Settlement
Settlement
It wasn't as effective as the potion I'd received from the Empire last time, but seeing the wound visibly closing up suggested that Envelde's potion was surprisingly high-grade.
But aside from that, this experience had left a bitter aftertaste in so many ways that I couldn't help but let out a deep sigh.
"Hah, I'm craving a smoke. You don't happen to have any cigarettes, do you?"
It wasn't a joke, so I actually rummaged through the desk, but unfortunately all I found was a case containing a bottle of liquor and some cups.
Right now it was just the calm before the storm; with a situation where I might have to raise hell again before long, I couldn't drink. So I just sighed and waited for my body to heal.
Physical ability? I was supposedly fifteen, but even I thought I looked at least eighteen. I'd grown enough that I didn't need to get any taller, and my muscles were solid. Almost all of it had been built up from swinging swords and running around, so I could take some pride in calling it compressed real combat experience.
Swordsmanship? I couldn't claim to be a genius at it, but honestly, it was true that I wasn't inferior.
Just because this world had magic and aura didn't mean fights were like the shing-shing telephone-attack exchanges you saw in common comics. In the end, transcendents who had surpassed ordinary physical ability merely executed human techniques with that transcendent power.
In short, the abilities were simply leveled up on average, but the techniques were similar.
If anything, when it came to secret techniques that were subtly realistic yet fantastical, it was quicker to reference comics I'd seen in my past life. Like when I'd grip the pommel at the last second to barely increase my reach and cut in a specific situation, or something like that.
"If there were something like the Flying Heaven Sword Style in this world, at least I wouldn't feel so damn wronged."
Then I could at least console myself with the mental victory that my swordsmanship was just ordinary and therefore relatively weak.
Unfortunately, as far as I knew, this wasn't a world where such special swordsmanship existed. I wished there were somewhere I could learn it, but there probably wasn't.
In other words, the biggest reason I'd gotten a knife stuck in me by Envelde wasn't my body or my swordsmanship.
Experience. And aura.
In the end, the biggest cause lay there.
Experience... well, I got that. And there were ways around that. But aura was a whole different issue.
"I can't just keep having near-death experiences every time. This is really a pain."
It was clear that my senses had blossomed when I first crossed a gate, and that fighting that Demonfolk member had opened my eyes, even if only a little. At least back then, I could be certain that I couldn't pull off a stunt like channeling Magic Power to launch my sword the way I could now. I also knew I'd achieved results that ordinary aura users couldn't even imagine.
But the fact that I couldn't even overwhelm one Envelde, who'd run scared from a member of the Demonfolk, was a problem.
Since my goal wasn't just to mow down humans in a power fantasy, it was a goddamn serious problem. With aura, there were predecessors, but with my Magic Power, there weren't any.
"Should I try to find a Demonfolk teacher?"
I couldn't just drift along vaguely hoping I'd grow someday; I had to find a way. But no answer came within my common sense and knowledge, and it felt like a sweet potato was lodged in my throat.
"First... I'll have to at least consult with Asilie."
In the end, nothing brilliant came to mind until the wound had healed enough that movement wasn't impaired. All I had was the distant murmur of voices gradually rising from below again, and the rain that had stopped.
I'd won fair and square compared to when I'd ripped that Demonfolk member's head off, yet my satisfaction was less than half. It was just miserable.
"Yeah, how many times has life ever gone my way."
Pushing away from the desk I'd been leaning against as if tackling postponed chores, I strapped Envelde's sword, which had been hanging on the wall, to my waist, re-sheathed Gish's sword, and approached Envelde's corpse.
Nobles in the capital couldn't hold many private soldiers. Why would anyone deliberately create an environment that made it easy for them to band together and commit treason?
The number of people I'd cut down since entering Envelde's house was probably around thirty. And yet, according to that Gish bastard, there were still personnel who could flee, which meant either they'd lied about the number of hired hands, or they'd stuffed the entire household staff with combat-capable people.
But even then, there shouldn't have been that much murmuring coming from below.
"Then who the hell are they?"
Were they kingdom troops rushing to clean up the situation? Or other nobles who'd seized the chance to send reinforcements to curry even more favor with Envelde? Either was fine. Both were problems I'd have to deal with anyway.
"If it's the former, some of them will give up the fight just upon confirming Envelde's death."
