A Knight Gets the Autumn Blues (1)
The long summer had ended, and the maples were blushing into lovely color. Autumn, the pride of the South, had come.
A season might seem a strange thing to boast of, but among Pendragon's seasons autumn was one of the stubbornly long ones. Winter lasted a fortnight when it was short and a month at most when it dragged; autumn often held for three months, and sometimes for four or more. There was even a theory that the northern domain under Lionel's rule had carried winter off with it, though the scholars had never proved a word of it.
Because of that, autumn in Pendragon ran unusually long, and whole stretches of street turned into views worth traveling for. Clear, clean skies; red maples scattered as far as the eye could see; even the lakes and rivers kept in careful order. How could it fail to be beautiful? It was also the season when maple syrup grew cheap and reached its finest flavor, so desserts and dishes made with it multiplied.
As an aside, in the South every house had its own method, its own aging, and its own way of storing maple syrup, so whichever shop you entered, the sweetness tasted different. Lovers of sweet things surged, and people packing on weight at a startling pace were no rare sight. The old saying—that in autumn the sky stands high and the horses grow fat—seemed to fit all too well. Of course, that too was a story one could tell only because the South happened to be at peace.
"This is good. These pancakes. Ah—no, wait. It isn't the pancakes. The maple syrup is insane. What is this? This soft sweetness...?"
He burst out in admiration as he ate, as if a gourmet had taken possession of him. He had ordered without a thought, and it was better than he had imagined: bacon fried crisp, three eggs done soft, two sausages full of juice, and a five-layer stack of pancakes with nuts and maple syrup scattered thick between every tier. The plain coffee was only so-so in taste, but the aroma was decent, and it had the virtue of cutting that sweet syrup, so the pairing was excellent. It was nothing short of a lumberjack breakfast, the heavy American kind, and he was satisfied without end. The way a meal eaten with no expectations tastes better and somehow feels like luck, he had the sense that today his luck would hold.
"Three more plates, please."
"Y-you've already gone past ten bowls?"
"I'm still a little hungry."
"...Hold on a moment. I'll bring you a special, too!"
"Huh? You don't have to go that far."
"This is a matter of pride! Generation after generation, this restaurant has never sent a guest away hungry! You don't even have to pay, so don't you fret!"
"...?"
He was only hungrier than an ordinary man. He didn't see why that ought to wound anyone's pride, but Lee Han kept his mouth shut. A free dish was welcome any day.
Meatballs. And bigger than a fist.
From the kitchen hearth drifted the smell of meatballs rich with juice. Put those beside spaghetti in tomato sauce and it would deserve to be called a special; no argument.
"Nice."
"...Aren't you overeating a little, this early in the morning?"
"The restaurants inside the Academy are all cheap and good, aren't they? I took one bite and couldn't stop."
"......Even so, do people usually eat more than ten servings?"
"It's the hungry season."
"Mmm..."
Derek swallowed a groan at that shameless declaration.
Derek, who had come into the inn that doubled as a restaurant, ordered a simple cup of coffee instead of food. Just watching Lee Han eat, he said, made his stomach feel heavy. Lee Han, for his part, had taken a liking to the meatball spaghetti, and he only stopped after ordering five more plates.
"Are you satisfied?"
"I ate a reasonable amount. Past that, it's a waste."
"I-I never knew eating twenty servings, by a normal person's measure, counted as reasonable..."
"Mileage is different, that's all. Mileage. Why do you eat so little, then?"
"Mmm. Habit, I think."
Derek looked from his own skinny frame to Lee Han's and smiled bitterly, his face saying that the comparison was a bit much no matter how you cut it. Even so, for a student of the sword faculty he really was thin. With the help of skills he could put out serious fighting power, but in ordinary life it seemed he might lose a contest of strength even to a housewife.
"Eat something. I'll write you a meal plan."
"...Haha."
At the nagging that wasn't quite nagging, Derek laughed awkwardly and tried to force the moment past. Lee Han didn't press him to bulk up, either. Thin or not, the boy was strong. Skills and a System Window really did sit outside any normal measure. Before pointless envy could knot his guts, Lee Han spoke first.
"So. Did you look into what I asked?"
"Yes. More or less."
Derek nodded, and still his expression was bitter. He had dug it up himself, and it was nothing but unpleasant.
"Mmm. For now, these people look like they're planning a con on the whole nation."
"?"
"I mean, a con where they claim an oracle has come down."
"An ora—what?"
"......A divine oracle."
"......"
"You heard me correctly. So please believe it."
"...Fuck."
Lee Han was silent for a moment. Then—
"Over here! One jumbo five-stack, extra! And triple the maple syrup!"
He put in another order, as if he had been seized all at once by a violent craving for sugar. Extremely sweet sugar.
What Lee Han had asked of Derek was simple. He wanted to know what was happening inside the temple right now. At that request Derek had nodded without hesitation—an astonishingly quick yes, for a man who was not the type to accept things so cleanly.
"I'm curious myself."
Derek had stepped forward because he wanted to know exactly what that temple was doing, and for about a week he slipped in and out of it, piecing together what was unfolding. Armed with a rogue's skills, the only game character in this world moving with intent, infiltrating a temple was simple enough. Lee Han had been sure he would come back with something, and sure enough—
"You summarized it exactly."
He had brought back an enormous piece of information.
"......It's real?"
Lee Han asked again and again. He had to. It was that hard to believe.
"I doubted it hundreds of times myself, and... it was real."
"What the..."
To set it out a little more carefully, the story went like this. In the years when the Martial God reigned as king, the temple could not lift its head. It had to flatten itself before the royal house and choose submission.
