Chapter 11
Wrinkled hands were raised politely in that place, gold coins pouring onto them. Jingling. The sound of metal clashing spread softly along the quiet riverbank.
Those extending their hands were mostly old fishermen. Deeply furrowed backs of hands, rough and thick fingers—hands that had gripped ropes and nets for years. Red and cracked as if long soaked in cold water, some with bent joints, others missing two fingers. But all held the same posture: hands cupped politely, extended with care. Gold coins fell atop them. Jingling. A small sound against their palms. Some flinched, some clenched their fists, most simply stood staring down at the coins for a long moment.
Sepir de Hwan sat comfortably atop a chest. One leg crossed over the other, elbow hooked on his knee—no trace of tension. His hand kept moving. He picked up a gold coin, rolled it between his fingers, then tossed it. Jingling. "Next."
A gaunt woman holding a child stepped forward. The child's face was pale; it coughed a few times. Sepir looked down at it.
"Feverish."
The woman bowed her head. "We need money for medicine…"
Sepir scooped up a handful of coins and let them drop. Jingling. Jingling. Her hands trembled; a few fell to the ground. She hastily gathered them up. No words—just a deep bow.
Sepir was already eyeing the next person. "Your boat was taken, right?"
The fisherman raised his head. "Yes… because of the taxes…"
Sepir nodded and tossed a few more coins. Jingling. "Buy a new one with this."
The fisherman's eyes widened, but the words died in his throat. Sepir had already moved on.
The gold kept flowing, the metals in the chest clinking with low murmurs. Sunlight sparkled atop it all.
Philia watched the scene from a short distance away. 'Wealth redistribution.' The words Sepir had uttered so casually came back to her. A phrase she never expected to hear in this world.
She gazed at Sepir de Hwan. He still wore that playful smile, but his hands were precise. He knew exactly who needed how much—who had lost what, who carried which debts. This wasn't theater. Not a show for the crowd.
Sepir turned toward the river. "Money rots if you hoard it."
He pointed at the crimson water. "Rivers too."
"If it doesn't flow, it rots in the end."
His voice was light, breathy like a joke, trailing off softly.
Flowing didn't make it clean. Here, even the flow was a curse.
Yet Sepir spoke calmly, as if explaining a law of nature. "That's why we let it flow."
People wanted to lean on someone to survive. And when a hand grasped their desperation, they knelt all too easily. Sepir made it seem like he wasn't forcing the kneel—yet he led them to do it themselves.
He rummaged in the chest again. The slow scrape of metal from the bottom echoed lazily.
"Lady."
Sepir called to Philia. She didn't turn.
"Do you see those eyes?"
He wasn't talking about the eyes on the gold, but the ones fixed on him.
"I see them."
"What kind of eyes are they?"
Philia fell silent for a moment, weighing if the question was curiosity, a test, or provocation. Sepir always asked like that.
"The Empire made blood flow."
"The Church threw blood."
"And that blood gathered into this river."
He gestured at the red surface. Ripples stirred faintly.
"I want the opposite."
"Make money flow."
"Save people with the sound of metal instead of blood."
Philia's expression didn't change. But inside, calculations raced. This wasn't idealism. Sepir played at romance, but he understood efficiency. A system of flowing money moved people faster than wars of spilled blood.
Sepir laughed again. "Haha. Though it'd be a mistake to think this is pure charity."
Philia tilted her head slightly.
Sepir shrugged. "I'm a pirate, after all."
"Take."
"Distribute."
"If I don't survive the process, this flow stops too."
He tapped his chest lightly. "So I need my share."
"Pursuing self-interest for a greater cause is common logic," Philia said.
"Sharp one."
"Fact."
Philia looked back at the red river. It flowed on, swallowing blood, cradling monsters. And atop it sliced the Triangular Whale.
"Lady."
"You came to kill me, right?"
"Yes."
Sepir continued naturally. "If a guy like me vanishes…"
"Who will these people turn to?"
