Heroine

The towering Sword Mountain.
A sacred land for all swordsmen, a place of pilgrimage.

The path you tread is the same path walked by a thousand years of swordsmen before you.
Now, follow in their footsteps.

"Hah… Hah…"

Serelin felt her hands tremble as she gripped her sword.
She had undergone countless training sessions and survived many battles. There had certainly been times when she was pushed to her limits.

But the trials of Sword Mountain easily surpassed all of those experiences.

"Rise, knight of the Empire."

A voice like thunder jolted her back to her senses.
Not just because the speaker was her teacher.

It was death.

The voice of the god of swords carried the weight of death itself.
The enemies he had cut down in his lifetime, the very land, air, space, and time—everything that had crossed the path of his blade had perished.

It was as if she was standing before the very concept of death itself.
Her mind snapped back into focus.

"I… I understand…"

Rumble…

Over two weeks had passed.
Of that time, Serelin had spent a full week simply climbing Sword Mountain.

Would simply climbing a mountain count as training?

It would.

Nothing in the natural environment of Sword Mountain was ordinary.
Every aspect of it existed solely to shape a swordsman—to push them forward, carving their bodies and refining their forms to the utmost limit.

The winds that swept through the mountain were sharp enough to slice through flesh.
Gentle slopes turned into sheer cliffs, as if struck by lightning.
Rain and fog obscured vision, bringing with them a bitter, freezing cold.

Sword Mountain was a chisel and hammer, sculpting swordsmen into perfection.
And the man standing before her now was the one holding the chisel and hammer, shaping Serelin into her best form.

Unlike the other swordsmen she had encountered—the Sword Kings and Sword Queens—who wore grand armor or noble attire, this man was dressed in something far more simple.
A long, loose-sleeved robe, devoid of embellishment.
His black hair was tied back in a short ponytail.
A middle-aged man who, by appearance alone, seemed utterly unremarkable.