Outside the World, Outer Land (5)
Witches. A race born of Mystery.
Outwardly they looked no different from ordinary humans, yet there was a reason they had been classified as a special kind of being called witches. They resembled people, but at their core they were something else entirely. They had not always been known by that name, though.
—A race beloved by magic.
—Born of Mystery, Mystery itself.
—A kind whose right to work miracles the world itself had acknowledged.
Those were the phrases that had named them, before the witch who carried the Mystery of the End ever appeared. Najin turned those words over in his mind—things Merlin had once muttered under her breath—and looked up at the sky.
A witch was there.
Hair the color of flame. Crimson eyes. Skin white as ash with soot still clinging to it. The woman who called fire to mind floated in the air, perched on her staff. Her face was utterly blank, and with that same blank expression she was burning people alive.
The heat the flames gave off.
The shimmering haze that rose from it.
The things that had once been human, crumbling into ash and scattering on the wind.
All of it felt like an extension of the witch herself. Is this what it would be like if fire took human form? The thought had barely brushed through Najin’s mind when—
Run.
A cold voice. Merlin’s chill tone echoed against his ear. When he glanced sideways, she was staring up at the sky, her face gone rigid.
That is not an opponent you can handle. Run. Don’t look back. Just run. Now.
There are people whose voices grow colder and calmer the more urgent the moment becomes. Merlin was one of them, and the voice she used now held the lowest temperature Najin had ever heard from her.
The Witch of Evanescence, Ermina.
A thousand years ago she had already reached the eighth circle—the realm of a great mage. I was certain I’d shattered every one of her circles and stars…
Merlin clicked her tongue.
But of course those freaks beloved by magic found a way. This is the worst possible case. Run. Quickly. You’ll have a little time before the next spell comes.
Najin gave a slow nod.
He knew Merlin was not the sort to react like this without reason. He trusted her, and because he trusted her he made his decision at once.
Tap.
He turned his head, turned his steps. He was ready to flee with the retreating soldiers. He was about to take that first stride when he glanced to the side.
“…”
Gillette stood there in silence, not moving so much as a single step, staring up at the sky.
“Sir Gillette.”
“Yeah. Rookie.”
“Aren’t you going? The order to retreat—”
“I’d like to.”
Gillette gave a bitter smile.
“But someone has to stay and buy time, don’t they?”
“…”
“If we keep going like this it’s total annihilation. Every time that high-and-mighty witch lady twitches a finger, whole squads get wiped out. Running our asses off won’t mean a damn thing. I know. I’ve been on the receiving end a few times.”
Gillette Reginpert.
A soldier who had survived decades on the battlefield, he knew exactly what he had to do now. He had seen situations like this often enough, and he had watched how his superiors and seniors had acted every single time.
So now it’s my turn, huh.
Just as the seniors had done, just as the commanders had done. Now it was his turn. That was all there was to the story. Damn it. Looks like I’m getting discharged right here. Gillette blew out a breath and raked a hand roughly through his hair.
“Listen up!”
Gillette shouted.
It was not for Najin. It was a cry for the wyvern-hunting unit that followed his orders. Chains rattled as he let them uncoil.
“From this moment our unit will hold the gaze of the Witch of Extinction, Ermina. Do not approach her. Abandon any thought of interception. We hold her attention—and we hold time. Thoroughly.”
They could never win against her.
So at the very least they would buy time. They would cling to the hem of her robes until their allies finished retreating and reinforcements arrived.
“Until Sir Kirchhoff sets foot on this battlefield, our unit will pin that witch down.”
The enemy had brought out an asymmetric force.
That meant someone had to stall until their own asymmetric force reached the field. Gillette bellowed that their unit would take that role.
The soldiers who followed his command stepped up beside him, faces set and resolute. Chains clattered as they uncoiled the stake-chains that were their pride.
“Hey, rookie.”
Gillette pinched a cigarette between his fingers.
There was no need to light it. Simply touching the tip to the ash drifting everywhere was enough to set it burning. He smoked and looked at Najin.
“Go on. You did good work this past week.”
He gave a short laugh.
Najin was only a mercenary who had come as support; he had neither duty nor obligation to stake his life on this battlefield. So Gillette waved him off, telling him to run.
