Not Such Bad People, Are They?

The Gardner Earldom lay in the north of Babylonia, where the cold was a dry cold, and the earth was wasteland as a matter of course. They had torn the ground up on the chance some mineral might be hiding in it, and found nothing worth a single coin.

Which left a question. How had land that barren come to hold a fortune ranked among the ten greatest in the Empire?

The competence of the present lord? A son who had become a hero? A daughter of extraordinary intellect?

None of those answers was wholly wrong. But the greatest reason for their wealth was only one.

It was the byproducts of centuries spent holding the battle line and culling monsters. The coming of the Hero had, for the present, halted the demonkin's incursions, but the magical beasts still seethed, and the hunts went on at their regular intervals. Those byproducts sold at a steep price, and the coin they brought was poured straight back into supplies, the raising of warriors, and every other thing that touched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠war.

Among knights and mages, only the most capable were committed to the northern front, and by their efforts capital accumulated — a virtuous cycle. And so it was said that the fighting men and women sworn to the Gardner Earldom were, even within the Empire, none but those who stood among the strong.

That held true for the ones now barring Black Wolf's path.

"He's out! Now!!"

"Save the young lady!!"

"Kill Black Wolf!!"

"Pardon me."

"Eek?!"

"C-careful!! He's using the young lady as a shield!!"

"Correct."

They were the sort who took one more step even across killing ground where death ran rampant. The sort who, having survived battlefield after battlefield, turned back toward the next all the same. Indomitable warriors who would gladly lay down their own lives if it bought a victory. And those brave warriors, now—

—stopped in their tracks for the first time in their lives.

The same was true of Rohan, Count Gardner's right hand, the man who had commanded them. He had always stood at the very front beside the Count, and not once in all that time had he given ground. He had kept death close for so long that death no longer frightened him. But the Black Wolf before his eyes was cut from a different cloth entirely.

Black robes, seething black. Killing intent leaking through the gaps of a mask. Death, advancing without a sound.

If there were a god who governed death, would he not look just like this?

What in the world is that monster...?!

What could even the bravest warrior do, standing before a god?

"S-seize that man... at once..."

He forced his mouth open, but what came out was not the ringing voice his soldiers knew. It was the mutter of one small human being, curled in on himself.

Step. Step. Step.

Black Wolf, having heard it, came on toward the man blocking the entrance.

"Me?"

Even the breath he released was cold. Could he truly be something that had stepped past being human?

In the end, while all of them stood frozen and waited only on the man's mercy, Hestia Gardner's pure white nightgown fluttered as she cried out.

"N-no!! Uncle Rohan!! Come to your senses and run!! Please, Black Wolf!! I'll die in their place, so their lives, at least—!!!"

A desperate voice cut the silence. The warriors understood. Hestia, too, was in the grip of a terror so vast it reached past death itself.

"I told you. I'm not going to kill anyone."

"Someone pouring out killing intent like this?! Drop the lies and just kill me!!"

And still she had raised her voice for their sake — the young lady the house had quietly pushed aside. In the minds of the warriors freezing where they stood, scenes they had forgotten began to rise.

Within House Gardner, weakness was treated as something akin to a sin, and so—

Beneath the excuse that we followed the will of the strong, we had set her at the back of the line.

We had swung our swords for the sake of peace.

We had told ourselves that if a day ever came when no battle was being fought, then, on that day, we would look after the young lady.

But we knew.

True peace would never come, and under the excuse of building a better future, we had simply turned our faces from an incompetent young lady.

But we had not been wrong. Only the strong ought to lead, and those who followed them had to be strong as well. Was it not enough for the weak to live happily inside the peace the strong had won?

And so, even on the day you were hurt saving the heir, some corner of our hearts had been relieved.

That you, incompetent as you were, had saved the capable heir — we had been genuinely relieved. Because you were weak. Because weakness was a sin. Because countless warriors suffered day and night to protect someone like you.

And so—

"...We slighted the young lady so completely."

Why, then, would you—

"Run, Uncles!! Don't just stand there gaping — run, right now!!"

—stake that noble life for fools like us?

A dark corridor, packed with Black Wolf's murderous presence and Hestia's desperate shouting.

"...Listen well."

At last Rohan spoke. He took his sword up in a reverse grip and drew it across his own thigh. Pain like a burn flooded in, and the fear that had filled his body scattered, if only a little.

Riiip!

He tore a strip from his collar, bound the wound tight, drew himself up, and faced Black Wolf with the sword in his hand once more.

"The new life the young lady has just given you — spend it for her."

Steel bit. One after another, the warriors followed Rohan, opening wounds in their own flesh, and only then barely clawed their minds back.

"Don't!! Just run, I said!!"

Hestia was strategist of the 1st Legion. Her reading of their strength had been finished long ago. If the killing intent pouring off Black Wolf now stood in proportion to the power he actually held, then the claim that he could defeat a legion would have been no empty boast.

"Please, run!! You can't stop him, not possibly!! You feel it too, don't you?!"

Of course they felt it. If the man before them brought his full strength to bear, not a few seconds would pass before every last one of them was dead.

But—

"We'll finish this quickly, and then we'll go play."

