The Aging Lion
An aging lion.
If I had to put my first impression of Aragod Delalucia of Achmenes, Emperor of the Empire, into words, that was the only phrase that fit.
The nobles were holding their breath. Even Albireo had gone still. I watched the Emperor make his way toward the seat of honor, taking in every detail. The long golden hair had lost the luster of youth, and time had settled into every crease of that wrinkled face. How much pain had he endured, worn down by years of illness? Crossing through the ranks of deeply bowed nobles, he looked as though he were walking the very boundary between life and death.
Well now. What a curious man.
Judging by that frail exterior, you would think he might not last the week. And yet not a single person before him dared lift their head. So even aged, a lion was still a lion.
I stole a sidelong glance at the Emperor's face, then shifted my gaze to the old knight entering at his side as if attending him.
This is my first time seeing him in person, too.
Friedrich Keiselberg, Commander of the Imperial 1st Knight Order. Clad in gold-tinted plate armor and draped in a reddish-brown cape, he strode forward with a long beard streaming behind him, his eyes blazing with a terrifying light.
Any number of epithets followed the man. One of only three Sword Masters in the entire empire. The man who bore the title of Sword Saint. Every one of them spoke to his strength — and yet I had the distinct sense that none of them quite captured Friedrich.
Good lord. He's a walking slaughter machine.
If the Magic Tower Master had given off mana so vast you could not see the end of it, what radiated from Friedrich was killing intent compressed to its absolute limit. This old man had to have killed a great many people. Did the blood of children and innocents stain the tip of that longsword leaking such a ghastly aura?
I quietly hoped not. That way, I would not have to kill him with my own hands.
"Second Prince Albireo greets the great sun of the Empire."
"Albireo, is it. I do not see Maximilian."
"I am told my elder brother remains on the eastern front. To be absent even as the Sword-Magic Festival opens... truly, it is a lamentable state of affairs."
As the Emperor drew near, Albireo stepped forward and spoke, eagerly tearing down the older brother with whom he was competing for the throne. The Emperor, however, did not seem particularly interested.
"......"
When the aging lion offered no reply, the young and greedy one shut his mouth. He was managing his expression for his father's sake, but inwardly he was surely cursing the man. Albireo's eyes went dull as he returned to his seat.
A short while later, the Emperor took his place at the center to deliver the festival's opening address. A low, heavy voice rolled out through the amplification magic. The moment the man called the sun of the Empire opened his mouth, tens of thousands of people in the arena turned their eyes upon him. From my seat, I listened as well. He did not raise his voice, and yet every word drove itself into the skull. His life had already entered its twilight, but there was still force in the things he said.
Hear me, people of the Empire.
The talents of sword and magic who shall bear the Empire's future have gathered in this place. Through sacred combat, we shall determine who among them shines the brightest.
To the champion shall be granted not only treasure, but the chance to challenge the titles of Sword Saint and Archmage. Let the courageous prove their worth with their own hands. With the grace of the Chief God Pales, I hereby declare the Festival of Sword and Magic begun.
The moment the Emperor finished, a thunderous roar erupted from the crowd. The vast arena ignited with heat in an instant.
I quietly rose from my seat and slipped out of the viewing stands.
"Laplace."
"Yes, Lord Behirith!"
"Is the doll ready?"
"It has been completed to absolute perfection!"
In a hidden space somewhere in the arena, I changed clothes and examined the doll Laplace had prepared.
Holy shit. It's actually identical.
A living doll that looked exactly like me, as if I were staring into a mirror. It was so precise it did not even trigger the uncanny valley. It just felt like my identical twin was standing there.
For the record, the man currently sitting in the viewing stands as the Count of Dieppoff in Laplace's place was also one of his dolls. It moved so realistically — and even contained mana — that none of the other nobles had noticed.
"Well? What do you think of this masterpiece of mine! Lady Raphaela begged me to lend it to her any number of times, but I refused her firmly — this work was created for Lord Behirith alone!"
"...Yeah. Good call."
I tossed a light word of praise at Laplace, who was beaming behind his white mask.
Raphaela, you little... what exactly were you planning to do with a living doll that looks like me? I had no idea how faithfully every last detail had been reproduced. Either way, it was a relief. You could not exactly send a doll soaked in love juices into the field.
