Ranking Battle (9)
Where am I…
Through a haze of half-consciousness, Iscal opened his eyes.
A sense of weightlessness. Languor. The feeling of floating in water. The body that had been packed full of terrible agony was now astonishingly still.
Light shimmered through the narrow slits of his barely open eyes.
Was the surface just above his head? Strangely, he felt no urge to rise toward it.
I…
He quietly traced back through his memories. He had strapped on his buckler and returned to Princess Friga. Then he had fought the surging horde of beasts.
The tidal wave of monsters that had crashed over him. Razor fangs. Maws that hungered for flesh. Claws that tore lungs to shreds. He remembered, to the very end, ripping open a beast's jaws with every last scrap of strength he had.
So I'm dead.
He closed his eyes in silence.
He had expected it. He had steeled himself for it. It was a future he could have seen coming from a mile away.
Death itself held no fear for him. If he had truly been afraid of dying, he would have turned and fled long before.
But it would be a lie to say no regret remained. Stubborn little regrets still fretted at a corner of Iscal's heart.
Bubbles rose past his ear, tickling as they went. Iscal lay still and simply watched his own heart.
Deeply. Quietly.
He asked his heart a question, and listened for its answer.
What, exactly, was he so sorry about?
If only I'd been a little braver…
Would anything have changed?
At the very least, Her Highness might have lived.
A foolish, dull, stupid hope of what-if.
…Yeah. Probably.
Iscal smiled bitterly. In the end, this was how it always went.
He had protected no one. Her Highness had fallen into a sleep from which she would never wake, and he himself had died a hollow death fighting the beast horde.
Bubbles swam upward, whispering.
"O Guardian — immature, clumsy Guardian. Do you know? Do you know the weight of what stands behind your shield?"
How could Iscal possibly answer? Even the weight of a dying comrade had been endlessly heavy.
Even if every organ spilled out and left the body hollow — even if every drop of hot blood ran dry and the veins withered —
Iscal had found the weight of a single dying comrade almost more than he could bear.
So he could not dare to answer.
The weight of what stood behind his shield was something he could neither measure nor judge.
"…It is simply too heavy."
Those things were endlessly heavy, and heavier still — so all Iscal could do was endure them in silence.
"Take up your shield and become a towering wall. Protect the heaviest things in this world."
"Even a mountain that pierces the heavens shall be lighter than the smallest child. Even the deepest ocean shall be shallower than an aged elder."
"Iscal. You must raise your shield for the heaviest things — those you dare not measure."
"You must know the weight of what stands behind you."
…I understand now.
He thought he was beginning to understand, just a little.
What it meant to take up a shield. The weight of standing in front of your comrades. Everything that stood behind that shield of his.
Only now could he grasp even a fraction of it.
"But…"
It was far too late. Late by a long, long way. He had only understood after everything was already over.
"It's too late… Everything's finished. I couldn't protect a single thing."
Bubbles rose again, tickling past Iscal. Whether it was his imagination or not, a woman's bright laughter seemed to ring from inside them.
"Sweep away the fog that blinds your eyes, and open them."
"…Pardon?"
"The trial ends here."
"A… trial?"
"This place is not yet permitted to you. Iscal — you—"
A powerful force seized Iscal's body and dragged him somewhere — or perhaps spat him out. He flailed his arms and legs wildly at the sudden upheaval.
The bubbles whispered at his ear. Or perhaps they whispered through his very soul.
"…"
"…"
The spectators kept their silence. What the mirror had shown them was that shocking.
Iscal, alone against countless monsters.
His fierce, magnificent battle.
And in the final clash, the tidal wave of beasts that had swallowed him whole.
The mirror had gone dark the moment the monsters crashed over the solitary figure of Iscal. Even so, everyone could guess what came after.
Surely Iscal had fought, and fought, and fought again, until the very last breath left his body.
What must it feel like — to fight toward oncoming death for the sake of a dying comrade? They did not dare open their mouths. If they spoke now, something thin and fragile seemed as though it would shatter and scatter away.
"Your Highness."
"…"
Friga stood with her arms crossed, staring at Iscal with a grave expression. Kenis called to her carefully, but whether Friga hadn't heard or simply chose not to answer, she did not so much as glance over.
Iscal lay quietly in the center of the arena.
Friga looked at him.
That guy…
It had been unexpected. She already knew his shieldwork was absurdly good — she'd been impressed more than once sparring against him.
But that had been all.
The man was empty. He never stepped forward to fight on his own; you had to order him out before he'd raise his shield. He feared combat. He hated getting hurt.
