What It Means to Be a Friend
"Th-this... this is impossible! This can't be happening!"
Martis howled like a man who'd lost his mind.
Standing before knights whose bodies were already growing cold, his jaw trembled uncontrollably. Defeat had never even crossed his mind — shock and disbelief sat thick in his eyes.
"You... just what the hell are you?!"
He screamed it at Frey, who stood there motionless. Fear and terror saturated every syllable.
"...Shut up."
Frey couldn't answer. His head was spinning too badly for that.
He hadn't noticed it when he unleashed his sword aura. But as his consciousness gradually cleared, an indescribable agony tore through his entire body — as if violent motion sickness, a crushing flu, and a full-body beating had all arrived at once.
And the biggest problem of all—
"Wh-what just happened?"
"Five knights are dead."
"Damn it. Shouldn't someone call the city watch?"
—was the enormous racket flooding his skull. And it wasn't merely the voices of the onlookers.
The shrill chorus of insects crying from the grass. The hiss of raindrops soaking his shoulders. The soft tap of sweat rolling down his cheek and striking the ground. Every last sound roared in his ears.
What... is this?
His hearing had sharpened? No — it wasn't anything so simple. What Frey was experiencing was the expansion of his ki sense. The moment he mastered mana and manifested sword aura, his body had begun transforming to match.
"Wh-what's this? Have you... run out of stamina? Can't you move?"
Martis, who'd been trembling just moments ago, spoke with a look of startled delight.
The overwhelming presence Frey had displayed felt like a lie. For someone who had simultaneously mastered mana and released sword aura, he was standing there riddled with openings.
"Is that it? Are you really... too exhausted to move?"
Steel whispered from a scabbard. Martis wore a sly expression as he drew the sword at his waist, and an emerald blade dripping with expensive ornaments caught the light.
Gripping the weapon, he advanced slowly, warily, step by careful step. Glee filled his face. In the end, it seemed, he would be the final victor after all.
Move.
Frozen like a statue with his sword still in hand, Frey berated his own legs.
Move, damn you.
He couldn't understand what had happened to him. Mana and sword aura — those were fine. But his body had betrayed his will. This sudden anomaly hadn't been anywhere in his calculations.
Martis infused mana into the blade at once. The sword that had drawn so close soared high, that bluish edge angling for Frey's throat.
Move...!
Steel rang out.
"Don't move."
A thick voice cut through the rain.
"La-Lancelot...?!"
Martis's face, which had been aiming for Frey's neck, froze solid. He slowly lowered his arm and glanced back.
There stood Lancelot, his features twisted with rage. He had his sword pointed at Martis's throat instead. Gone was his usual expressionless mask — he looked like a reaper risen from hell.
"Damn it... you're late."
My exhausted body crumpled onto the wet ground. I couldn't put any strength into my limbs, and the expanded ki sense still tormented me. And yet, somehow, a smile bloomed across my face.
"Sorry. I had something to take care of."
Lancelot's cold gaze swept over Martis. The man couldn't even think of swinging his sword — both arms trembled.
"La-Lancelot, would you mind putting that sword away? We're family, aren't we?"
"...Family?"
"That's right! I-I'm ten years older, but strictly speaking, I'm your nephew. Have you forgotten that my father is your half-brother?!"
"I have only one person I call family."
"Wait! Wait a minute! Are you trying to kill me? Just what is this guy to you? Important enough to throw away your own blood?!"
At Martis's outburst, Lancelot's merciless gaze returned to him.
And after a brief silence, Lancelot parted his lips with difficulty.
The blade fell.
Martis's head hit the earth. Considering all the pathetic fuss he'd made, it was a fitting end.
Friend. Friend, huh.
I'd tried to deny it, but Lancelot and I were, without a doubt, something close to friends. We weren't some fresh-faced teenagers. Denying it at this point would just be ridiculous.
"Frey. Being on your ass suits you."
"Not in the mood for jokes. Anyway, Lancelot — are you sure it's okay to kill that guy? He's from the same Armance family."
"No. I'm not."
Lancelot shook his head heavily.