Jingling. A gold coin fell. People cupped their hands again. Politely. Cautiously. As if the moment that sound stopped, darkness would return.
Philia watched, drawing in a slow breath. The iron scent stabbed her lungs. A smell she'd grown used to.
But today, something else mingled in it. The chime of metal. People's anticipation. And the light laugh of the man creating it.
Philia reached a silent conclusion. The Emperor has reason to want him dead. Not because of devil contract evidence. This man was upending the order itself—no proof required.
She let out a sigh and murmured quietly, "Even if I were the Emperor, I'd have to kill you."
More dangerous than any devil. The Emperor's justice flowed from top to bottom—plunging down in the name of order, justified by efficiency.
Sepir's, by contrast, pushed up from below. The moment people cupped their hands, a world without kings began.
The hungry didn't blame the king. Too distant. They cursed the nearby sword, the tax collector, the ledger.
But fill the belly, and thoughts turned afar. Why must it always be this way? Why are those above always safe?
In the worst case… inspired folk might form a rebel army.
'But… the most important thing is.'
He was purely human. The kind who believed in his own justice and acted on it. A bandit stealing from corrupt nobles. A benefactor to these villagers.
At that point, an odd discomfort stirred in Philia.
Devil contractors were easy to behead. By the Empire's standards, they'd already forsaken their humanity.
But a human… At least for her, this was a first.
All she'd severed before had crossed a line. Mad sword saints. Devilized contractors. Those who'd torn lives apart to extend their own.
Sepir hadn't crossed it.
'A human.'
An un-devilized human. No trace of contract, no whiff of madness.
Yet one the Empire decreed must die.
'A human who believes in his own justice.'
She hadn't realized a single fact could make the blade feel so heavy.
Philia drew a quiet breath. The river's scent filled her lungs: blood, dampness, rot. And today, people's expectation laced it. Expectation had no smell—yet it clung strangely to her throat.
'Does the Empire even have the right to judge him?'
The words she muttered inwardly never passed her lips. Spoken aloud, they'd shift from question to defiance.
'Right.'
Right always came from those holding the sword. The beheaders claimed it. The beheaded rarely got the chance.
'…I am the sword. A sword has no need for doubts.'
I am the sword. Swords don't think. Don't judge. They are simply swung.
That simplified everything. Faces. Voices. Circumstances. All weighed the same before the blade.
That kept the hand steady. Orders intact. The Executioner existent.
She lifted her head just a fraction, gazing at the sky. Thin clouds scattered. Between them, a single faint star. Dim light. Low flicker.
"…"
A person surfaced in her mind. 'A choice not to be ashamed before a child…' What would you have chosen?
Philia skirted the festive village, returning to the boat alone. Sounds still carried from within: laughter, children's running feet, the dull rhythm of barrels being thumped. And woven between, the chime of metal. Jingling. Someone fiddling with their newly received gold, no doubt.
A bit farther along the bank, the hull of the Triangular Whale came into view. Its outline sharp even in the dark. Low and long. The triangular sails half-furled. Ropes swaying faintly in the wind. Creak. Wood and cord grinding.
A few lanterns glowed on deck. Yellow light danced on the water, spreading bizarrely across the crimson surface.
Philia sought her spot first. By the railing. Where the wind blew best. The pillow was untouched. No one had moved it.
Her coat lay folded atop it.
Philia stared at it for a long while. Silent.
The river flowed. From afar came the sound of something slicing through the water. Swish… swish… Slow movements. A sea beast, probably. Plenty infested this river. The dead flowed in. Survivors fed on them, became food for others. That's how the river endured. Sustained by blood.
Philia knew it well. In her years as the Empire's Executioner, she'd seen too much order forged from blood. The king's order. The Church's. The Empire's. And now, this one flowing atop the river. Moved by the sound of gold.
'What must remain is the Empire's order.'
The sword named Philia closed her eyes. A bandage over them would feel too much like Justice Goddess cosplay, so she'd resisted… but now, she almost wanted even that.