The classic coward Friga despised. That was Iscal.
"Ha!"
So what the hell had that been, just now, in the mirror? If that so-called god had shown it properly, then that had been a reflection of the trial Iscal had undergone.
On that brutal battlefield, Iscal had not given a single step of ground. He had not flinched before the terror of death; he had thrown himself into certain doom to protect a comrade. No one had ordered him. He had stepped forward of his own free will.
And for her — for the her who had been dying!
The corner of Friga's mouth twitched, little by little.
What was this feeling?
Competitive fire? It was calmer than that.
A lust for victory? Even if she lost, she didn't think she'd feel bitter about it.
Then elation? It wasn't the kind of feeling that left you floating.
What the hell is it…
Tapping her fingers, Friga shot a sidelong glance at the throne and grinned.
Having her own wretched death put on display had been pretty damn galling — but she'd seen something good enough that she could let it slide.
A twitch—
Iscal's finger, lying still, gave a sudden jerk. His fingers flexed and stirred; then he clutched at his head and pushed himself upright.
"Nngh. Ah…? I— I was definitely…? Huh—?"
He looked around with dazed eyes. That vacant expression said he still hadn't quite grasped the situation. Friga snorted a laugh.
"Hey!"
She charged straight at him and cracked him a clean, satisfying slap across the back. The sharp sound rang through the arena.
"Gyaaaah!! Argh!! Y-Your Highness?! How—? You were bleeding everywhere, I was sure— Huh?"
"You little bastard — what, was me dying that much of a shock? Huh?"
"Pardon? No — no! Wait! So right now…"
Iscal pieced the situation together, step by step.
Friga, perfectly alive. His shield, without a single scratch. This was the arena, and he had definitely been in the middle of a trial…
"It was all… all a dream…?"
Iscal looked at Friga with trembling eyes.
That stupid look on his face.
Somehow it struck her as a little cute, so Friga cracked him across the back one more time.
"Gyaaah!! Wh-why are you hitting me?!"
"Hey — do I need a reason to hit you? You've just got a face that makes me want to."
Iscal rubbed his back and stared blankly at Friga.
That ridiculous answer. This was the real Princess Friga.
"It's really… it's really you, Your Highness!! Your Highness!!"
He threw his arms around her. At Iscal's bold move, the crowd erupted in cheers.
The tale of a warrior who had faced a cataclysmic beast horde for his dying beloved, then returned from death itself! How hot and passionate a love — there were even people among the spectators wiping away tears.
"Wooo!! Iscal! Iscal! Iscal!!"
"Guardian Iscal! Is he the true Guardian?!"
"Mom!! When I grow up, I'm gonna be a shield-bearer!!"
At Iscal's sudden embrace, Friga's cheeks flushed scarlet — like a red bud shyly blooming across a snowfield of white.
"Y-you — you idiot!!"
"Waaagh!"
Friga shoved Iscal hard away — and then, having shoved him, was the one who panicked. What? What had that been?
Covering both cheeks, warm and burning, with her hands, Friga shouted at him.
"Y-y-y-you little bastard!!! You're still way too early!! Got it?!"
"Pardon? No — Your Highness? Pardon?"
Friga bolted from the arena like a shot. A trail of dust was all that remained of her. Left alone, Iscal looked around with a vacant expression.
"Iscal! Iscal! Iscal!! Iscal!!"
"So cool—!! Whoo—!!"
"You look so handsome!! Oppa—!!"
For reasons he couldn't quite name… thousands upon thousands of people were cheering his name. He swept his gaze around the arena.
A child with their parents. A tall young man. A widow. A father with his daughter. An elderly couple still close after all these years… He could see every one of them.
He could feel their weight.
The weight Iscal would have to shoulder and endure.
Iscal realized, anew, that their cheers were pressing down on him just a little. Behind him stood all those people calling his name.
The demons that nest at the bottom of the human heart. The monsters that writhe and crawl across the floor of the Abyss. The wicked things that lurk beyond the dark.
And countless people.
Iscal would have to raise his shield.
For the heaviest things — the ones he dared not measure.
He felt the weight of the shield in his hand increase, just a fraction. Probably his imagination, but…
It was bearable. The weight had only grown a little — no more, no less.
Enduring was something he was good at.
He raised the shield high. The Guardian's shield caught the sunlight and blazed dazzlingly bright.
The cheers swelled even louder. Iscal grinned.
Even so — the roar of his name still sent a thrill through him.