The Ancestor's Return
If I were Shagalor, what would I have done? Even if I thought about it, there probably wasn’t much to it. If I’d had a gun, I would’ve put it to my temple and ended it honorably and simply. If I didn’t want to do that, I would’ve stripped off every piece of clothing I was wearing—underwear included—folded them into perfect squares, and laid them at her feet. Then I would’ve curled up on the floor, more neatly than anything Lumein or Rexas had ever done, and begged for forgiveness. I might even have asked Gorgo to step on my rear with her shoes. Of course, that was just talk. It wasn’t like that was my preference. It was just nonsense about how only that level of humiliation could silence the curses of the high officials watching.
Anyway, the atmosphere was grave enough that I was spouting such drivel. No one—no one at all—directly rebuked the bright-red-faced Shagalor, though everyone was flustered. Yet unspoken pressure was the sort of thing that made even the highest rulers watch their step.
“…I-I’m sorry for causing a scene. I have no excuse. I, I was wrong.”
In the end, Shagalor had to offer an apology she had never once given in her entire life, and she had to do it in front of everyone.
“Oh? That isn’t all, is it? If I hadn’t been standing here like a fool, it would’ve been Karalin’s cheek that was struck, not mine.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“I don’t believe in disciplining children with the rod, so it would be right for you to apologize to Karalin as well. We can discuss the girl’s own faults later.”
“……….”
Truthfully, Rexas—who always brought up the rod whenever Abel showed his pathetic side—wasn’t free of that criticism either, but since he had said it to Shagalor, there was nothing to be done. She had to do it.
“…I’m sorry, my daughter.”
“A-are you speaking to me?”
“…I said I’m sorry.”
And when Karalin heard those words, her expression was brighter and more radiant than I had ever seen it. She smiled brilliantly and answered.
“It’s all right! I have never once held any of your actions against you. Please don’t be angry, Mother!”
“Khh…!”
The moment I heard Shagalor huffing like a boiling kettle, I felt as though I were being repaid for the past ten-odd years of hardship. Without realizing it, I clenched my fist.
The road ahead was still long, but we had landed a proper blow.
“…Damn it, damn it. Because of that vulgar wench, my dignity—”
And at that moment, I heard it. The same kind of humiliation he had never felt in his life—Rexas, the Grand Duke, muttering with pure murderous intent, not because of his own actions, but because of his wife’s mistake.
“—Abel!! Where is Abel?! I called for him ages ago, and even though the Grand Matron has arrived, that brat hasn’t shown his face once!”
Rexas shouted so loudly the audience chamber shook. One might ask whether he wasn’t mindful of Gorgo’s presence, but having served her on the surface for a long time, I knew at once: even like this, he was showing considerable restraint compared to his younger days.
Creak—
Then everyone heard it: beyond the firmly closed door Shagalor had entered through, the suspicious sound of someone backing away.
Of course, the same applied to the person making the noise outside. That presence opened the door, looking utterly wretched. A pale, almost girlish face, limbs so slender they looked wrong on a man, and dark blue hair exactly like Rexas’s from long ago—yet it held no luster at all. A boy who shouldn’t exist. Abel von Vitagarte.
“…M-Mother.”
His voice was as faint as a chick with the flu. I thought his appearance had changed a great deal in three months, but those were the only words that left his lips.
“………D-don’t. Don’t look at me.”
Because the moment every gaze turned toward him, his pupils visibly contracted and he began to tremble violently.
“U-urk—”
“Lord Abel! What’s wrong?!”
“Urk, weeegh—!”
Was it the weight of all those stares that disgusted him? Or was it the sight of his only mother—the one who could protect him from his terrifying father—making a grave mistake and becoming a laughingstock? Or perhaps it was the fear and burden of his father trying to make him heir while his objectively far superior elder sister sat right there. Whatever the tangled mess of emotions, Abel vomited horribly, wretchedly. It looked as though he hadn’t eaten anything in days; only clear bile splattered across the marble floor of the audience chamber.
“Uweeegh—! Eeegh—!”
And Rexas, as if truly sickened by the sight, twisted his face in disgust and muttered.
“This… damn it.”
It was understandable. He had summoned them because the founder and hero of the North wished to offer greetings, only for mother and son to cause such a scene together.
“Oh my, whatever is wrong with Abel?”
So when Gorgo voiced that question, Rexas had no suitable answer.
“…Grand Matron. It seems I called them before they were ready and subjected you to an unseemly situation. If it’s all right, perhaps we could postpone our conversation.”
“Let’s do that. My presence here right now would only make things worse.”
“Thank you. Someone, escort Gorgo.”
Thus, Rexas issued an order for her to leave. The moment she departed—
“These fucking—!”
The audience chamber exploded with curses and fury. Dignity no longer mattered. After all, this was simply who he was, and no one cared.
In the end, because of Shagalor and Abel’s spectacular display of incompetence, we never got to exchange a single word with Rexas despite having the pretext of a meeting. The news of their incompetence and pathetic behavior would spread beyond the royal castle in no time.
***
A person’s mouth could carry words a thousand miles, whether in the capital or the royal court. Especially when the mouths belonged to military officers already weary from the North’s current situation, it was only natural that this incident would be mentioned.
Behind the barracks where the Vitagarte giant soldiers were quartered, inside the tent village, several officers—who had been using their steel helmets (the ones that blocked Skull archers’ arrows) as pots—wolfed down the meat stew they had been boiling while glancing at one another. All of them had endured hell while facing fire-breathing wyverns. Then one of them spoke.
“What I said was true.”
At once, everyone erupted in dialect, hounding him as if they wanted to kill him.
“Don’t lie, you slippery bastard.”
“Are you insane? How are we supposed to believe that?”