Even so — the young lady, at least, we will protect. Whatever it takes.

"Huh...? Uncle Rohan smiled?"

"I'll smile for you as much as you like from now on, so if you'll wait just a little—"

In the instant Rohan, his heart set, began to move slowly toward Hestia—

The blast hit.

Blood erupted.

Blood so dark it was nearly black swallowed his sight.

"...Huh?"

...It burst?

...What did?

...A person?

...The young lady?

While every warrior stood dumbstruck by what had happened in a heartbeat, wet footsteps crossed the floor. Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.

Black Wolf, drenched in blood, laid the nightgown — dyed red — into Rohan's hands.

"You should have treated her well while you still had the chance."

A thin smile crossed his face, and Black Wolf turned and went back into Hestia's room. He settled on the sill of the shattered window, and the warning left him together with his killing intent.

Kraaaaaaah!!

A monstrous bird, as if stitched together from human beings, flew in and hung in the empty air at Black Wolf's back.

"You... you bastard!!!"

Only then did Rohan, torn out of his shock, rush in with tears of blood streaming down his face — and a puppet of raw flesh came down through the ceiling, cut him off, and sent him tumbling across the floor.

"...Cursing the Captain?"

"Enough. We leave as we are."

"...Yes, Captain."

That was the end of it.

Not thirty minutes after the assault began, Black Wolf — having brought the assassination of Hestia to its conclusion — departed, a cruel smile the last thing left behind.

A fragment of the dreadful blast drifted along the running blood and came to rest against the hand of Rohan, where he knelt.

"Aaah...!!! You bastards!!!"

Rohan screamed after Black Wolf, departing astride the monstrous bird, his voice cracking with rage.

"I will remember!! The warriors of Gardner will tear you to pieces and kill you!!"

No matter what it took.

Without fail.

Meanwhile, on the back of the flesh-bird that had climbed above the clouds and hidden itself from sight, Hestia — wrapped, at some point, in the robe Black Wolf had been wearing — looked toward the Gardner Earldom and let out a thin sigh.

"It was a nightgown I was fond of. You won't throw it away, will you?"

"Of course not. It's a keepsake of the dead now."

"...I'm not dead, you know?"

"They'll think you are."

What Black Wolf said was the truth. Just before facing Rohan and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the others, he had made a proposal in a perfectly level voice.

She had not believed him, of course. Rumors always swelled in the telling, and the ones about Black Wolf would be no different. So she had chosen the first, meaning to watch for a gap and slip away when one appeared... and then—

"...Monsters."

Black Wolf, and every member of his company, were monsters who cleared the far horizon of anything she could imagine. And so Hestia changed her plan.

Judging by the way Black Wolf acts, it's certain he has no intention of killing me.

What he wants isn't my death. It's the rumor that I died.

For what?

Black Wolf had said—

"Because if we do it this way, the operation to raid Black Wolf with the legion will be called off."

"And I'm asking you why."

"Because I don't want to die."

So he had claimed. She could not believe it.

If my calculations are right, a single legion couldn't so much as scratch Black Wolf.

Whatever the precise reason, today's events had made one thing certain.

The Hero's party will come back.

The Emperor's incompetence. Rumors growing ever more ominous. Public sentiment already tilted as far as it could tilt. If, on top of all that, word of her death reached her older brother's ears?

They turn the army around. One hundred percent.

Which raised the question again. As things stood, the only forces that could stand against Black Wolf were the Ten Great Powers, or perhaps the Hero's party. So why play so poor a hand — staging her murder, and making an enemy of them?

...Don't tell me.

To avoid a needless clash with the 1st Legion? To avoid a bloodbath?

...So they aren't such bad people?

On the slim chance it might be true, Hestia lifted her head and looked at Black Wolf.

"Nnngh, Captain, can't we kill at least something ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠before we go? My hands are itching, I tell you."

"Quiet. Just fly properly."

"Puhah! Yeah, Bloodfiend! You keep shaking and the liquor's spilling! Tch, I can't stand it. Drop the reins and shove over! There's something I mean to try!"

"No drunk driving."

...Right.

They really are rotten bastards.

Kraaaaaaah!!

Such was the night a monstrous bird, made from what had once been a man of wealth, wailed as if in grief.

One week later, a company of humans — having crossed the frontier of the demonkin lands and reached a noble domain — halted their march. The message brought by carrier pigeon was no ordinary dispatch. It was an urgent report.

A woman standing at the head of the company unfolded it, read, and turned her head.

"Don't get excited. Listen, Valkan."

"Hm? Out of nowhere? I'm hungry, though. Can't we eat first and talk after?"

"I will deliver it first."

The woman with sky-blue hair opened her mouth, her face as expressionless as ever, and read.

...Hestia Gardner.

"...The hell did you just say?"

"Let go of me, you bastards!!! Hurry, before I start by killing the lot of you!!!"

"Hold him fast, Marin."

"Mm. Don't worry~."

After a brief uproar, the blue-haired woman — who had been turning it over behind that same blank face — turned her body back toward the road they had come by.

"We return to the Empire."

Fortunately, this time, it was unanimous.

"We put down Black Wolf. Then we come back."

There was no dissent.