Cutting off a dead man's head was a bit unsavory, but it was necessary.
"Sorry about that."
It was sincere.
Because I held no grudge against the dead Envelde anymore.
◈
Even though the rain had stopped, the darkness that had settled in Lesrom's chest remained unchanged.
Originally, he was not one to ever let such inner thoughts show, but this time he couldn't hold back and had to mutter very softly, as if whispering.
"This is really... a goddamn nightmare."
When the person who'd identified himself as a Servant of the Dream had suddenly barged in, honestly, he'd felt a foolish thrill, wondering if something interesting would happen. And something did happen, but it was by no means fun. In fact, he could guarantee it was the worst.
'I should have at least placed a watch on him...'
Regrettably, reality didn't even give him a moment to leisurely indulge in such regrets. The moment he heard that Eldmia had stormed Envelde's mansion alone, before he could doubt his ears, he took out his communication crystal orb.
His thinking had been shallow. Because he'd only stirred things up around the edges, he'd thought the boy was going along with their movements in his own way.
He'd predicted that the royal family might also pay a price if things went wrong, but he'd assumed that would only happen after everything was finished.
Who would have thought he'd immediately charge into the mansion of a capital noble—a count, no less—just because there had been an assassination threat?
The problems were more than one or two. The first problem was Envelde's skill.
No matter how exceptional a talent Eldmia was, Envelde was an aura expert who had spent half his life rolling through battlefields. The fact that so many knights and soldiers had joined his rebellion was also tied to that experience; back then, he had been highly regarded. No matter how many things had happened in a short time, in Lesrom's mind, the image of Eldmia defeating Envelde didn't easily form.
The second problem was the aftermath of Eldmia's defeat or death as a result.
The Iron-Blood Princess had already made her position clear. Though she hadn't had an official forum, and it had slightly creaked because of the gatekeeper who was an extreme stickler for principles, the royal family members had definitely accepted that stance anyway.
But if Eldmia died? Since Envelde had plotted rebellion and they had intended to deal with him anyway, they couldn't even defend his claim of self-defense. In that case, even if the Iron-Blood Princess held the royal family responsible for negligent supervision, they would be unable to utter a single peep.
To say 'he ran wild and died'—the groundwork already laid was far too big. Since there was no way to clearly prove it was unjust, whatever they said would look like an excuse. They would end up in a position where they couldn't even claim it was unfair, even if the Empire didn't even pretend to listen.
"That sort of slippery Zen-style sophistry only works when you're on similar footing..."
The third problem was if Eldmia really did single-handedly turn Envelde's mansion into a scorched ruin and finally killed him.
Since they had already made many preparations to deal with Envelde, it wasn't impossible to secure the boy's safety and give his actions some justification.
But it wouldn't be enough to completely smooth things over. It would provoke tremendous backlash, the movement to keep him in check or impose sanctions would grow, and many plans that they had originally intended to try through Eldmia would be overturned or postponed.
"What an audacious fellow."
Eldmia must have moved while calculating the situation to some extent, even if not perfectly.
That boy, unbelievable to be fifteen, always moved after precisely aiming for a time when no major trouble would come afterward.
"Your Excellency. The scout has returned."
Turning his head to the knight reporting to him, Duke Lesrom—who had been heading to the mansion with his private soldiers on horseback, forgoing even a carriage through the torrential rain to contain the situation as quickly as possible—saw the scout he'd sent out at the start to assess the mansion's situation spurring his horse down the street.
"Reporting! The Envelde mansion's main building is half-destroyed! Figures appearing to be other nobles' private soldiers are guarding the front, numbering around a hundred!"
The scout's concise core report, which had skipped the procedural details as he'd clearly grasped the severity of the situation, was nothing short of satisfying.
It meant at least about five traitors had brought their private soldiers to lick up the leftover crumbs. Of course, to Lesrom, it wasn't crumbs but rat poison... but since it was others trying to eat it, he didn't care.
"What's the situation inside the mansion?"
"There was no movement. However..."
Feeling it had been a long time since his heart had clenched like this over what followed a conjunction, Lesrom prayed.
Please, let both of them still be alive.
"We confirmed a figure appearing to be Eldmia Ega... standing on the main building, holding a head presumed to be that of Count Bosha."
His prayer was betrayed, but once again Lesrom had no time to feel wronged and had to spur his horse forward with all his might.