“…”
Najin said nothing.
Hurry.
Merlin’s urging. The roaring flames.
And, opposite them, the soldiers led by Gillette who had already accepted death. Soldiers fleeing the other way. Screams echoing, voices still shouting the order to retreat.
“Retreat! Fall back!”
“Move!”
“Run!”
The current shoved at Najin. He had not yet reached the realm of transcendence; on a battlefield he was still only one individual swept along by a vast tide.
He was not like the witch floating in that sky. The Najin of now could neither dominate a battlefield nor radiate the overwhelming presence that seized the flow of battle. Youngest Sword Seeker. A great achievement, yes—but on the field, the human called Najin was nothing more and nothing less than an outstanding soldier.
That was the difference between a Sword Seeker and the Masters who had stepped into transcendence.
I know.
Thud. Najin took a step.
Among the soldiers shouting retreat and falling back, he found his balance. He planted his feet on the ground and held his place without being carried away by the current.
I know running is the right choice. I know I can’t match her. I know this is a fight without odds.
He knew all of it.
But if someone asked whether that meant he would run, the answer did not come easily to his lips. Was he to flee every time he met a strong foe? Was he to turn and withdraw whenever the odds were gone—until he reached the rank of Sword Master?
No. That wouldn’t do.
There would be no meaning in that. Who in the world would ever call such a person a hero? The Great Hero Arthur had never fled from any battlefield. She had always fought with everything she had, resisted, been broken almost beyond recognition—and still clawed her way to victory.
That was why she had been called the Great Hero.
The one Najin wanted to become was a hero like that—not an ordinary human who ran to save his own skin and stubbornly survived.
…
Merlin no longer shouted at him to run. His monologue, his feelings, had flowed into her. In the silence she left him, Najin spoke inwardly.
Merlin.
Speak.
If I go in on the premise of buying time—what then?
He knew he could not defeat that witch.
But this was not a duel; it was war. That meant bringing the opponent down was not the only path to victory.
Haa…
Merlin let out a long sigh.
Honestly, I don’t recommend it. It’s far too dangerous. The chance you’ll die is high. You understand? She’s a witch. A witch who has lived since the age I was active in.
I know.
And knowing that, you still insist on fighting?
Najin answered by remaining silent.
Merlin raked a hand through her hair as if she were about to lose her mind. For some reason the whole situation felt familiar to her.
You and Arthur—neither of you ever learned the value of your own lives. Well, that’s exactly why…
She did not finish the rest.
As if she had lamented enough, she steadied her breath and looked at him. With eyes gone calm and quiet she said,
The choice is yours.
Whatever you choose, finding the best path that follows from it is my job.
Go ahead and do what you want.
Merlin gave a short snort of laughter.
I’ll make sure you don’t die, at least.
Thank you.
If you’re grateful, then do it right for once.
Even as she grumbled, Merlin began to speak of how to face a witch—the counsel of a great mage who had shattered the circles of countless witches and crumbled their Mysteries. Listening to her voice, Najin lifted the foot he had planted.
The current the retreating soldiers made.
He stepped against that current, toward the witch. He was not yet strong enough to reverse the flow, but he could at least move against it—and the step said as much.
2.
Gillette Reginpert.
A soldier who had survived decades on the battlefield, a powerhouse who had reached the level of a Sword Seeker. He knew full well that the commanders of the chain unit called the “Wyvern Hunters,” to which he belonged, had met rather poor ends.
It was only natural.
The chain unit gathered outstanding soldiers and was used as a guerrilla force. And as guerrilla units so often are, the chain unit was tasked not only with hunting wyverns but with responding the instant a variable appeared.
Exactly as they were doing now.
Gillette smoked and scowled.
Never gets any less exhausting, does it.
A Sword Seeker was certainly strong. But linger long enough in this damned Outer Land and you learned, whether you wanted to or not, that a Sword Seeker was not nearly as grand a being as people imagined.
Heroes of the old generation.
Monsters who had lived for centuries.
Constellations that rewrote the board.
And powerhouses that belonged in the age of myth.
Things like that thronged and showed themselves with casual frequency in the Outer Land. The witch floating in the sky right now was proof enough. Before such vast existences, a Sword Seeker was an infinitely small thing.
