The Son-In-Law Of A Prestigious Household Wants A Divorce-Chapter 129: The Primitive Lands

Claaang!

A long, metallic crash rang out.

In the night of the Abyss Realm, where the wind howled like a beast, the two swords screamed together.

Moments later, the result was clear.

They had crossed blades head‑on yet again, but Isaac was utterly overpowered and landed flat on his backside.

Rihanna pointed her great‑sword at him without hesitation.

“...I concede.”

Isaac had no choice but to admit defeat.

Clank.

Rihanna lowered her sword and held out a hand. Taking it, Isaac stood, brushed dust from his clothes, and caught his breath.

32 bouts, 0 wins, 32 losses.

Another defeat added to the tally.

“...Your spirit still isn’t broken.”

As always, Rihanna offered a short appraisal at the end of their bout—her version of advice.

“Hm?”

“Most people would crumble by now, but you... you just don’t.”

Isaac chuckled. Rihanna tilted her head, unsure what he found funny, and he answered while re‑settling his sword.

“Falling apart doesn’t mean the world ends.”

“It doesn’t?”

That line wasn’t an empty proverb; life’s twists had buried him in the abyss more than once.

First to mind was the leg injury and the year spent locked away in Helmut.

Inside that pitch‑black room, he’d allowed no one near.

Rihanna stared, eyes round. Isaac smiled faintly and stepped back.

“Another round?”

She nodded and widened the distance.

Again Isaac started with his blade already drawn. As Nameless had warned, fixating on battō‑jutsu alone would stunt basic swordwork.

‘Was pouring everything into battō‑jutsu a mistake?’

He was no Grandmaster. There’s a gulf between mastering battō‑jutsu atop a firm foundation and building your entire style on it from day one.

No matter how deeply he pondered the sword, he still slipped. Sometimes he forgot what he knew; sometimes he knew and still couldn’t do it.

Profound and baffling—the reason swordsmen chase perfection their whole lives.

Claang!

A few minutes later.

33 bouts, 0 wins, 33 losses.

Gasping and drawing on ki, Isaac dropped to the ground. Two people approached:

Nameless and Uldiran Caldias.

They exchanged glances; Nameless shrugged, letting the other speak first—an acknowledgment of Uldiran’s stature.

“You need to understand something about yourself.”

“Sir?”

The next words blindsided him.

“Why don’t you trust yourself?”

“...”

“When you swing, you always fight like the weaker side. It’s hard to watch.”

Arms folded, Uldiran spoke while Sharen and Silverna listened nearby.

“Your life was probably one long battle against stronger foes, so you grew fast. But it left a loser crouching inside you. Even now you fight from a victim’s stance.”

His tone was firm, razor‑sharp.

“Your method—reading the enemy’s flow, slipping through a gap, finishing in a single strike—is brilliant. But it means you’re always giving up the tempo.

“Your eye for the blade is excellent, so the tactic has worked. But how long will you wait for openings? What if your foe leaves none—never makes a mistake?”

The critique stung all the more because Rihanna, the opponent he’d just faced, fit that description perfectly.

Naturally Isaac was improving—after all, he hadn’t even wielded a sword a full year yet. His growth was meteoric.

“I’m not saying your style is wrong, but—”

Reality keeps demanding more of Isaac.

“Was Arandel the same?”

Isaac felt Uldiran’s final remark land on his skull like a hammer.

Arandel Helmut—

A man who never surrendered the rhythm of a fight.

He seized it, wielded it, ruled it.

“You’re sharp enough; I’ll say no more. You’ll break through in your own way.”

With a brusque hmph, Uldiran turned away. His wife Seleny instantly latched onto his side, praising him for a job well done.

The moment Uldiran stepped back, Nameless strode in.

“Suppose a tiger lived in your house—what would you do?”

“...Pardon?”

An out‑of‑the‑blue question, yet Nameless pressed on.

“Well, what would you do?”

“I’d... drive it out?”

“Right. That makes sense.”

She nodded, then tweaked the question.

“But what if you couldn’t drive it out—had to live with it?”

“...Then I’d have to tame it.”

“That’s what your malice‑ki is right now.”

The ki of malice—Isaac used it, yet still had no clear answer for what it was.

At times it spoke.

At times it moved as if alive.

“If you won’t discard it completely, you must accept it—and tame it.”

“...”

“Uldiran covered the sword; I’ll advise you on the malice‑ki. If you mean to wield it, you can’t fear it.”

Living with a tiger, she’d said; if coexistence is inevitable, taming is the only path.

“Honestly, I’ve no idea how you came to possess it, but—”

Nameless drove the point in, cool and cutting.

