Chapter 5
"Knight! I drew a picture of you, Knight!"
A clear voice sliced through the morning air. The village, chilled through the night, seemed to soften at those words. I leaned against the warehouse wall, slowly opening my eyes. It was early morning. The sun hung low, and the air carried the faint scent of dew on the grass. The blood that had soaked the square yesterday was almost gone. People adapt. So does the earth.
In the center of the square stood Don Quixote, straightening his back. Fresh bandages wrapped him, but they couldn't hide the pain beneath. Yet here he was, a knight once more. His cloak was back on, and his helmet looked a bit straighter than yesterday—someone must have polished it.
"Haha! Show it to me at once! Have you captured this body's glorious exploits in art?!"
One child thrust up a sheet of paper. Rough packaging paper from the village, its charcoal lines crooked, proportions all wrong. But the expression was vividly alive, almost unnaturally so.
"I drew you fighting the bandits last time!"
"Oho! Already a master artist!"
Don Quixote bent down dramatically to peer at it. Then—
"But this is me getting hit, isn't it?!"
The children burst into laughter. In the drawing, Don Quixote wielded an exaggerated spear, but it sliced empty air while a bandit's blade plunged precisely into his side. The bandit grinned with bared teeth, and the knight's eyes bulged wide in a comical ugh! grimace.
"That's exactly how it happened!"
"You fell down!"
"I yelled 'Behind you, Knight!' but you didn't hear!"
The kids chattered excitedly, overlapping. Don Quixote's face stiffened for a moment, then exploded into booming laughter.
"Hahaha! Art needs exaggeration! That's... dramatic expression, you see!"
"No, it was real."
"……"
For a brief instant, his lip twitched. I saw it. The children laughed on. But their laughter carried a clear premise. They knew. Don Quixote always won. Even if he fell. Even if struck. He always rose again, shouting, This body is here—fear not! That faith made him a knight.
I moved slowly toward the square's edge, watching. One child spotted me. Silver hair and uniform were hard to miss.
"Can I draw that big sister too?"
The square fell silent for a heartbeat. Don Quixote's gaze turned to me. Adults exchanged glances. The quiet was brief but unmistakable.
I shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me."
The child's eyes sparkled. "Then swinging your hand like yesterday..."
"No!" Don Quixote cut in abruptly. Too quick. Too firm. The kids' eyes widened in surprise.
He scratched his head. "I mean, uh... Lady Executioner is... splendid, but for kids' drawings... brighter scenes suit better, no?!"
His words were clumsy, excuse transparent. But the intent was clear. He didn't want me in their world. Smiling with the children, he remained their ridiculous knightly clown. This was Don Quixote's world. He'd guard it to the end—from bandits, and from me.
I stared at him silently.
"So what pose for the Executioner sister?" the child asked again.
I thought for a moment. Sword in hand. Blood-sprayed fingers. Crescent smears of red. Those were most familiar. But.
"Just standing."
The child tilted her head. "Just that?"
"Yes."
Don Quixote laughed heartily. "Haha! Lady Executioner exudes dignity just standing there!"
I narrowed my eyes ever so slightly. Noisy.
"...Sorry."
The kids resumed drawing. Charcoal scraped softly on paper. Listening, I thought idly, Just standing is enough for me to... Something. Fear? A prelude to execution?
One child looked up. "Knight."
"Yes?"
"When's the next fight?"
The question came casually. Don Quixote grinned. "Haha! If bandits come again, anytime!"
"You'll get hurt again."
"Knights grow through wounds!"
The child's face hardened slightly. I didn't miss it. Kids are young. Not fools. They'd seen yesterday's blood. The bandits. My hands.
Don Quixote stood, holding a drawing. "Alright, training time! Justice Knights apprentices, line up!"
"Yay!"
They cheered, forming ranks with wooden sticks as swords, postures askew. Don Quixote demonstrated with exaggerated motions, shoulder surely aching. He showed no sign.