But even a small thing—
Fwoosh.
—could still draw the eyes of those high-and-mighty monsters. Gillette knew that.
“Now.”
The Witch of Evanescence, Ermina, was about to unleash a new spell. At Gillette’s lead the chain unit hurled their chains into the air. They drove the chains into the walls of the battlefield and began leaping skyward.
The witch furrowed her brow and flicked a hand almost lazily.
Flame billowed in the wake of her fingertips. A vast fire melted the chains and swallowed the soldiers who had sprung into the air. Some fell as black piles of ash, but a few managed to climb higher still.
They had forced her to waste one gesture.
Considering that every wave of her hand swept away dozens or even hundreds of soldiers, the exchange rate was not bad. Gillette had to think that way. Surviving a battlefield required that kind of arithmetic.
He spun a chain of his own.
He had no intention of demanding sacrifice from his men alone. He too had already accepted death. Soldiers hooked their chains to the cliffs, raced at high speed, drew the witch’s gaze, and baited her gestures. Gillette slipped in among them.
One mistake meant death.
Even without a mistake, death would come.
So he would thrash and struggle at the very least.
A colossal wave of fire scoured the cliff face. The wall melted and softened like heated clay. Barely dodging the flames, Gillette let out a hollow laugh. What a monstrous mage she was.
Only a monster can face a monster.
If Sir Kirchhoff came—
If that monstrous man arrived on the field, the flow would reverse again. Until then he would thrash for all he was worth. Thinking that, Gillette kicked off the cliff and ran.
Fwoosh!
Every time searing heat swept the area, the soldiers who had raced the battlefield with him crumbled one by one into ash. To snatch even a few seconds from the witch, one life had to be ground to dust.
Gillette kicked the wall. Kicked it again, and again.
But an end came for him as well.
Racing with his chain hooked, Gillette suddenly met the witch’s eyes. She was looking at him. The moment those ominous crimson pupils locked with his, he knew death had arrived.
Fifth-circle spell: Scorching Ray.
Red flames rose around the witch.
Compressed heat-beams lanced from the condensed fire. There was more than one. To a witch, the number of circles meant the number of spells she could chant at once.
Kiiiiiiing—!
Seven heat-beams shot toward Gillette. Impossible to dodge. Evasion was out of the question. In the instant the beams closed the distance, slicing a split-second into thinner pieces, he felt death—
Bang.
He heard something burst behind him. No—not a burst. The sound of someone kicking off the wall and closing in. Something approached from his back, a fraction faster than the scorching rays bearing down on him.
Then a flash.
Gillette saw light streak past his eyes. It was a constellation of white and gold. Why was a constellation that belonged in the sky right in front of him? Only afterward did he realize it was someone’s sword aura—that someone had seized him by the nape and swung a blade.
Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing—!
Sword aura and heat-beams collided. Sparks sprayed; shards of aura flew in every direction. Hurled backward by the grip on his nape, Gillette finally saw who owned the blade.
The youngest Sword Seeker, Najin.
The boy who should have mixed with the retreating army and fled had set foot on the battlefield again. Najin clenched his teeth and swung hard. Of the seven rays he managed to cut three, then broke away from the spot.
Chiiiiiiisss—!
The remaining four beams punched through the place he had stood. The wall melted; a massive hole opened. Najin slid to a landing on the ground.
“You…”
Gillette, who had been thrown clear by Najin, landed as well and looked at him. Why did you come back? The question was already forming on his tongue when Najin spoke first.
“That man Kirchhoff.”
The name he had overheard in passing a moment ago.
The powerhouse who could overturn this situation.
From context he was an allied reinforcement. Najin spoke the name and asked,
“When does he get here? I need to know how long we have to hold.”
“…Fifteen minutes at most.”
“Fifteen minutes. Understood.”
Najin let out a long breath.
He lifted his head and looked at the witch. Meeting her gaze, he gave a short, crooked smile.
“Fine then. Let’s give it a shot.”
The instant he shouted that, the witch’s fingertips turned toward him.
Seven circles blazed at once and dyed the sky red. There was no time left for long conversation either way. Gillette and Najin scattered.