Spring Subjugation - 1

What is the path a knight ought to walk?

Jerome posed the question to himself.

And alone, staring blankly, he muttered the answer.

"There is no path a knight must walk."

"There is only the refusal to step back."

That was it.

From the moment he resolved to follow the Hero, there had been nowhere left for him to retreat. He would simply keep pressing forward, advancing to achieve his goal—for a future self different from the past, and so that he would never have to regret.

The mangled roots of a withered cherry tree, hacked apart and haphazardly rejoined, twisted open at its hollow center. Through the doorway that formed, a girl stepped into view.

Jerome steeled his heart and met the gaze of the pink-haired girl who stood before him, looking straight at him. And he knew, with absolute certainty.

This girl was Spring.

An opponent he could never defeat in a fight. He ought to run. Yet he had already decided he would not retreat. He had decided to swing his sword to protect everyone. For one who had nowhere left to fall back, the only choice remaining was to advance.

Even to the moment of my death, I will stand upon this earth with both feet.

The blessing the Saintess bestowed still remains with me.

He did not know the nature of Spring's authority, yet from the state of the citizens and the Saintess's actions, it was clearly something that preyed upon the mind. And he believed—even if they were comrades he had only just met—that they would never surrender to mere dreams. So he would do what he must.

"I, Holy Knight Jerome,"

"deliver judgment upon you."

As a child he had begged his parents for a wooden practice sword, declaring that he wanted to become a knight. The memory that rose unbidden was so sweet it threatened to swallow him whole.

Snap out of it.

His opponent was a mage who had reached the extreme in mental assault. He could not afford a single lapse. He felt those cloying hands constantly probing for an opening into his mind. Gazes that should not exist in this place fixed upon him. The screams of people sobbing and wailing as if begging to be saved echoed in his ears.

Aaaah—! Aaaaah—!

He honed his senses to a razor's edge.

Separate truth from falsehood. Do not be deceived. In this place, the only things I can trust are myself and my sword.

There is no path a knight walks. Yet for a knight, there exist only the things that must be protected. A knight is a being who protects. Thus chivalry is nothing more than the proper duty a knight must uphold.

Here, in this place, I will uphold that duty.

Jerome steeled himself once more and raised his sword. Blue light coiled along the blade. Though he had once fled to the rear in search of safety, abandoning a knight's duty and conviction, and though he had failed to properly protect the Saintess who was his charge—he had changed.

How many days had he swung his sword from the murky hours before dawn until the sun rose after the unbroken sequence of forms? He had never reached a Star, yet he had attained the upper ranks. The upper ranks—an idol-like symbol among Holy Knights. The highest peak for ordinary talents who never touched a Star. The greatest height an ordinary human could reach. Still far too low to stand against things that were not human.

Even so. Even so. Even if it was someone like him—

I can endure. I can face it. Therefore I will do what I must, right here. That is all.

Jerome gripped his sword tight, as if he would never let it go again. He drove his legs into the ground and locked them in place. Standing there, the Holy Knight called upon a Star.

The exclusive domain of mages—the sacred miracle of exchange revered by the priests who served the Stars. Time halted, and a golden Scales appeared in his vision. Something invisible settled upon the left pan. The Scales tipped. The girl's voice reached him.

What do you desire?

"The power to kill the enemy."

Something invisible settled upon the right pan once more. As if a tremendous weight had been laid there, the Scales threatened to collapse.

As expected—I cannot kill her.

"Then, the power to contend."

The Scales lightened slightly, yet still leaned to the right.

As expected—I cannot even contend.

But—

"Then, the power to endure the trials that will come to me."

If he could simply endure, it would be enough. For the man he was now, that was satisfaction enough. The Scales reached equilibrium. Starlight poured into him. A sensation of omnipotence, as if he could achieve anything in this moment—yet far from omnipotence, an overwhelming certainty that he could not even kill the opponent standing before his eyes.

The girl regarded him with flushed cheeks and an expectant expression.

Pink twintails, an antique black dress, small horns, and a pair of black wings made it plain that she was a demonkin. Her gaze, full of eager interest as though she had found something fascinating, held not a shred of killing intent—yet Jerome could not stop the cold sweat that broke across his skin.

As a Holy Knight—or among the skilled mages who had received the Stars' blessing, the transaction with the Stars, the rare talent that allowed one to use the Scales—he was employing it for the first time in this very moment, and so he was unskilled in its tricks. Even if he had forced additional conditions to increase the total power granted, he would never have overcome this instant.

With both legs locked as if cast in iron, he planted them against the earth, raised his sword, and settled into stance. Then the girl vanished from his sight.

Clang—!

He crossed blade and wrist guard to catch the kick she had aimed at him. A shock as if his bones had cracked. The blade itself spiderwebbed with fractures, on the verge of shattering.

Damn it—she won't even allow me to endure?

Yet he endured. Where next?

"Interesting."

At those words, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠understood. Even after summoning the Scales, he had been nothing more than a plaything to the girl. But that was enough. If he was a toy, he would play thoroughly—play until the Hero and the Saintess escaped. The name of Holy Knight was heavy enough to bear the role of an unbreakable toy. A knight must sometimes cast aside honor, yet still keep the oath.

Jerome kept his silence. When the girl's eyes curved into crescents ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and she smiled at him, her form vanished once more.

Think. This time, from where—

Clang—!

Crack—! Crunch—!

"Guh— hah— cough."

With a sound like air escaping a ruptured bellows, his upper body alone crumpled forward in an unsightly heap, spitting blood-flecked coughs and saliva. It trickled down his chin.

I must endure. Divert her attention. Keep her from focusing. Scatter her nerves. I must not die before the Saintess and the Hero awaken.

How many times the girl's form vanished and reappeared, he could no longer count. Only the blood-soaked knight still standing and the girl who had begun to kick with irritable, petulant force remained, dancing together atop the castle wall.

Unpleasant.

That was the first emotion the Saintess felt upon opening her eyes and escaping the dream—because she was drenched in the sticky pink fluid that had surrounded her. And a second wave of unpleasantness followed at once: she was being held by the Hero in a full princess carry.

He appeared to have overcome the dream through sheer will. His eyes were properly focused, so the Saintess let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Whew—

Was she worried that the Hero might have died, or that something had gone wrong with him? Or was she worried that he might attack her? Even the Saintess herself did not know the answer.

The Hero spoke to her.

"We need to escape from here."

"Right?"

The Saintess gave a light nod.

Nod—

The Hero thought, unbidden, that she looked cute—and also lewd. Yes. Lewd. An emotion wholly unsuited for a Hero to harbor toward a Saintess, yet her hair and nun's habit, soaked through with pink mucus and clinging tightly, left nothing of her figure to the imagination. He had no choice but to tip his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face toward the sky to hide the flush rising in his cheeks and avert his gaze.

The Saintess simply assumed the awkward upward tilt of his head meant he was wondering whether the exit lay in the sky—which was fortunate for the Hero. And by pure coincidence, the exit truly was above them. They had been swallowed by the roots and dropped downward, after all.

The castle wall was hollow, empty as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a shell. Its interior was a place filled with mucus and petals that a poet might have called romantic; knowing what this place was and what dreams it showed, the Hero and the Saintess thought only of hell. Their minds were perfectly aligned, like a long-married couple reading each other's thoughts: I want to get out of this place as quickly as possible.

At last, the moment of escape arrived. The Hero spoke quietly to the Saintess, to reassure her.

"Hold on tight."

Hearing those words, the Saintess unconsciously anticipated what would follow and tightened her grip on his shoulder with all the strength in her hands.

Time to escape.

And time to repay the debt for the memories that had been forced upon her.