Conversation - 4
The rattling carriage interior was steeped in an atmosphere more awkward than any they had known before.
The air hung so stiff and frozen that it was even more rigid than the day they first met, creating a silence so thick that no one dared break it.
The Saintess closed her eyes, praying the time would simply pass, and Spring likewise shut hers as if she had not the slightest concern about her own fate.
Once the two had drifted off, the Hero and Jerome exchanged a look.
"What happened with the Saintess?"
That was the surface of the question.
Buried beneath it was the real meaning: I saw you and the Saintess together in the tent last time. Is it the same again?
The Hero answered to deny it.
"Nothing happened."
Jerome continued as though he had not heard a word.
"I understand completely."
"The Saintess spent all those long years locked inside a tiny room in the central church of the Holy Kingdom, living out the same dull routine day after endless day."
"If I can see her happy—having stepped outside and found someone who suits her—then I am satisfied."
What Jerome felt for the Saintess could almost be called a form of paternal love.
For so many years he had attended her since childhood, yet he had never once been able to offer her any real help; he regretted that bitterly and now wished only that she would go on living her life.
That the object of her affection was not of noble birth was a flaw, but since he was not her true parent he had no right to meddle or overstep.
Besides, even without noble blood, a Hero chosen directly by the gods carried a title of higher worth than any ordinary peerage; it was no exaggeration to say he stood on an entirely different plane from common aristocrats.
Inside the delusion and misunderstanding he had spun for himself, Jerome already seemed to be watching the wedding of the Hero and the Saintess unfold before his eyes.
The Hero denied it with all his strength.
"It's not like that."
Jerome's eyes suddenly flew wide as he fixed them on the Hero.
"Then are you saying you do not like the Saintess?"
His tone and manner looked, to any observer, like pure anger; even the Hero could not help feeling a flicker of fear.
"No, it isn't that—"
"If it isn't that!"
Jerome cut him off and pressed on.
"If it isn't that, then what is it?"
Judging that further excuses and stalling would only dig him deeper, the Hero made a decision.
It was the instinct of a seasoned warrior who had rolled through battlefields for years—the ability to seize a path to survival the instant it appeared.
"It is true that I like the Saintess."
"But isn't it still far too early to confess my love?!"
He raised his voice, then immediately checked on Spring and the Saintess, both of whom appeared asleep.
Spring did not matter, but he feared the Saintess might wake.
Fortunately there was no sign of stirring, so he continued carefully.
"Confessing in a situation this precarious—when no one knows who might die at any moment—I think I would only regret it."
"Someday, when everything is finished, I want to confess once more."
The Hero spoke of his love again to the man who had once been his comrade.
And that man answered exactly as he had before.
"That's a really good idea."
…That's a really good idea…
In the past, when that same man had been dying, the Hero had tossed him a joke.
More precisely, half joke and half truth.
When he had told him there was still a reason to live—that he ought at least to see the Hero and the Saintess married—he had answered with those very words.
The voice from the past overlapped perfectly with the voice speaking now.
Emotion rose thick in the Hero's throat before he could stop it; he hid it with practiced ease.
"Yes. That's right."
Silence stretched out once more, and the Saintess had heard every single word.
Just now… what did he…
The Saintess was the sort who normally slept like the dead.
But she had fallen asleep early the night before and woken late that morning; it was only natural that true sleep would not come.
She had simply closed her eyes and stayed still, hoping the hours would hurry past.
She hid the heat flooding her face as best she could and pretended perfect calm.
Feigning sleep between the Hero and Jerome—both of them sharp-sensed—was nearly impossible, yet the constant rattle of the carriage made her clumsy performance surprisingly successful.
And Spring was genuinely asleep.
And so the carriage rolled on and on, its wheels grinding tirelessly toward the distant horizon.
The Hero had driven the Holy Sword into the floorboards and maintained the continuous flow of starlight for hours on end; by now the effort looked almost leisurely.
That was the fruit of his rapid growth.
