#36. Meeting Between Master and Disciple (完)
—Whish, boom! The duel didn't drag on.
As her master, he had already seen through every facet of Emilia's swordsmanship. Though the teacher who had instructed her in magic had perished in an unexpected accident, leaving some gaps in her demon sword arts, he had ultimately forced his disciple to her knees.
"Surrender... You know this, don't you, Emilia?"
All he could offer were those pitiful words—lay down your arms and at least save your life. It was heartbreaking, but there was no choice. With the king's piercing glare fixed upon them, he couldn't shield her.
He could only hope his sentiments had been conveyed through the way he'd deflected her attacks, just as in their sparring sessions.
"Sob... Everyone's so mean... What did I even do wrong..."
The hero Emilia, returning home with dreams soaring high, ended up in tears like this. Dubel ground his teeth.
How could this innocent, fragile woman possibly be plotting rebellion?
—What? Emilia is going to stage a revolt?
When he first heard Saintess Yuria's prophecy, he had to doubt his own ears. He couldn't believe it—not even enough to want to wash them out. Yet a saintess's prophecy was as good as the word of the divine. He knew she couldn't lie. But after months by her side, Dubel knew better than anyone that Emilia was just a girl full of dreams and purity. He simply couldn't accept it.
—That's... her fate.
That was the saintess's reply to his question. He couldn't press further. With even King Brikal flying into a rage, voicing doubts about the prophecy could brand him a potential traitor too.
In the end, Emilia was thrown into the underground dungeon. He tried several times to make contact, to see her, but every attempt ended in failure. He wanted to ask her—face-to-face, just the two of them—about the truth of the prophecy.
But after that day, Emilia remained imprisoned for a full 65 days. When he inquired about her well-being to Sregon, even that cautious response of "She's still alive and kicking" was all he could cling to.
Emil...
As her master, there was nothing he could do. All he could do was pray she was safe. Sentenced to enslavement, she'd soon head to the capital's slave auction house. At least then he might catch a glimpse of her.
Dubel entered the annex in the northern wing of the royal palace, where Emil had stayed. The place where they'd bunked together during her training. After sending her off to battle, he hadn't set foot here—until now. He retraced her traces.
Emil's face as she wailed her innocence against the kingdom's judgment was still vivid in his mind. He almost wished he'd find some sign of treason. Bearing this unbelievable truth was torture too hard to endure.
Eventually, he stepped into Emil's room itself. That sacred space where the hero had resided. Hoping for something—anything.
And there, Dubel discovered Emilia's diary, filled with her stories.
"Ah... Emilia..."
If only that diary had contained plans and vows of rebellion. If so, he might have found release from this torment.
"Haa..."
Dubel let out a deep sigh over the pages brimming with dreams and hopes. Prophecies existed to preempt disasters that hadn't yet occurred, but the happy tales in Emil's diary made it impossible to accept the prophecy's validity.
Or had the hardships of her journey corrupted those joyful dreams? Had she been tainted by the ways of the world?
In the end, he took the diary and headed to the saintess's tower. He had to ask one last time—even if it branded him a defender of traitors.
Climbing to the top of the tower, Dubel approached Yuria, who sat by the window bathed in moonlight.
"Saintess, forgive my impertinence, but I have a question."
"..."
Yet Yuria didn't turn. Unwilling to make this a wasted trip, Dubel asked from behind her.
"I know well that prophecy foresees the future. But if so... since the crime hasn't happened yet, shouldn't reformation be the just punishment rather than punishment?"
"..."
Yuria's head bowed at his words. Had his point gotten through? Dubel stepped closer, opening the diary to a page vivid with Emil's tales—of adventures and travels filled with dreams.
As he drew near the saintess to show it to her—
"S-Saintess."
He froze at the tears welling in Yuria's upturned eyes. He couldn't hand over the diary. Crystalline tears reflected in the moonlight gathered at her chin, then fell like night dew.
He couldn't grasp the full meaning of those tears, but one thing was clear: He, who had taught Emilia, and Yuria, who had summoned her, shared the same pain. Even if borrowed from the divine, they bore the same ache.
Those tears silenced Dubel's questions.
65 days passed, and Emilia finally emerged from the underground dungeon.
Dubel, who had waited anxiously behind King Brikal. But seeing her dragged out by Sregon—manacled and shackled, her eyes vacant and desolate, her golden hair a tangled mess devoid of luster, her frame gaunt as bare bones—Dubel drew in a sharp breath and held it.