“Everyone who bears it carries a sin to match.”

Among the Primitive Transcendents, the greatest swordsmen—those called Sword Saints—manifested that unique power.

Isaac had thought he gained it simply through the Bolten Massacre, but hearing Nameless convinced him something was off.

He had swung his blade as if in a trance.

Back then... what was I feeling?

The question slowly raised its head inside him.

****

The Land of Primitive.

The name alone conjured images of a barren, savage waste:

Unmanaged weeds, blistering earth studded with jagged rock, demonic beasts prowling for prey.

After days of marching through the Abyss Realm’s harsh vistas, Isaac naturally assumed the place called the Primitive Lands would be worse.

He was very wrong.

“...Oh my!” Sharen breathed in awe.

A tall, sturdy wall of yellow stone rose before them. It couldn’t rival the Malidan Barrier, yet looked more than enough to fend off beasts.

Beyond the rampart soared a slender tower.

So the phrase “tower that touches the sky” wasn’t nonsense after all.

The spire climbed so high it seemed to pierce the heavens, its tip aligning in illusion with the silver clock’s star that symbolized time.

“Just act like merchants and we’ll be fine—nothing to worry about,” said Rancelon with a sunny smile, hiding his face all the while—apparently someone who shouldn’t be seen inside.

“Stay sharp,” Nameless warned, arms folded. “Once we’re in there, you’ll feel hatred for humans dripping from every corner.

“Some might even kidnap humans. Stick close—no wandering.”

“We’ve learned so much on the way here,” Isaac said gratefully.

Nameless shot him a sidelong glance. She looked like she had more to say but clicked her tongue instead.

“That’s enough—any more and I might grow fond of you.”

She turned her back. Hair beneath the black bamboo hat fluttered in the breeze.

“I am an assassin in the service of the Primitive Bloodline. You know what that means.”

“The next time we meet, we’ll be enemies,” Isaac replied.

“Exactly. The journey was fun. Now I understand why Number 10 entrusted everything to you.”

‘Have I proven anything at all?’

Aside from the fact that his losing streak against Rihanna has now broken forty matches, probably not. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

****

“We once shared a dream—watching the moon, dreaming that dream together.”

The Grandmaster’s dream:

To see a mere human sword surpass the Transcendents.

Why had she ever dreamed such a thing?

That unanswered riddle must lie somewhere in their past.

“In time, I let that dream go. Reality always pries the fingers open, you see.”

“…”

“But that fool—she never let go.”

A sly smile curved across Nameless’ lips. She reached out, almost absent‑mindedly, and ruffled Isaac’s hair.

“Looked good on you.”

“…”

“I’ll look forward to the day you cut me down.”

Passing Isaac, Nameless walked ahead, peeling away from the group and slipping through the city gate alone.

No one stopped her. Everyone understood they had merely shared the same road for a while.

****

“Gather up,” Rihanna called.

The Transcendents of the village filed silently to her side. Now that they were near the Primitive Lands, she wanted their plan settled before entry.

Naturally, the humans were excluded.

‘Well, to them we’re just ritual fodder anyway,’ Isaac thought.

Sitting in on their strategy would have been the strange part. At least this masquerade was almost over.

Come to think of it…

The Primitive Lands—the place called the source of rituals.

‘I might never get another chance like this.’

He could learn more about rituals themselves, maybe even uncover the real truth behind what he’d been experiencing.

If anywhere could—then there—

“Hey, Isaac.”

“…What?”

Sharen again, calling him for no good reason. He’d thought she was off playing with Weight‑Stone, but the poor creature was curled up and trembling, looking for all the world like an ordinary boulder.

“What, are there lots of spell‑casters in there?”

“Not that many, from what Nameless said. Just like all our mages are gathered in the Tower, their shamans won’t be wandering the streets.”

“So the tower’s packed with shamans?”

“Probably—just picture our Mage‑Tower.”

Nearby, Vivian flinched; without mana she was an ordinary person now, and any talk of “Mage‑Towers” stirred a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and pain.

“Hmm.” Sharen nodded, apparently satisfied. She sidled closer.

“What now? More dumb pranks? Last time you filled my ear with wind—”

“Nothing like that!”

Still pouting, Sharen leaned in. Expecting mischief, Isaac reflexively turned an ear toward her—and froze.

“Then we can talk about your regression, right?”

“Wh—”

For an instant, Isaac Logan’s entire world seemed to stop.

“…What?”

He stared at Sharen , wondering if he’d heard correctly.

“I can help, you know!”

She offered the same sunny smile as always.

– – The End of The Chapter ––

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