Insight
Leaving the encampment behind, a green expanse of primeval forest unfurled before them. The one mercy was that the road to Roben had been well maintained. Lancelot strode ahead along the highway and spoke without looking back.
"Frey. How is the wound on your shoulder?"
"Well enough. Don't think it was that deep to begin with."
The truth was, on top of the Mythic-tier trait, he had piled on every kind of point-hungry trait he could find. The reason the wound had closed in a single day was probably the one called Regeneration.
"Good. And your memory? Has anything come back?"
"No. It's still incomplete. Other than the fact that my name is Frey, I've got nothing."
"...A shame. If I am right, you are certainly the son of a noble house."
There was a peculiar certainty in Lancelot's voice. When Frey asked him what he based that on, the answer that came back was almost comically simple.
"It is instinct. It may sound ridiculous, but ever since I was adopted into House Armand I have seen countless nobles. You may not realize it yourself, but there is an inexplicable dignity in the way you carry yourself."
"Hmm. That so?"
It was not exactly an easy explanation to follow. Suppose Lancelot was right, and this body—this Frey—really was the son of some noble house.
Then why had he been rolling through a deadly battlefield with a mercenary company?
If he'd at least served as a knight-order squire, or fought under his family's banner, that would be one thing.
The Oak Mercenary Corps, of which his memories were growing steadily fainter, had been rookies through and through. Captain Hans had been no exception, and the rest of the men had been just as green—virtually no real experience of the battlefield among them.
"Fortress City Roben is a vast city. If fortune favors us, we may even take part in His Grace the Grand Duke's triumphal parade."
Lancelot murmured it under his breath, and his stride was lighter than air.
A triumphal parade. Well—the war had only just ended in victory, so it was only natural, in a way.
"Right—how long to Roben? We're on foot, not in a carriage. It's going to take a while, isn't it?"
"Mm. We should arrive by nightfall, I expect. If we are delayed, we may have to camp in the open."
...Camp in the open?
The lift in his chest sank in an instant.
Neither of them had brought much of anything. Frey had been empty-handed from the start—he'd owned nothing to pack. Lancelot's entire kit was a single small pack that looked like a military rucksack.
"So pick up the pace. Frey, for a man with swordsmanship like a damned ghost, your stamina is wretched."
"Nngh..."
That, at least, was a problem Frey was willing to concede. This body had clearly spent its entire life on the far side of a locked door from physical training. The arms were pale and thin, and the palms were soft as a child's—not a single callus on them.
After that they walked for a long time without speaking. They had set out in the small hours of the morning, and even as evening drew near there was no end in sight. Rest along the way was a luxury. They soothed their hunger with the jerky Lancelot had packed, and they walked, and walked again.
"Come to think of it, Lancelot—what Tier are you right now?"
The sun was sinking, slow and red. Frey was the one who broke the silence.
He turned it over as they walked.
If a player took the route of making an enemy of the Sword Master known as Chivalry—Lancelot du Armand—he appeared as an opponent around then as an 8th Rank boss in the high level-eighties, distinguished by attack patterns that were painfully, almost stubbornly honest.
Which meant that here and now, as a knight squad leader, he ought to be somewhere around 6th Rank.
"...5th Tier. Tearing down the wall I have run into has proven difficult."
"5th Tier?"
Lower than expected. Given the point they were at, it meant explosive growth was coming, and soon.
I need to get my hands on a mana cultivation method, and fast...
Staring the reality of it in the face, an impatience he couldn't quite name began to gnaw at him.
On the Western Continent they called it mana; on the Eastern Continent, qi, or inner energy. Cultivating that unknown power was not a choice. Unless he was facing mana as pathetic as Sir Gler's, the odds of a non-user beating a mana-wielder were vanishingly slim.
"Frey. What Tier are you?"
The question came back at him at once, and his mouth clamped shut.
Anyone who had never learned mana was 0th Tier.
1st Tier was the stage at which one could store mana in the body. From 2nd Tier onward, the measure was whether you could pour that mana into a "weapon"—a sword, a staff, anything of the kind. 3rd Tier and above was whether you could project it outward.
Put simply, any mage blasting magic pew-pew across a battlefield was a prodigy of 3rd Tier or higher.
Anyway.
"I don't have mana."
"...What did you say?"
Back in the present, he told Lancelot the truth. The way the other man's face fell open was almost funny.
"Are you telling me that you—the man who cut down hundreds of orcs—have never learned to use mana? That you defeated Sir Gler, a 3rd Tier knight?"
"I just did it. Worked out fine."
"What in the world—!"