"Feet like this! Back straight! Eyes on foe, no fear!"
They mimicked—stumbling, falling, laughing, rising. I watched, exhaling faintly. A sight unknown in the Imperial Palace. There was training, but no laughter. Knights, but no children. Order, but no such chaos.
Justice.
Don Quixote's justice. Protecting the weak. I pondered. What was the Emperor's? Maintaining order. That order hadn't reached this village. So this man made his contract. And I came to sever it.
A child ran up. "Sister, you too!"
"Do what?"
"Swing the sword!"
I glanced at Don Quixote. He watched me, smiling. But beneath lurked something unknowable. Plea? Challenge?
I took the stick from the child. Light. Too light. I preferred some weight when swinging.
The kids held their breath. I swung slowly, slicing air. Whoosh! Wind parted slightly. Their eyes rounded.
"Whoa..."
Not fear. Awe. I set it down. "Enough?"
They nodded vigorously. Don Quixote chuckled. "Haha. You could make a fine teacher."
I didn't reply. I'm no teacher. I'm the Executioner. In three days, here in this square, I'd stand again—with the Execution Sword, not a stick.
...Not amusing.
The children's laughter rang louder. Listening, I thought quietly: This is your world. A harmonious one where someone like me doesn't belong. And perhaps... happier than the Emperor's.
Dawn, light not yet full. Fog lay low, blanketing the forest floor. The path away from the village was dark, silent, laced only with faint breaths of life. Dew trembled on grass tips; far eastern sky paled blue.
Don Quixote wordlessly hefted his spear—the villagers' overnight work. Blade resharpened, cracked shaft reinforced with bound planks. Shield too, scratches painted over, paint still tacky. Crude brushwork, but earnest.
He traced the marks with fingers. Then, resolved, slung the spear over his shoulder and walked. Three days nearly up. Appointed time. Execution hour.
He could flee, but I'd catch him before village bounds. Scent-tracking was easy. But recalling human smells was a hassle. I'd followed because he was patrolling for village threats—that alone.
Fog brushed ankles. Damp earth mingled with old blood. No patrol route. No hunting ground. Den.
Bandits' lair: crude log fence against rock. Inside, tents, dead firepits, scattered weapons, bottles. Lax guards, but many—over a dozen.
Don Quixote didn't halt. No stealth. Grip just tightened. Shoulder bandage soaked red afresh—night's blood seeping.
I stopped two paces behind.
A bandit spotted him first. "Hey, that—" Warning cut short. Spear tore air, pierced throat. Brief rupture. Then silence shattered.
"Attack!"
"The mad knight!"
Feet thundered. Swords, axes, clubs. Don Quixote laughed—harsh, breathless. "Haha! There'll be nowhere to hide today!"
Charge. Shield blocked first blade; shaft cracked second's ribs. Blood sprayed. But numbers closed fast. Side. Back. Thigh—grazes. Deep shoulder slash drenched bandages. Shield splintered. Pinned to fence, surrounded.
Bandits' laughter roared. "End here, knight!"
Hammer fell. Knee buckled. Dirt flew. Blood soaked earth. Beneath skin, black lines spidered—not veins, fissures.
Don Quixote raised his head. Eyes darkened. Iris brown bled to inky black, pupil slit long.
"……."
Breath changed. Not human. Short, deep, erratic.
A bandit cursed, raised sword. "Finish—" Words died. Don Quixote's bare hand seized the blade. No blood. Metal snapped, twisted.
Something writhed on his back. Skin tore; black surged—wings. Not feathers. Coalesced smoke-shadow. Imperfect, but Devil form unmistakable. Bones cracked, lengthened. Shoulders broadened, muscles reshaped. Wounds sealed black from within. Bleeding stopped.
Air shifted.
"...Now it's certain."
He was, at last, my execution target. Righteous knight Don Quixote. Was my justice nobler than his? There was no way my justice, consisting solely of executions, could be nobler than his justice to protect everyone.
...Foolish thoughts.
Execution first.