"Can the doll talk?"
"Conversation is impossible, but it can manage very brief replies!"
"I see."
That would be enough. I did not have a reputation for being talkative anyway. Now I could head out and join the tournament without any worries.
Looking at the bracket, my first-round opponent is some nobody whose name I don't even remember... I won't face Luke until the semifinals.
Luke was heading out for the first match, from what I had seen. If we crossed blades again, what kind of face would he make?
Smiling like a child playing a prank, I patted Behirith No. 2 on the shoulder and headed toward where the tournament participants were gathered.
At that same moment, in the tunnel leading out onto the arena stage, the boy of the stars was waiting to compete in the festival's opening match, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. Those star-filled eyes searched the viewing stands reserved for the nobility, hunting for a single face.
Where is His Grace the Grand Duke? I thought I would finally see him after a whole month...
After His Majesty the Emperor's address, he had looked toward the noble stands, but that person was nowhere to be seen. He was in the capital, so of course he would come to watch the Sword-Magic Festival... or had that been wishful thinking?
He was sunk in thought when a high priestess of the Pales Order began to recite a divine blessing from the center of the arena. A white-haired, red-eyed woman stood with her hands clasped and her eyes closed, offering the prayer.
"O my most exalted God. Bless these courageous souls who stand before battle. Though You dwell in a distant place, You are always near."
Watching her, Luke murmured quietly.
"What a truly sincere prayer..."
A cleric like that would surely have unshakable faith. Being able to pour your whole heart into thinking of someone — that was something to envy. Perhaps, for him, His Grace the Grand Duke was that kind of existence.
When the prayer ended, Luke and his opponent donned their Protective Artifacts and stepped onto the stage for the first match.
"Duncan, knight of House Grendal."
"Luke Stareil, first-year representative of the Academy Knight Department."
"An Academy student, are you. For your age, that presence of yours is no small thing."
"Someone I respect is watching. I have no intention of losing."
The boy of the stars spoke evenly, as if he did not doubt his victory for a moment. That somewhat androgynous, handsome face was steeped in seriousness.
"Insolent brat. Today I'll teach you what humility looks like."
Duncan, knight of Count Grendal, ground his teeth and drew his sword. The match began. Luke stood still, without even drawing his blade.
"Hey. What do you think you're doing?"
"I'll stay as I am. Please, come at me first."
"Y-you arrogant little—!"
Goaded beyond endurance, Duncan charged in like a gale. Luke watched him come without moving from his spot. The instant the blade thrust toward him, he took a single step to the side, let it slide past, packed starlight aura into the tip of his foot, and drove it into Duncan's solar plexus in one clean motion.
A thunderous impact rang out.
"Guh—!"
Duncan went flying from the blow. He slammed into the arena wall, and the Protective Artifact activated, declaring winner and loser. A roar filled the arena at once. The people in the stands erupted, talking over one another in excitement.
"Did you see that? The boy won in an instant without even using his sword!"
"That's insane! A first-year at the Academy is that strong?"
"This might be the birth of a new Sword Saint!"
The crowd went wild over the overwhelming performance Luke had put on without even drawing his blade. The one responsible, however, descended from the stage with a perfectly composed expression.
He couldn't even use aura to begin with. If it had been him, he would have won with a single step.
In a moment when he could have drunk in the sweetness of victory, Luke thought of the crimson-eyed knight. Come to think of it, when he had looked at the bracket, there had been a name among the second-match participants... Licht...
Surely it was not him? The idle speculation flickered through his mind.
No. Of course not. Assuming he had entered as a contestant just because he was not in the stands was taking imagination too far. He probably just had something urgent and could not make it to the arena.
He gathered up the trailing thoughts and turned his head to watch the second match.
And then—
Ah.
His eyes met those of the masked knight standing proudly at the center of the stage.
......
Had God read his heart? As if by some lie, the person he had been searching for was standing right in front of him.
In that instant, Luke's heart — wrapped in thick compression bandages — began to pound violently.
Thump. Thump.
The roar of tens of thousands of people no longer reached him. Those crimson eyes, glowing from behind the mask. For as long as he held that dangerously beautiful gaze, the only sound in Luke's ears was the beating of his own heart, as if it might burst.