Yet he felt, more keenly than ever, how incomplete he still was.
The presence he suspected was the Saintess's other personality seemed finished, perfected.
It was enough to make the shameless fools who claimed a Superhuman cleric could never fight look utterly ridiculous.
But what of himself?
If anyone asked, he was not a man who could proudly spin tales of martial glory.
Driving the Holy Sword into the carriage had been wise, yet trapped by hesitation and old habits he had placed only starlight upon the Scales.
Yes—what resided in the Holy Sword was an infinite resource, and offering that resource to the Scales was an unreasonable miracle.
But he had been wrong.
Starlight was not omnipotent.
Only when a comrade who had once died before his eyes stood again on the brink of death did the truth finally strike him.
Starlight is not omnipotent.
The Hero thought of ways to grow stronger, ways to protect everyone, ways to forge the best possible future.
The Scales could accept invisible, abstract offerings.
Talent. Senses. Soul. Health. Lifespan. Mana. Strength.
He thought:
Devour everything that comes.
Offer it. Spend it. Grind it down.
He intended to return to the Imperial Capital and seek out his master.
Many said the world held those who had received names from the stars.
In the Holy Kingdom, two:
The man closest to the heavens—the Pope.
The woman favored by the stars—the Saintess.
In the Empire, three:
The one who commanded countless subjects—the Emperor.
The sage who had imprisoned himself—the Tower Master.
The first battle-mage, the eccentric wizard.
In the Great Forest, one:
The only human permitted to enter and leave the elves' woods—the Alchemist.
And last, the Guild Master of the Merchant Guild:
a gold-worshipping opportunist of uncertain allegiance.
Including himself, who would soon become a Star, that made nine.
In truth there were far more.
He had once met a white-haired old swordsman who lived in the desert and muttered that guarding a library was his sole duty.
Near the Imperial Capital, high on a mountain peak inside a tiny cabin, he had encountered a girl who wielded a strangely shaped spear in ways that defied all reason.
The world was full of the strong, and most of them refused to meddle in its affairs, citing reasons of their own.
Therefore the only path was to go to them, ask for help, and beg to be taught.
Some would never move no matter how desperately one pleaded; others, if certain conditions were met, would lend their strength without hesitation.
They would become formidable assets.
At present the Stars actively fighting the war numbered only four: the Saintess, himself, Akan, and Lloyd.
The Emperor could not leave the capital; political and administrative duties chained him there.
That was the greatest weakness of power concentrated at the center.
Four against four.
Simple arithmetic—yet the opponents were Disasters, foes against whom one-on-one victory could never be guaranteed. That was the problem.
Hence more strength was required.
Especially against the great Disaster he had not yet faced.
To kill the Demon King, the more forces the better.
And he had to find his old comrades again.
The Hero began to map his route.
After reaching the Imperial Capital he would slip away alone and meet the Spear Star.
He would learn her spear arts as thoroughly as possible; if that proved impossible, he would simply grow stronger.
That was the minimum goal.
Afterward, his old comrade:
the Alchemist who had once walked beside the first Saintess and now hid in the Great Forest.
He would meet her.
Persuade her.
How?
He did not know.
But he had to.
Even recalling how he had persuaded her in the past, he could not clearly remember the method.
Stories of the first Saintess had helped, though.
He remembered the moment the Alchemist had looked utterly defeated and agreed to follow.
Ha, fine, kid.
I'll do as you say.
But keep your promise.
Ah—he had promised.
He had sworn to show her this generation's Saintess, the one who so closely resembled the first.
She looked exactly like her, he had said.
Slowly he turned his head and gazed at the sleeping Saintess.
She matched the descriptions in every book and chronicle down to the last detail.
Perhaps, in that distant age,
the first Saintess who had once led a single Star and three Superhumans had returned to the earth once more.
Realizing the thought was pure delusion, he shook his head hard and cast it away.
He never noticed that the Saintess, eyes merely closed, had felt every second of his stare.
And so they arrived at the Imperial Capital.
They had returned once more.