No trace of the hero remained. Not a shred of Emil.
"W-Was she... tortured...?"
Dubel asked Sregon.
"Heh heh, this bitch was so stubborn, she wouldn't confess no matter what."
"..."
Dubel sighed, face stiffening at Sregon's laugh. What need was there for a confession when enslavement was already decreed? The crime was set in stone—why demand a confession?
"Heh heh, come along now, slave. Gotta pretty you up before the sale, eh?"
Emilia was led by Sregon toward the dressing room. Dubel could only watch.
Despair, grief, rage—they crushed his heart, but he couldn't express them. Pitiful, forced to stand by as his own disciple crumbled. All he could do was pray she'd be bought by a kind master.
Though no one among those seeking sex slaves would be kind. Still, Dubel wanted to atone, however futile the prayer, for toppling his disciple.
In his eyes, the fallen traitor Emilia lingered as the innocent girl beaming as she wielded her sword.
"Emilia... May I come in?"
Dubel asked cautiously, door ajar, to the frozen Isel.
"...Yes, please come in."
Isel awkwardly smiled at their changed dynamic, stepping aside. Dubel entered, scanning the room.
"...You stayed here?"
"Yes."
Good. True to Duke Rosel's name, Isel's room was like any commoner's—cozy, with a bed. Though she hadn't used it once yet.
"Please sit, Master."
"..."
Isel calling him "Master." Dubel couldn't bear it.
"...I'm sorry, but I'm not worthy of that title from you. Don't call me that."
It hurt to hear. A master who shattered his beliefs and ruined his disciple couldn't claim that sacred call. Even if prophecy left no choice—the fact remained.
"Ah... Yes... D-Dubel, sir. Please sit here."
At Dubel's cold response, Isel pulled out a chair and sat opposite. He followed suit.
"You had something to say...?"
"...Are you alright now?"
Dubel eyed her complexion. It wasn't what he wanted to discuss, but her fresh color and reviving eyes after mere days were a relief.
Isel nodded.
"Yes... My lord takes good care of me."
"It seems so. You're fortunate to serve Duke Rosel."
At Rosel's name, a smile instinctively bloomed on Isel's lips, but she quickly hid it. She didn't want anyone knowing her feelings for her master. No slave in the world harbored love for their owner.
Dubel fell silent at her smile. He wanted to ask: Did you really plot treason? Speak freely. He needed to know where his torn loyalties lay—oath or conviction.
But facing Emilia—no, Isel—he already knew. Where his feet must lead.
So he let the question go. What did it matter now? That day's cry from Emilia was truth. He resolved not to be swayed by unmanifested futures.
Like a felled tree unable to root anew, he realized that question wouldn't guide him to fresh soil.
"Dubel... sir?"
"...I had so much to say... but facing you, it all slips my mind."
"...I think I understand. Me too."
Now gazing at her with a master's eyes, that alone sufficed for Isel. Yes, the mercy of the sword she'd felt in the palace was real. In that terror, someone had believed in her. Enough for solace. She understood Dubel's words.
Dubel looked at the misty-eyed Isel, then drew something from his bosom and placed it on the round table. He stood.
His turmoil at the crossroads of oath and conviction was sorting itself. Too late to choose conviction—the moment he'd held his sword to Emil's throat. Even if prophecy was absolute, from the instant he'd forsaken faith and broken her.
He wasn't fit to agonize over such forks. Not only the sycophants had been stained by the crimson petrification dust—he had too. Only now he realized it.
Thus, Dubel couldn't face Emilia longer. He who guarded the kingdom was tainted by the world—not her. His eyes, no longer wavering in confusion, knew his place: the crimson petrification pond.
Once stained by that crimson dust, it never washed off. And if he, so tainted, escaped that pond, even the path would be corrupted. Taint spread, leaving traces.
So Dubel offered final words.
"...I carried this always, to give to you."
"Th-This is..."
Isel grasped the slim book on the table. Her diary, filled with that day's dreams and hopes.
"I'm sorry, Emilia. The dreams recorded there... I hope you achieve them."
With that curt farewell, Dubel turned for the door. As his hand grasped the knob—
A call from behind halted him.
"Th-Thank you... Master."
That title still stung, but Dubel turned at Isel's smile, nodded as he had in their training days, and stepped out.
Even if the path of one stained by crimson dust led to ruin.
He opened the door and left.