The pope of that time, the man who had founded the false crusade now threatening the kingdom—the Blood Cross Army, or whatever they called it—had gone so far as to kneel before the Martial God, crawl all the way to the throne where he sat, and beg forgiveness. Please spare me. Please forgive me. Please show mercy. He had pleaded and pleaded, and in the course of it the temple had to hand over more than eight-tenths of the influence it could wield in the South to the royal house—no, to the Martial God.
The pope himself was demoted under the title Pope-King, and the authority he had held as proxy of the Light was cut down so severely that he became little more than a puppet. It had happened some forty years ago: the temple's humiliation, an event that could fairly be called its ruin.
Forty years. To some it might seem endlessly short, but forty years is a tremendously long time. To put it in a celebrity's terms, even the most successful entertainer is forgotten if they vanish for a single year. A temple kept under heel for forty years—how many powers and advantages it had lost—if you reckoned the loss as property, you could not put a price on it. It had survived this long only because the age still needed religion. Had it been any other noble house and not the temple, it would have vanished long ago and left nothing behind.
Even so, for the temple those years were enough to weep blood a hundred times over. If only the Martial God had never existed, they would still have been reigning above the nobility.
And then—
"At last, that Martial God disappeared."
"Right. It's already been seventeen years..."
Seventeen years since the Martial God passed. Old habits die hard, as they say. These vicious bastards were finally stretching themselves, preparing a grand fraud upon the nation so they could rise again.
"So they mean to build a plausible puppet and lock down the power the temple holds."
"I saw the list of puppet candidates, too. Almost all of them were noble young ladies, or collateral lines with royal blood in them."
"A love letter to the great nobles?"
"Something like that."
Even a puppet—a Saint—could not be just anyone. The temple needed a plausible puppet, and apparently that meant a well-bred bloodline. A fine pedigree.
"...Have they gone mad for power?"
"Or perhaps they think this country was originally theirs."
Lee Han said nothing.
"It's forty years. Forty years of grinding the knife of revenge. So those people will do anything, to take back the powers they believe were originally theirs. That's probably why they laid hands on Lady Irene, too."
"...Why her?"
"If they set Lady Irene up as the Saint, then from the temple's point of view they gain a powerful ally by the name of Galahad."
"They know the Duke is the Martial God's son, and they're still doing this?"
"There's a saying in politics, isn't there. No eternal allies, and no eternal enemies either. Politics is the business of joining hands or betraying at any moment, according to the situation and according to desire."
"Hm."
Lee Han nodded. It was a convincing thing to say. Only, his gaze held a faint sourness, and the reason was none other than this.
This kid. Why is he so angry today?
This fellow, timid as they came, had not let his voice shake even once. He was spitting the words out cold and fast, and Lee Han had the feeling of watching a bomb that might catch fire at any moment. So he asked it straight.
"Why are you so heated?"
"......"
"Something happen?"
What had him that angry? At the question, Derek's teeth ground together. As if Lee Han's words had been the fuse, he finally showed what was inside.
"...Among the puppet candidates, there was Lady Karin."
Lee Han went still.
"They seemed to be thinking of kidnapping her. Or threatening her..."
"...Aigoo."
Lee Han let out a pained sound. Of all the nerves they might have touched, the temple had gone and pressed the reverse scale of that timid System Window—the one place you were never meant to touch.
When the quiet ones snap, they're filthy scary...
He had felt it in the army, too. You do not poke the quiet ones, or the frail ones, just because they look easy. Why?
...Because you might catch a bullet.
Lee Han knew very well that when the gentle ones lost it, they turned extreme, and he clicked his tongue. One wrong step, and Falling Flowers of Ten Thousand might come pouring down on the temple.
A little bell chimed.
A grave air had settled over the table, but fortunately someone they knew appeared, and they were given a chance to clear it.
"Master?"
"...Hm?"
"Did you come to eat as well, Master? ...Ah. You've already eaten a great deal."
"What are you doing here?"
"Uh, well, this is my regular place, and it's cheap and tasty, so...?"
"......Some marquis's daughter you are..."
"Hehe. Habits aren't easy to change, you know."
The woman came closer with a shy laugh, smiling brightly. She was only drawing near, and yet it was as if a bright scent of flowers rose with her, and even the mood of the table lightened. Once she had been gloomier than the Taechang sitting in front of him, but after a curse like heaven's own punishment had left her, she had slowly come to wear a smile that seemed to spread happiness wherever she went. Perhaps it was only that he had been talking of nothing but gloom, and the sight of her brought a simple satisfaction. Lee Han's face brightened, as if he could breathe again.
"If you came to eat, I'll pay. Sit here."
"Oh, that would be much too rude..."
"I'm fine. If you'd rather eat alone, you can sit alone."
"—No. I'm sitting here. That's final."
"R-right?"
She planted herself in the seat directly beside him, decisive as a decree, and Lee Han scratched his cheek. Wasn't this a bit too close?
Hm? Now that I think of it...
He froze mid-scratch, a question occurring to him.
Didn't they say she was a Saint, going by the original?
An unofficial Saint, never recognized by the temple? Levi. The woman who, had Lee Han not interfered, would have been called the Mercenary Queen, and the Saint of the battlefield.
...Well. It's a future that won't happen now.
He decided to let it go. He was worrying over nothing.
"Ah, that's right! There was something I wanted to tell you the moment I saw you, Master. I finally have a new name."
"What?"
"Jeanne d'Arc. Levi Jeanne d'Arc. This is my new name, Master!"
"—Why?"
The objection jumped out of Lee Han before he could stop it, as if he were picking a fight.
"Yes?"
"Ah, no, why would you go and..."
Give her a name that sounded ready to go up in flames?
He couldn't make himself say anything that crude out loud.