“Gorgo returning? And holding Karalin’s hand, no less?”
The man who had instantly become a lying bastard worth killing sweated profusely but kept trying to explain.
“But they say the Steel Knight came back with her too… From what I heard, it was the Steel Knight who brought Gorgo.”
“Ah, then maybe it makes sense.”
“Hmm.”
Yohan didn’t know it, but to those who knew him, he had somehow become walking plausibility.
“…Shit! Then that really is her?! The one from three hundred years ago who single-handedly smashed the Karlank bastards’ heads, blocked the river, and shattered the mountain range?!”
“Right. And apparently that woman—Shagalor—slapped her.”
“Th-this son of a— I knew it would come to this. I always said that woman would cause trouble.”
Someone let out a hollow laugh and added a question mark to the conversation.
“…That infamous villainess was still in the palace? During this whole mess, she didn’t even show her face.”
“Of course she didn’t. The last time I saw her was after the war started, when she was sewing pearls onto Lord Abel’s armor.”
“Ugh, damn it all. There was never anything like this when Lady Karalin was here.”
Alcohol was the perfect accompaniment to such an absurd story. The heavy sound of cups being raised together echoed from every direction.
Officers missing fingers, eyes, or ears—bodies broken in countless places—yet still burning with devotion to protect their homeland. In their drinking circle, the word “damnation” had reached the point of being directed at the current rulers. And what that word meant needed no explanation.
“So what happened after? Surely the Grand Duke didn’t just stand there watching.”
“Well… his own ancestor, a returning hero, was insulted. Of course he wouldn’t stay still. On top of that, when that brat Abel saw the scene and vomited, the atmosphere in the castle went to hell. They say Lord Rexas flew into a rage and shouted he’d ‘kill them all.’”
“He should’ve just died beside the lady during those suicide-charge days like Alyosha did. Surviving this long only to see this mess.”
Anyway, the vicious mood of the gathering—filled with various laments—was broken only when the oldest and most experienced veteran among them, the elderly soldier who had been quietly listening, opened his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck with his fingertips. There was a scar there that looked several years old—a mark left by a wyvern’s claw. It was the very spot young Karalin had personally bandaged in his childhood.
“…Listen, kids. I still can’t forget the day Lady Karalin left.”
“That was only three months ago, old man.”
“Have you got dementia?”
“Shut up, you brats. Just listen while I set the mood.”
There were some joking remarks, but when the old soldier spoke, the surroundings fell quiet. It was the familiar story the northern officers always told these days, yet somehow it was a tale they wanted to hear again.
“The day the lady packed her things and boarded the carriage with the Steel Knight. She went around the barracks and greeted each and every one of us.”
“And most of them are dead now, damn it.”
“Well, even so, their deaths probably weren’t that unpleasant. That day, seeing her like that, I felt that all the times I’d risked my life here had been worth it. In other words… I had the feeling that ‘Ah, if this lady ever returns, the North will be rebuilt.’”
Then another officer muttered.
“…That’s right. She was exiled. But why is it that it’s been so long since she was driven out as heir that I can’t even remember why anymore?”
The old man had long thought about that, so he answered without hesitation.
“Because she was a woman.”
“That’s all?”
“Shagalor used her head. Even though there was a proper male heir, she said putting a woman in charge would destroy the natural order of the world.”
“That’s complete bullshit, old man. That female heir was worth a hundred ordinary men.”
Several people quietly nodded. No one openly took sides, but those who had been through battle all knew who had truly shed blood and who had worn pearl-embroidered uniforms inside the palace.
The old man continued.
“She was hope. After she left, we spent three months. Do you remember what we did during that time?”
One officer gave a bitter smile.
“We retreated.”
“Right. We retreated because we couldn’t die.”
The old man held up his fingers and counted.
“Thirteen cities fallen… Five fortresses out of control… My successor officer, who couldn’t stop the demon army from reaching the front of Fralbert, drove a greatsword through his own throat. Said he didn’t want to die by their blades.”
And the moment the old soldier’s liquor-warmed fingertips stopped moving—
“But suddenly, suddenly the front line stopped, and those demon bastards turned their banners around.”
He struck at the heart of the matter and posed a question to everyone.
“Right. They didn’t come any farther. And that’s how we got to where we are now.”
“Why did that happen? Even now, I think it’s a mystery. I really wondered if the heavens had helped us.”
But the old man seemed to have heard something.
“Around that time, the Sigmund Academy where the lady had gone was closed… And then she and the Steel Knight suddenly returned like ghosts.”
“Strange. And they were even holding Gorgo’s hand… Wait, didn’t they say the Steel Knight revived Gorgo?”
“Right. That’s what they said… So I’ve been thinking, maybe ten times a day, that those two might have done something to induce chaos in the Empire and save us.”
The old soldier’s beard trembled.
“I don’t know exactly what the lady and the Steel Knight did. But the North survived, fortunately… and that was clearly right after they moved.”
“It might not have been a coincidence, old man.”
“Right.”
Then everyone fell silent for a while. But someone, laying words over that silence, summarized what they were all thinking.
“Then shall we toast to the two who protected the North?”
“…And to our cheap yet noble lives that are still working for the North.”
The sound of cups clinking together without a word was far too quiet for soldiers. But no one denied the story.
After that night, the tale spread through the soldiers’ mouths to the marketplace the next day, then to the northern Orthodox Church hall the day after, then to the market, the minor noble houses, and eventually even to the mouths of the guards at the city gates. It didn’t matter if the story wasn’t true. To the people who longed for hope, it had already become a belief. And belief had become public sentiment.
But the truly astonishing thing was that every rational suspicion the old soldier had sparked was, in fact, the truth.