Lancelot stared at him as if he were looking at a monster. Fair enough. Even Frey was still wrapping his head around it; to someone who lived inside the bounds of common sense, it would land like a blow.
"I cannot believe it."
The shock was written plainly on Lancelot's face. He stopped walking altogether and gave his head a slow, dazed shake. But what was Frey supposed to do about it? There hadn't been a shred of a lie in what he'd said.
"Is that what matters right now? The sun's down. Weren't we supposed to have found a place to camp already?"
"Mm. I let the conversation distract me. Strange. A village ought to have appeared by now."
Of all the things to forget.
Night in this world was hostile to human beings. Monsters prowled after dark, and deserters who had recast themselves as bandits and armed robbers ranged freely across the roads.
How much farther they walked through the slowly settling dark, he couldn't have said. What greeted them as they picked their way by moonlight was not a village.
Beside the highway, a red glow flickered between the trees. There was no need to go closer to confirm it. Someone had lit a campfire.
"A fire."
"Good. We'll join them for tonight."
"Mm. Understood."
Lancelot offered no objection. He took the lead toward the fire, and before long a dozen dark-clad men warming themselves came into view.
"Who goes there?"
"Travelers passing through. We were hoping we might take shelter from the night dew."
At the genteel tone, Lancelot shot him a sidelong look. The glance was richly flavored with: So this bastard actually knows how to talk like a normal person?
"Haha. All men under heaven are brothers—how could I turn you away? Sit, sit. We happen to be preparing a meal. You two should eat with us."
The middle-aged man who seemed to be their leader spread his palm in a generous invitation.
"Thank you."
"...Our thanks."
Frey and Lancelot bowed their heads and took a place by the fire.
Perhaps because two uninvited guests had appeared without warning, the men were remarkably quiet.
"Come to think of it, you two hardly look like ordinary travelers. Seeing those swords at your hips—are you not with a knight order?"
While Frey quietly surveyed their surroundings in that atmosphere, the middle-aged man clapped his hands and spoke first.
...What is this?
In the peculiar hush, every man's gaze turned on Frey and Lancelot. Someone swallowed, a dry click in his throat, as if they were all waiting on the answer.
"That's—"
"No. No, we aren't. The two of us belong to a mercenary company. We took a commission to deliver a letter and were heading north."
Having sensed something off, Frey clamped a hand down on Lancelot's knee as he spoke. Lancelot turned his head at once, but Frey did not stop.
"Well now! Heroes of a mercenary company, then. We are soldiers attached to the Imperial Second Army Command. We fell behind during a mission and have been on the move to rejoin the main force."
"Mm. That must have been hard on you."
As he said it, Frey looked at the middle-aged man. Behind him stood a small wagon, and at the socket where a standard should have been planted, no banner hung at all.
"...Frey."
Only then did Lancelot seem to catch that something was wrong. There was no end of things that didn't sit right, but it was still too soon to move. Frey tapped him on the back as a signal, then tossed out a lure.
"There's been a rumor the war is entering its final stretch. How stands the campaign?"
"Fortunately, victory is close at hand. I hear His Grace the Grand Duke of the North has slain the enemy commander."
...Victory is close at hand?
That the Empire had already won the war was information even Frey possessed. If these so-called stragglers had stopped at a village or a city for supplies or rest, there was no way they wouldn't know.
Which means they're people who cannot set foot in a town or a city.
His eyes narrowed. He had just seen through what they really were. Now he understood why they had watched him and Lancelot with such wariness, trying to read their intentions.
"Come, come! Eat first. We haven't much, but you won't find it lacking in flavor. What I just added is a spice from the southern mountains. Pepper, I'm told."
"...Thank you."
The cooking seemed to be done. The middle-aged man held out a bowl from which white steam rose in lazy curls. Before handing it over he sprinkled a fine black powder, and as if to forestall any suspicion, the gesture came with a warm, easy smile.
"Haha! Where is home for you? This is a dish we love in my hometown. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."
A clink as Frey took the bowl.
It was a stew, or something close to porridge—crushed grain and chunks of meat floating in the broth. The aroma was pleasant, but he did not immediately lift the spoon. Something ominous was seeping up from the bowl.
You are immune to all [Plots] / [Strategies] / [Conspiracies].
Should an enemy attempt any of the above, you will invariably see through them.
Grants a powerful faculty for discerning [Poison].
"...You're asking where I'm from?"
A thin tension bled into the air.
The men waited in silence for Frey and Lancelot to eat. Malice bloomed in the quiet, beckoning from the dark.
Once more—someone among them swallowed. At the same time, several of the men reached for their weapons.
Steel hissed from the scabbard.