"I am no longer a man of House Armance. Lancelot du Armang. That is the name I will use from now on."
"..."
"I sensed something off in my conversation with Mother the other day. You may have forgotten, but I happen to be rather intelligent myself."
"Good for you."
Chivalry — Swordmaster Lancelot.
What he'd just cut wasn't merely the neck of some spoiled brat. He had severed the chain of blood itself — that tenacious bond of fate tying him to House Armance, a relationship closer to a curse than kinship.
"At this rate you'll quit the knight order too."
"That's right. I already filed my discharge with the Golden Lion Knights. That's why I was late."
"What?"
Lancelot answered without hesitation, and that answer was unexpected. I never thought a man who'd walked the path of knighthood his entire life would walk out of the Golden Lion Knights.
"Well. You'll choose your own path. Before that, help me up. I can't move."
"Hmm. Understood."
Lancelot supported me without a word of complaint, then cast a dry gaze over Martis and the five knights.
"...You did well."
"Wasn't that hard."
"Haha! That's some obvious bluffing."
...He's laughing? I threw Lancelot a look mixed with bewilderment.
This guy — Lancelot — was always a dry, rigid sort of person. But right now, he seemed to be in an extraordinarily good mood.
"Oh, right. Your mother should be back soon. You go pick her up at the hotel."
"Hmm. Understood. I'll drop you at the inn first, then go get her."
"Yeah. At least you answer well."
After that, we walked in silence for a long while.
The rain pouring from the sky had soaked us through to our underclothes, but not a single complaint passed between Lancelot and me.
"...Thank you."
It was Lancelot's thick voice that broke the long silence. He even hung his head, as if he didn't know how else to put it.
"It's thanks to you, Frey. If it weren't for you, I would have lived the same life as always, and carried the same regrets."
Was he talking about House Armance, or Madam Armang? Maybe he meant both.
"I thought it was strange. I thought there wasn't a single reason for someone with talent like yours to help me."
"No reason?"
"Isn't that so? To say you helped me just because I escorted you from the orc camp is..."
I cut him off with a low click of my tongue. His puzzled gaze found me at once.
Then I stopped walking and tilted my head back. Like ink spilled from storm clouds, darkness filled the sky.
"I just like the stars. So I followed them."
At my matter-of-fact tone, Lancelot let out a low sound. Soaked by the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead, those upright eyes of his were full of moisture.
It could have been tears. Or it could have just been the rain.
"Not a single reason to help you?"
"..."
Even with our steps halted, Lancelot quietly waited for my words.
Before we knew it, the downpour had stopped. As if the rain had never fallen at all, bright sunlight revealed itself in the sky. A blinding white light poured down on us.
It was summer.
Mercenary Guild, Roben Branch.
The bartender — the branch manager — started his day as usual, stretching out a long, bored yawn.
"Yaaawn! Damn it, not a soul in sight."
The majority of mercenaries who'd joined the great Empire's northern expedition had died. Naturally the numbers had dwindled, and with the aftermath of war, even the work had dried up. The branch was dead as a graveyard.
"Hmm..."
Letting out a low hum, the branch manager moved. There were no customers and no jobs anyway. In times like these, making work for himself was simply his nature.
Click. Clack. His practiced hands touched a magical device.
The pinnacle of modern magical engineering, it was an object with the mysterious power to contact people far away — easily, and at once.
"Reception confirmed."
Muttering to himself, he checked the magical mail that had arrived at the contact window. There weren't many pieces, and most were notification letters sent from headquarters.
"...Hm?"
Then one letter caught his eye.
To:Frey
From:Helios Magic Tower, Ariel
Frey. A face the branch manager knew. The man who'd visited a few days ago — the one who'd miraculously survived the northern expedition.
"...He-Helios Magic Tower?!"
The branch manager's mouth fell open without him realizing it. Helios. The Helios Magic Tower. So this guest had connections to that tower crawling with giants.
Ahem. The visit date is today.
The guest had already promised to come by the branch to collect his pay. Confirming that today was the date, the branch manager smiled with satisfaction and closed the lid of the magical device.
He intended to greet that guest even more warmly when he arrived.